Kepa brushed his thumb across his grandfather’s knuckles. The thin skin stretched taut across bone and worn out cartilage. Arthritis had crippled him years ago but he had stubbornly refused any of his grandsons medical opinions. It was his body, to do or not do as he pleased.
– Rest in peace, Papi. He whispered, his breath turning to fog as the temperature in the room dropped.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack
Something was coming down the hall.
No alarm had sounded. The hospitals were not always the first to know when a patient died, but the stribs always knew. And they were always there to reclaim.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety clack.
The room temperature dropped again. Kepa looked at the door and shivered. He stepped back into the corner, pulling the shadows around him like a cloak.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, clickety…
The door opened, white light screaming in. Two masked men and a trolley crossed the threshold. If they had noticed the shadow in the corner, they did not show it. They stopped next to the bed. One opened the trolley, swinging it from hinges at its centre, revealing rows of unlabelled, variously shaped compartments. They approached the body, and with measured, assured movements, swiftly dissected the body. Every part was removed, cleaned and repackaged, until the only thing left behind was an impression in the bed linen where the weight of a man’s body had rested. When the stribs left, they left a clean room, and the taste of metal hanging in the air.
Eventually, Kepa emerged from the shadows. He reached out to touch the bed. He had no idea why, there was nothing there. He turned back to the wall, grief swelling in his chest, and threw up.