I have this dream where I'm in the morgue. Nothing shines, everything grim grey metal, sharp crotchy odour of formaldehyde. No idea why I'm there or how I got there or who let me in, but it's cool and quiet and dimly lit and I'm all alone. The only door's locked, an oversized slab outlined in the grim grey wall. No light underneath. But I'm not worried. Not yet. I'll just wait for someone to come and open that door. Someone must be on break, back in ten. Wall clock says 7:30. Morning or evening? I suppose time doesn't matter in the morgue. Grim grey wall of minifridge doors, two rows of four. Is eight enough? One door hangs open, vacant slab stuck out like playful tongue. Various corpses on metal tables, in various states of dissection, at least one child. Organs scattered across metal surfaces like rancid fruit. Surgical trays strewn with stuff-smeared instruments, artefacts of the morgue's living occupants. I try to ignore the lurid details. Then my wondering what I'm doing there hits second gear. I'm not dead. How can I be dead? And I'm no morgue worker. Am I a morgue worker? A delivery guy with a laughable sense of direction? I have no idea. A big bloated blank where knowledge should be. But I'm not worried. Not yet. I start imagining things. Menacing metal whisper of blades being sharpened. Soft meaty shhh of scalpel slicing livid grey flesh, forging bloodless T-cut. Whiny saw grinding crunchy path through bone. Latexed hands establishing firm grip and prying torso open, stem to stern. Maybe I should stop imagining things. Just wait for someone — the returning living occupant — to open that big old door. Soon I get to wondering if I need be elsewhere. Am I missing some appointment or opportunity? I remember nothing beyond those morgue walls, a big blue haze of nothing. On a whim I reach for my wallet. But my back pocket's empty. In fact I have no back pocket, no pants, no clothes at all. I feel a bit like Adam probably felt after eating that apple and realizing he was nekkid. Conspicuously underdressed, to say the least. Room temperature suddenly plummets ten degrees and I scramble for something to cover myself with. Another artefact, a white coat hanging by the door. Probably any minute now the living occupant will open that door and find me wearing his labcoat, which probably has who knows what kinds of corpse gunk on it. Every so often those damn gaping-chested cadavers catch the corner of my eye like a stray nail does a sweater. They're on one side of the room, I'm on the other, that's the best I can do. Sharp crotchy odour of formaldehyde, everything grim grey metal. Wall clock hands still pointing at 7:30. Must be broken. How long have I been there? Unknown. And why no clothes? Unknown. Then my wondering hits third gear. How did I get in? Who brought me? Why don't I remember? Unknown, unknown, unknown. What's my name? My age? Do I have a family? Social insurance number? Nothing but a big bloated blank. But I'm not worried. Not yet. I sit in a swivel chair at a tiny desk cluttered with artefacts: computer, phone, stack of papers, mug of pens, framed photo of what looks like dog biting wincing man on hand. Over my shoulder the prickly crawling silence of gaping-chested cadavers. Minifridge door hanging open, single empty slab protruding like victim's tongue. I glance at the paper stack's top sheet. Death Certificate. The good old State, striving for authenticity through paperwork. Name: Lee Roadie. Sounds vaguely familiar, like someone I knew ages ago. Cause of death: artistic asphyxiation. What the . . . And that's when I start to wonder, Am I missing something here? Something cosmic, something crucial? Why am I suddenly convinced my destiny has been outsourced to the highest power? I can't remember my past and I've lost the contract to my future. Maybe I should go start hammering on that oversized slab of a door and pray someone hears. But I can't move from that chair. My right foot somehow stuck. Something attached to my foot is caught under the chair's wheel. Something attached to my toe. I move the chair. A goddamn toe tag. Now hold on here! Must be a mixup. But I'm not worried, not yet. When the living occupant returns, I'll just explain the mixup and then be on my way. Hopefully no paperwork. For now I reach down to rip off the toe tag. But it's fastened good, with something stronger than string, suture thread maybe. Needs some sort of sharp-edge intervention.

— And that's when I first awaken to cower under my sheets, realizing I hadn't been one bit worried in the dream, but now awake I'm approaching terrified. Afraid to return to sleep, afraid of the news awaiting me there. Trying not to fall asleep, trying not to fall, trying not to, trying not, trying —

Sharp crotchy odour of formaldehyde. Supine on grim grey metal table, waiting for living occupant to return. Not worried, not yet. How long have I been waiting? Long enough that when I finally hear the oversized door rattling in its frame then sweeping open, I smile for the first time since I can remember. Turn my face toward the door. Two persons, one my wife. I can't make out her face but I know it's her. My smile widens. I draw the breath I'll use to greet her and resolve this mess, but she speaks first, pointing at me, rendering my words, breath, body, the whole package null and void. 'That's him. That's Lee. Jesus, he's smiling.'

— For a second I think I'm still on the metal table, wracked by horror sweats and terminal thoughts. Then I realize I'm in bed, no longer dreaming, my terror authentic, another mental mess to clean up. Never been married.

By: The Impudent Hack