Untitled: Part I, Section III

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The smell was overwhelming. Even though he worked with these kinds of smells day in, day out, he couldn't seem to get used to this one. It surrounded him completely, making it impossible for him to call for help. It was the smell more than anything else that was destroying him, eating away at his senses. It was the smell of violence and of hatred. A smell of fear and of pain. It felt as if he had just opened Pandora's Box. The smell blurred his vision so that he couldn't see what was happening. And in a way, he was thankful.

He knew he was dying. He had dealt with death enough to know that. The pain had long been forgotten as his senses had been numbed by the smell. It infiltrated every pore on his body, it became a solid barrier against which he was helpless, so that all he could do was think.

He thought of his small apartment, only a couple of blocks away from the morgue. He thought of his dog, Blip. Who would feed him? Who would take him for his daily walk? He thought of his mother and how there wouldn't be anyone to answer her weekly call. His eyes filled with tears as those thoughts raced through his head and suddenly, his vision cleared. The sensory overload felt like someone had punched him in the face. The smell was gone, but he could feel that something else had taken its place. He looked around him and what he saw froze his face in a look of utter despair and terror. He gasped once and keeled over.

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