Dare

Sarah crept down the empty hallway, her heart thumping away, mouth dry. She couldnt believe her girlfriends had gotten her to agree to this insanity.

It had all started when her roommates had discovered her father owned a mortuary service. The three 18 year olds had been drinking (illegally) and it had just spilled out of Sarah when Michelle turned and asked her what her family was like, her voice slurred.

"My papa deals with dead bodies"

Anita laughed, sharp and hyena like. "Amazing, bet there's been some real cuties passed through there".

"Maaan, that's messed up 'Nita."

"C'moon Michelle, don't tell me you wouldnt at least take a peek under the sheets, when no ones lookin'"

"Howsssabout I take some pics?"

Anita and Michelle turned and looked at Sarah. Their booze flushed faces smiled.

"That would be sick!"
"Even a shy lil bookworm like Sarah can have the cojones to do some far out stuff, righteous".

Anita slapped Sarah on the back. "Make sure you get some nice clean shots though, no blurries".


So here was Sarah, the keys to the morgue pilfered from her fathers office, in the middle of the night.
She reached the doors, took the keys out and slipped them into the lock. Turn, and click.

The double doors swung open, and a rush of cold air swept past Sarah.

It was a sterile room, plain flourescent lights flicking cold green-blue light on brushed steel surfaces and plain white tiles. A few body bags were lying on autopsy tables. She opened the first one, carefully unzipping the bag. The face of a young woman Sarah's age peeked out, emerald eyes wide open, a singular bullet hole marking her left cheek. The hole was singed with a circular scattering of powder burns. Whoever the poor girl was, she had been killed point blank. Sarah pulled out her DLSR and squeezed a pic.
She hurriedly zipped the bag closed again. The girl's empty eyes seemed to bore holes into Sarah's mind.

The next bag was an old gentleman, in his 60s. Eyes shut thankfully, his face seemed like he had just taken a nap. Probably a coronary in his sleep. Sarah snapped another photo, and zipped the bag shut.

One more bag left. She grabbed the zipper and slowly pulled down.

This one was different.

A young boy.

His eyes were shut.
A round face, cheeks spattered with freckles, straw blonde curls framing his innocent face. Sarah clocked his age at 12 or 13.

She continued to pull the zipper down, exposing the rest of the body. The kid was still wearing his preppy private school uniform. Around his neck or to be more clear, embedded into his neck was a noose purposed out of bright green polymer fibre rope. From the way his neck stretched, and the lack of swollen tongue or blood blockage, it seemed like he had been taken for a long drop hanging. His hands had been tied together behind his back. She doubted this was a suicide.

This body was especially fascinating to Sarah. She undid the belt around the boys slacks and pulled the pants down. He had been wearing briefs, and they had been stained in his death. Her fingers trembled as she softly stroked the bulge pressed against the fabric. It was firm, yet pliant. She pulled the briefs down a few inches, and the cock popped out. He was uncut, his flesh already a cool grey tone, cold and dry to the touch. Her fingers pulled on his foreskin, exposing the head. A faint musk emanated from his crotch. A few errant hairs crowned the boy's manhood. Her hands felt up and down, cupped his balls, pulled on them, squeezed and fondled to no reaction. She was breathing deep, her heart racing.

She undid the buttons on his jacket, pulled up his dress shirt. His body was athletic, fit, in the midst of growing into a strong young man. Her fingers ran along his breast, circled his nipples, down his abdomen. Rolled the body over and wrinkled her nose. His asscrack was crowned with a fringe of crusted feces.
Still.

Her camera snapped away.