In love with John Doe 2
by Ethan Crawley
When I entered the cold room, it wasn’t that of what movies portrayed. No dark and bluish grey room with low hanging lights. I walked into this cold room that was well lit and had three rows of metal tables of cadavers on it. Of course I knew that when a body was on a metal bed or I use to call it, tray. It was because they were alive it would be non metal. It was and M. E. case, I was only there to identify the body. As we walked to the first table I read the identification tags of the victims. John Doe 1, John Doe 2, and John Doe 3, the bodies laid in order and all have not been identified and claimed. The medical examiner asked what my partner looked like. I described him as tall, dark haired, blue eyes, but that wasn’t enough.
“Are there any tattoos or any outstanding marks on his body?”
“Yes there is a tattoo on the back of his neck, an eye.” I told him as he approached John Doe 2.
“Now Mr. Crawley, I assure you he’s not the tall dark haired and blue eyed man that he once was. He’s body went through a lot of trauma and we haven’t began to fix him. Once I open this bag, let me know if it is him or not, and please leave or let me know when you are…um overwhelmed. And I will close the bag.”
“Yes,” I said as I started to shake, my legs about to give way. The sound of the zipper began my tears. There he was, my tall handsome boy. Beyond half torn skull, eyes closed with one hanging on his eye ball. Glass still stuck the inside of his face. I began to zip the body bag down more. The medical examiners hand stopped me. I gave an understanding look of death to him, and then he released my hand. I unzipped more, down to his chest then down to his toes. I looked as his broken and bruised legs. His crushed hands, his stomach in caved from the broken ribs. I looked back at his face barely noticing the smell of formaldehyde in the air as I reached closer to his body placing my hand upon his face. I came face to face approaching his lips; I kissed this stale, pale and cold body of John Doe 2.
“It’s him,” I confirmed. I zipped him up and left the room.
I knew that either John Doe 1 or John Doe 3 was the drunk driver. When I went back into the waiting room a women approached me.
“I’m sorry for what my son did,” she sympathized.
“May god forgive him,” said a man next to her.
“I forgive. Death does not separate love, nor do we ever die."
Comments pretaining to my work please email me firstname.lastname@example.org.
-ethan crawley 2005
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