half-light. avery/annie blitz

Annie Mortuus is death — everyone, everything around her dies. She wonders if she stood in a field of flowers for too long, all the water would drain right out of their stems and leaves. She wonders if they would shrivel up and rot just like people do.

She sits in the break room of the Mortuus Medical Center, fluorescent lights illuminating her face in all the wrong ways. The dark circles under her eyes are even more prominent in the harsh lighting; she had a long night yesterday, and not in the good way. Not at all. She doesn't think she looks very pretty right now, but she doesn't care. Maybe they'll leave her alone at least for one night.

Annie sits across the table from Avery, who looks so cleaned up — brushed hair, unwrinkled clothing, bright eyes. She envies her. She remembers when she looked like that, features so alive with youthful joy. It's been two years since she's taken Hyacinth's jobs, but it was only recently announced when her family began to notice that Annie is always tired and sulks around like someone died.

Someone did die — Hyacinth, and then her happiness. She just relives their funerals every day.

"Congratulations, I guess," Avery says. Congratulations? Annie wonders, but it becomes clearer when Avery continues. "On the promotion."

Every muscle in Annie's body goes rigid and she wishes that she had the strength to cry. But she already cried all the moisture out of her body this morning in the bathroom. "Congratulations," she repeats, her eyes blank as she stares at the table. She can't bring herself to look Avery in the eye. "I . . . do you even know what you're congratulating me on?"

She's never been quick to anger, and she doesn't have the energy to be angry right know. But the pain persists, even when everything else stops. One can never be too tired for pain.

"Have they even told you, Avery? About what our family really does for a living?"