“Taste in Your Throat”

“The moment I entered the room, the smell overwhelmed me. It was like one of those scents that sticks in the back of your nose long after you have the ability to sense it. It is just that pungent, and just that terrible.

It sticks with you.

I have tried in the days following to forget it, to pretend that it is something else. To think of anything else. But death is too hard to forget. It lingers.

I wasn't sure what I was going to walk in on. When you don't hear back from someone, there are thousands of thoughts that rush through your mind; the amount mostly dependent on how much you care.

I feel as if there is a reason as to why we think about those nightmarish possibilities. Because if you are anything like me, you simply hope that every scenario you come up with won't be the case, and that eventually you will manage to run out of bad options.

But there is always something you didn't consider, always something far worse that you may have simply been too distracted or too sane to think up of.

And so, when I entered the room and I found him positioned on both sides of the room, I suppose that I should have taken it as a compliment, that I never thought that was going to be what I found. Somehow the thought doesn't make it any easier.

I can't remember what happened after that. At least, not the hours following the event. I was told that I called the police. I was told that I was calm and collected, but I know they are only saying that. They don't want me to remember what I really did. And though I can't remember the truth, I know it all the same. Though I have had many nights to run through my head what it must have looked like, walking in on me like that, I am unsure if the truth would be better or worse.

My dog won't come up to me either. I think he might know what I did. But I am sure it is just because of how upset I look. Even a dog can see when there is too much there to com-fort.

In the weeks following, I took consolation in the calm, collected way I handled myself. I took comfort in knowing I didn't freak out like some people would, but then I got a visit that changed everything. I found out that I hadn't reacted the way other people maybe would have.

I reacted worse.

I keep getting phone calls. People keep asking me how I am holding up. They don't realize yet that it is the frequency that tipped me off. I have comforted people after a loss, and so I know what is normal and what isn't. I know it isn't normal for a person to sound scared when they call you, and that they shouldn't sound like they think you might hurt them if you say the wrong thing.

It is New Year’s Eve. I have made my resolution, even if I know that one day, I will probably break it. I have vowed to not remember. I have vowed to not know. And if my mind does its job, then that will remain the case.

I threw away the blue dress the other day. Doesn't seem right to keep it, knowing what I know.

I don't remember their face, the one who visited me that day. I remember their bowler hat that would stand out to me. And the long formal jacket with the dark gray wool scarf. I remember the shiny dress shoes and their small leather gloves. The smell of leather itself.

I don't know how the folder ended up in my hands. I don't even remember most of what I read, only knowing that it was they that gave it to me the coroner’s report.

And the police report that was never formally filed.

That smell sticks with me. I can almost taste it now. It is that which made me realize that there were no lies in what I had read.

The newer wounds were post mortem, occurring several hours after death. The DNA matched the brown stains on the dress that people claimed that had I spilled food on at the funeral dinner.

It was a closed casket funeral.

He had always wanted an open casket funeral.

They had spoken to me, the one who came to visit. When I remember what they said, it was never the same voice as before. Sometimes it is a little girl, sometimes it’s an old man. Right now, it is something I can scarcely describe.

“You don't get to forget this” it said. And then it looked at me, but without eyes. The expression was that of concern and hatred. It collected the folder it had carried the papers in, a folder that looked far too old and smelled of mold. And then it left. And then I slept.

And since that moment, I haven't been able to get that smell out of the back of my throat. And I haven't been able to forget just how important our sense of smell is to our sense of taste.”

I've been holding onto this. Probably wouldn't have ever shared it. Seemed to be in bad taste, but something I saw the other day. I can't deny the similarities. Could be a coincidence. God, I hope it is coincidence. I handed this over to the police, but they said that it was unrelated. I don't know. Maybe someone will know something.