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Morgue by Emilio LancealotSUMMARY: Billy's twin brother goes missing. Billy get a job at the city morgue with a loco doctor. Will he find his brother? Ending is a lot different than you would think.
My Brother. My Twin. No one knows me better than him. So when he went missing six months ago I was devastated. I soon got a job with the city morgue. I'm the youngest here, the low dog. Seeing that I'm only seventeen they couldn't give me any other job but to help the mortician and clean the morgue. "Billy! Stop playing around and help." Startled I rose from my scrubbing position.
"Yes, Dr. Maccola." I rushed over to the autopsy table and in the process knocked over a small table of tools. "Damn. Sorry."
"Don't mess with that right now. Come help me. Here hold this." I reluctantly took clamp and held down. "Now cut the stomach." I took the scissors in my hand and slowly cut the thick skin in the woman's intestinal.
"Like this?" The doctor nodded. I started to shake when the stomach fluid spilled on the table. Dr. Maccola took my hand and guided slowly. His coarse skin grabbed the top of my hand like sandpaper. When the stomach was fully open the doctor let go of my hand and patted my back. I, then, noticed that he hadn't any gloves on nor did he wash his bloody hands. I sighed in anger and walked to the sink to wash up. My white tee was stained blood red in hand print form on the back of my shirt. "Damn, this was my only clean shirt."
"Sorry bout that son. It was a force of habit. You did great." Dr. Maccola encouraged. He slowly ripped open the rest of the stomach and started pulling out contents that were unidentifiable. "Bring me the cloth." I hurried to get the cloth and set it on a large tool table. Remembering that I knocked over the smaller table, I quickly fixed the accident by picking it up and rewashing the tools. In doing so I stabbed my hand and I started to bleed.
"What's wrong, Billy?" Dr. Maccola sounded worried.
"I cut my hand."
"Let me see." He waltzed to the sink. "Yes, that looks pretty bad. Come, let's stitch it up." We walked to the operating table. Doctor Maccola pulled out a needle and some stitch thread. He shoved the needle in my skin and pulled it back out. The curve of the needle tore my skin. Shreds of skin where my cut had been had bled out more than normal.
"Dr. Maccola? This isn't pleasing. And it hurts like hell." I said in agonizing pain. I looked down at my hand. It was bloody and shredded. "Dr. Maccola. Please Stop!" I yelled as he stuck my hand for the twenty-ninth time. It ripped through the thick palm skin. "Stop!" I cried. Tears streamed down my face. He stopped the sewing. I pulled my hand away. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I asked in a fearful state. "I'm going to the hospital. I'm taking the rest of the day off." I stormed out of the Morgue and rushed to my car. I was dizzy, probably from the blood loss.
I put the key in the ignition and turned it. The rusty car growled as I revved the engine. I put it in gear and sped out of the parking lot. The hospital isn't too far away. It was about five minutes if you were going seventy. I was going about seventy-five down the highway hoping that the state patrolman wasn't scouting today.