She sits up on the mortuary cart, sheet slipping like velvet, pooling at her feet. It is library-silent, the only sound an ambient hum of electricity. The floor cools her toes, antiseptic fouls her nostrils. She assumes a mistake has occurred, recalls how Victorians fitted bells inside their coffins. Memories unravel like a flick-book: snow feathering the land, being last to leave the party, a car’s headlights. Navigating the latticework of corridors, she considers her stricken body, its patchwork of contusions and ladders of staples.
Outside, her breath miasmas the pre-dawn air. A fox, prospecting a row of bins, seems to sense her. There are others like her, she realises, translucent and unearthly, shuffling away from the building, somewhere to be. She considers collective nouns for dispersing ghosts: a recession, a diaspora, a trajectory.
Orientating by the constellations, she begins the long walk into town, wondering which of her exes she will haunt first.
Tom Vowler is an award-winning author living in the UK. A university lecturer with a PhD in creative writing, his work has featured on BBC radio and been translated into multiple languages. His forthcoming 6th book is a collection of flash fiction and he’s working on a memoir. More at www.tomvowler.co.uk / @tom_vowler
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