Namaste and welcome back. Thank you friends, family, and fellow knowledge seekers for joining me today as I am going to try something new. As many of you know, I love to write. A while back when I was in the Navy, I wrote a short story with the above aforementioned title "The Diary of Jim". I'm going to dish this tale out in several parts, so come back soon to read through til the end of my story. Until then, I hope you enjoy.
Oh, and by the way, this story is RATED R, like most of my blogs... bear that in mind. This is the Quiet Mouse Strikes Back.
Half past two
in the morning at County
Memorial
Oh, and by the way, this story is RATED R, like most of my blogs... bear that in mind. This is the Quiet Mouse Strikes Back.
The Diary of Jim
It must have been a nightmare. As I sat violently up in bed
I realized that these nightmares were becoming more and more frequent. I’m
afraid I’m going to kill my liver from all the Tylenol I’ve been taking for
these headaches recently. Here I am panting, short of breath over something I
cannot even remember, less this persisting image of a woman. And that’s how it
began.
Ever since I met her my life’s been slightly odd; her name
is Sylvia Nelson. Hmm… how would I describe her? Her hair is naturally brown, but she goes to
the salon for blond highlights. She has rosy pink cheeks and a natural smile
that is to die for. She may be perhaps 10 lbs. over her ideal weight, but that
doesn’t matter because she’s happy with herself the way she is and refuses to
do any of the radical TV infomercial diets that they show every night between midnight and six in the morning. She
loves chocolate roses and stuffed animals as most women do. Oh, and she’s
married to a police detective, which is where my life was about to be turned
upside down, but I didn’t know it yet.
When you work in the morgue on the night shift, you rarely
see living people except in passing, and the ones you do see have a similar
resemblance to the corpses that come into the morgue. That was until April.
That’s when I met her.
We keep the doors locked from the inside down here so no
one can get in. It’s ironic to me that a lock must be put on the door of a
morgue. If only the eyes of a dead man could see, I wonder what stories they
would tell.
In a hospital, there are certain parts that people meet
their makers in: the ICU & the cancer ward provided many bodies for me to
prepare before sending off to the funeral homes. And every night the routine
was generally the same. That’s the way most people like it. Most of the time
change is awkward to say the least.
Bzz… Bzz. The buzzer outside the morgue doors rang. Someone
was here to get the gurney that I have aptly named “The Last Ride”. I named it
after the finishing move of the Undertaker, you know the professional wrestler.
I’m used to seeing red-eyed people with coffee stained
shirts and sugar-glazed donut smiles this time of morning. Never was I prepared
for what awaited me when I opened that door. Before me, an angel of feminine
beauty stood, five feet and four inches of goddess. Unlike the other people I’m
used to dealing with, her radiance was genuine and her smile bright and true. A
lot of people don’t believe in love at first sight, but if it were true, then I
was. Then she spoke.
“Hi!” She was very bubbly and her voice was soft and sweet,
much more so than anyone else, including me, in the hospital at this moment. “I
need the gurney for upstairs, please.”
It took me a moment to register a response. “Yeah,” is all
I could choke out as I handed her the appropriate form where upon she signed
her name in stylish cursive, Sylvia Nelson, R.N.
“Are you new here?” I could not help but ask, not just out
of necessity, but because I wanted to know more about this woman that I had met
only a minute before.
“Oh, yes, I just moved here from Cleveland
“How do you like it here?” I asked.
“It’s good. Everyone has been so nice to me. How about
you?”
“Me? I don’t know. No one has ever asked me.”
“Well then there’s a definite first for everything, now
isn’t there?”
“Yes, I suppose so. In that case, I’m doing much better now
that you’ve brightened up my day. Thank you.”
“My pleasure. Well I must be going, ok. I’ll be back
shortly.”
And with the double doors closing, she was gone. My heart
did a cartwheel like a first-time crush. Sylvia Nelson was a lone rose in a
field of daises.
