The Mortician

When Morticia looked at herself in the mirror she could only see a young tired looking woman. The dark eyes that looked into the glass would seem too large for her head, but only if you really stared into them. It was only then that someone would realize how it seemed to take longer to pull out of those eyes, just a tad longer than usual. Morticia spent a long time looking into the mirror, not because she was vain, but because to her, one of the most curious things one could look at was oneself. Everyday she seemed to change in such minute ways, ways that no one would ever begin to notice unless they looked and searched for a long time. If you looked for a long time you could also see the small things that stayed the same, like that strand of hair that quite literally remained in it’s same twist.

The house was uninteresting to look at for a long time. Houses do not possess the same life that humans do. Any life that a house has only has it because of some human who calls that place their home. Morticia’s house was one of those typical places. A cottage left to her by her Aunt Josephine, sandwiched between hills of cotton that were not hers and a small patch of forest (also not hers). The cottage was absolutely ordinary. The floors creaked when pressure came upon those sweet spots in the wood, the radiator was unreliable, and there was a particular scent that permeated the air. Not necessarily unpleasant, just a whiff that said, “I am old, and I have been here longer than you,”

There were other things of course that subtly revealed the identity of the old cottage’s young inhabitant. The old antique china had been swapped out for more simple dishware, Aunt Josephine’s dusty muted rugs had been rolled up and tossed in the attic and had been replaced by newer ones. The bathroom and kitchen had been renovated to suit more modern needs, but other than that the house retained it’s vintage and cozy quality, which is just how Morticia liked it.

The atmosphere of a house, Morticia thought, is surely one of the most important aspects of one’s life. The atmosphere of a house is what turned it from a simple house to a home instead. Homes were where people revealed the most intimate parts of themselves, physically and in a more spiritual sense. The home is where can completely exist in their most raw and authentic form. There is no expectation of one to behave a certain way. Cry when you wish, wear what you want, move your body in that way that one does when they know no one is around to see. These small things were what Morticia held dear in her mind because her small cottage was not just where she spent most of her time, it was, quite literally, the only place she could exist.

Tuesdays were the days that the delivery boy came by with the groceries from the small supermarket down the road. It was always the same pimply blond boy who Morticia was sure could be considered handsome under all the baby fat he carried. In her head she named him Ethan. She liked Ethan because he was not overly friendly. He’d knock twice in quick raps, wait, and except the cash pushed through the mailslot. Then he’d turn around, walk down the steps his fat bouncing after him, get on his bicycle and ride away without a word. There the groceries would sit for a few more moments. It was a fairly new ritual.