The city coughs its garbage up each morning, wet and black. I sort the mundane from the stain, I haul the bodies back. A vampire’s gala left coiled gowns and spilled casks to sort. A werewolf’s kill had rotted in the bin; I bag it, tag it, report. They pay in cash that smells like rot, no receipt, no name. I stitch my fingers back on and I do it all again. I’m not the fix. I’m not the file. I’m the one who stays awhile. The formaldehyde and glue, The hand that makes the corpse look new. The city’s gut, the sewer’s breath - I am what’s left when death forgets. They tell me I should be grateful for the work. A ghoul like me, Pre-certified for biohazard. No liability. No need for masks or hazard suits, no need for paid sick days. I signed the waiver post-mortem. Standard clause. It stays. But I remember sugar. I remember salt. I remember biting into heat without the hinge, the fault. Now every taste is chemical I rub into my back. Preserve the seams. Hold the shape. Keep the structure intact. The Bureaucrat came by last month. She saw my locker, frowned. Asked if I had permits for the body parts I’d found. I showed her my assignment slip. She checked a box, moved on. “Hazard review pending.” That was all. Then she was gone. I saw her later, clean as paper, passing through the hall. Didn’t look left. Didn’t look right. Didn’t look at all. I’m not the fix. I’m not the file. I’m the one who stays awhile. The formaldehyde and glue, The hand that makes the corpse look new. The city’s gut, the sewer’s breath - I am what’s left when death forgets. The Fixer’s got my number. Calls when something slips. A riot in the old rendering plant - broken teeth and kicks. I was already ankle-deep before he made the call. He paid me in a favor: moved my cousin’s plot and all. Now I owe him something undefined. That’s how the ledger grows. No totals, just a pressure line that everyone who knows… knows. He asked me once, real quiet, “Do you miss the taste?” I said I missed not smelling like a dumping place. He laughed. Not kind, not cruel - just recognition, brief. Then handed me another job and called it “some relief.” The guys on day shift got their dental, got their leave. Night shift’s always “provisional” it's hard to believe. I filed for benefits three times. Each time it’s been misplaced. No category for what I am. No column for my case. My supervisor’s a revenant bolted to his chair. Says, “Your degradation curve is stable. You’ll hold. Don’t care.” I tell him I need sutures, salves to slow the split. He says, “You’re within tolerance.” Then signs off on it. I’m not the fix. I’m not the file. I’m the one who stays awhile. The formaldehyde and glue, The hand that makes the corpse look new. The city’s gut, the sewer’s breath - I am what’s left when death forgets. Dawn comes up. I drag myself back down below. Basement room, no mirror left, just what I already know. I spray perfume across my chest to bury older scents. Layered over solvents, rot, and mild preservatives. I lie down on the mattress, feel the stitching pull. Inventory what’s still attached. What’s missing. What is null. Oranges. Bread. Heat on the tongue. I run the list again. Not memory - just records now. A catalog of then. I’ll be back tonight. I’ll haul. I’ll stitch. I’ll scrub. I’ll file my grievances in triplicate. No rub. The forms go missing. Always do. The route stays mine. The rot gets moved. The city holds another line. The Bureaucrat won’t see me. That’s not in her scope. The Fixer might recall my face. That’s not the hope. I’m not the fix. I’m not the file. I’m what persists a little while. The formaldehyde and glue, The cost that never makes it through. The city’s gut, the sewer’s breath - I am what’s left when death forgets...