Going back to what I was doing before, in my office I
turned my small T.V. back on hitting the “PLAY” button on the VCR. On the
screen portrayed a violent wrestling match of Goldberg vs. Brock Lesnar. At
change of shift, my friend who worked the day shift left me his copy of
Wrestlemania XX. It was a vulgar display of over-sized, muscle bound men in
tights, who looked like they fell one or two steps back on the evolutionary
ladder (and some of them shaved), choreographically beating each other
senseless in the squared circle. No critics in this morgue to tell me, “But
it’s not real” crap. So what? Were so many people really that ignorant of the
fact that television shows now were all meant for our strictly mindless viewing
pleasure. If they don’t like it, don’t watch it. Everyone needs to quit trying
to change everyone else, bottom line, like Stone Cold says so. For just over an
hour I watched the spectacle with any sports fan’s excitement over grueling
matches, hated rivalries, and half-naked women (though none compared to the
woman I just saw).
Bzz…Bzz… Hoping it would be her again; I eagerly ran to the
door and pushed the bar to unlock it. As the double doors pushed outward I took
two deep breaths. I didn’t want her to think I was that happy to see her. I laughed
to myself because I felt like a teenager again, giddy like a schoolgirl, as
some say.
As expected, nay, as I had hoped, there she stood with “the
last ride”, except she looked even more amazing than before. When I had seen
her just over an hour before, her hair was tied tight in a bun behind her head,
but now it hung freely down just past shoulder length and it bounced as she
walked with a natural curl. Like I was 13 all over again, I could feel the
sudden rush of blood to my genital area. There I stood, petrified to move,
afraid of exposing my untamed boner in front of a gorgeous woman I hardly knew.
As she rolled in the gurney, I let her pass by me. Unavoidably my eyes fixated
firmly on her heart-shaped bottom as it shook mesmerizingly. Like a long lost
puppy I followed in tow. With an unconscious perception of being busted, I
looked up to find her staring right at me with an almost ear to ear grin on her
face. She was biting her lower lip.
“Easy boy!” She said, apparently not upset at my blatant crudeness.
Before she had seemed rather shy and demure. Now she was
more lively and animated.
“Tell me,” she asked. “Since you’re alone down here a lot,
do you, um, ever do anything crazy?”
Before I could answer her question she spoke again.
“You know, I’ve
always wanted to lie inside one of those drawers where you keep the bodies.”
My God, this woman is
a freak, I thought. However odd the request may have been, I was happy to
oblige her bizarre fantasy if it would give me cool points with her. There was
this taboo buzz of adrenaline between us as I pushed her into the drawer. That
was the first and last time I will ever do that.
I stared at my watch
diligently for 60 seconds to pass before I opened the drawer again. There on
the cold steel tray, this woman, Sylvia Nelson lay with one arm tucked up the
underside of her dress masturbating while the other hand tugged gently at the
erect nipple of her left breast through her shirt. Grabbing my shirt, she
pulled me in close to her and we began kissing lustfully. She nibbled my ear as
she moaned with pleasure. I could feel the vibrations of her right hand
touching her clit; it was all I could do not to cum all over myself inside my
scrubs. Without hesitation, I rolled her off the tray and turned her around so
her back was facing toward me. I bent her over and pulled up her skirt
revealing she was commando, sans panties. Pulling the drawstring of my scrubs
& my underwear down to my knees, she reached back and groped my penis,
stroking it up and down before thrusting it inside her hot, wet vaginal hole.
It didn’t take long for me to find out that she was very religious as she
praised God while I rhythmically pumped in and out. She was surprisingly tight
so I came quickly, pulling out onto the floor. Her skirt slid back down to her
knees, but her hair was ruffled where I had run my hands through it just
moments before. I felt like a virgin again, but then again, it had been several
months before that since I had gotten laid and I damn sure wasn’t going to
start complaining now.
Before she left me there with the stiff she kissed me one
last time, sucking on my bottom lip as she turned and walked away.
“Hey, wait!” I called after her before she reached the
door. “Can I see you again?”
She looked at me questioningly as if I must be joking, but
then she smiled again and said, “Of course.”
That was the last time I would see her for a couple of
days. The next several hours were spent preparing the body to be sent to the
Shady Acres funeral home. We dealt with them a lot. My boss did all the
paperwork in the morning before shipping the John or Jane Doe away. I never
cared for their names; it was always just John or Jane to me. It was just
easier that way. I spent a lot of time with dead people and it turns out they’re
good people. They are never rude or obnoxious, I don’t have to make idle
chitchat (though I do talk to them), and unlike most people, they’re great
listeners. For me, this is my Dr. Phil. I take that back, fuck Dr. Phil.
This is the end of part 1.
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