𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢;
The hustle and bustle of a full house, the creak and hum of radiators engaging, background noise and foreground movement, Joaquin's home was always, 𝙖𝙡𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 noisy. Even beyond double-glazed windows and a postbox red front door, the outside fared little better. Decades-old trees moaned in the wind, nature chirped and scuttled, and even the clouds drifting lazily across the grizzly sky seemed too brisk. Beyond that, tyres squealed along asphalt highways, horns blaring a belligerent cacophony to the tune of purple-faced, road rage swearing.
It was too much.
It was all too busy, too loud, all the time. Even on the days when the wind abated, when the sky sat cobalt calm, it's vast expanse still hummed and whirred with the cotton candy trails of commercial flights. Even the quietest of hidden backroads bore almighty tractor engines, screaming around winding bends and thrusting road kill fox guts into the earth. And people, well, 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵.
All of Joaquin's best work happened at night. When the heavy veil of darkness fell over civilisation's buzz it bought a welcome dampener to the day's dissonance. With stars spat across the midnight sky, the inky black concealing humanity's protracted and inevitable continuance, Joaquin would sigh, smile and begin his nightly task.
Embalming bodies was his life's work. It bought in a steady income, he could work alone (his preference,) and his odd hours weren't frowned upon. His basement was kitted out in the best of the best, almighty jugs of embalming fluid, state-of-the-art machinery, and a clinical level of cleanliness. 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵.
As he filled another body with formaldehyde, Joaquin revelled in it - the quiet, the silence, the inevitable stillness; it was everything Joaquin dreamed of. Smiling as he placed a gloved hand over Mrs. Fornby's mouth to muffle her strangled screams, Joaquin sighed; 𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝙙𝙞𝙙𝙣'𝙩 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙖𝙠.
Originally written and shared as part of Verbuary 2022: https://tinyurl.com/78serv3h