Did Anyone Notice? Did Anyone Care?
Sitting in the morgue at night is a different feeling. Tenderheart knows that most sane ponies are disgusted to learn she works there, conjuring up horrible images of visceral bodies thrown against the rocks. And at times, perhaps they are right.
But most of the time it’s quiet. A fluorescent desk lamp shines a cone of artificial light onto the piles of paperwork that litter her desk. For every accident and mistake there’s a new regulation, and for every new regulation there are five more papers that have to be filled out and ten more copies that need to be made for each.
That’s the worst part of the job for her. She’s gotten used to the smell and the bodies, and her stomach has hardened to the point that she can scarf down a meal while covered in blood. But the paperwork never fails to dull her mind.
Tenderheart stiffens a yawn as she etches out her signature on yet another dotted line. She has to press hard so the ink bleeds through all five sheets. If it doesn’t, well, she’ll have to do it again.
Her shift’s almost over, thankfully. She can start thinking about dinner, and about what appointment she has in her regular practice tomorrow.
Sometimes ponies ask her if she ever feels alone, sitting there in the middle of blood-stained slabs and unforgiving lockers. She never does, because there’s usually a few unfortunate souls resting in the lockers behind her.
Currently, she was housing a 43-year old earth pony, a 89-year old unicorn, and a 26-year old pegasus. The earth pony had passed in a building fire, the unicorn went from a heart attack, and the pegasus an overdose.
At least they had been fairly easy deaths to piece together.
Tenderheart pauses and purses her lips together, tapping her pencil on the side of her desk. The pegasus’s mother had come by the other day to confirm her son’s body. She was shaken up and upset, hugging closely to the case detective and crying into his shoulder.
It made Tenderheart miss her own mother.
She shrugs and stretches, shifting the paperwork to her ‘out’ box so it gets to where it needs to go. The sonless mother had paused to ask her on the way out what she thought of death. Tenderheart replied that it was a cruel, fickle thing, who came for everyone whenever it wanted.
But she did have to concede it was a strange feeling, to get to know the work of death so intimately and closely. Because by the time she got to the pony on her table, death had done its work and left. It didn’t matter how many dozens or hundreds of ponies found their way in, they were all empty shells of ponies.
Death had many tools in its box, Tenderheart could attest to that. Fires, work accidents, suicides, overdoses, heart conditions, murders… the list went on and on.
Her desk phone rings, the tones echoing across the empty morgue. Tenderheart reaches out and picks up. She might not be getting off work on time after all.
The waves are crashing against the shore, underneath a serene night sky. The stars are hiding behind the clouds. They aren’t brave enough to look through them and at the beach below.
The sound of the ocean fills Tenderheart’s ears. She hears a seagull call from somewhere in the dreary night, and wonders for a second why it's still awake.
She draws a deep breath cooler than the midnight breeze and feels the sand beneath her hooves. The stars are bright tonight. She wonders why.
Tenderheart can’t bring herself to look at the ocean tonight. She usually likes it, but not when she’s working. In fact she finds it hard to enjoy much of anything when she’s working.
She finds the spot easily. It’s hard to miss, after all. An officer is waiting for her. He greets her with tired, pained eyes, hidden behind a careful facade of a functioning pony. He’s probably exhausted. She knows she is.
He tips his cap at her, letting her pass.
She approaches carefully.
Half-buried in the sand is the still husk of a pony. A preservation spell has already been cast by the crime scene team, so her hooves leave no imprints in the sand below her.
She sets her bags to the side and observes the body with a quiet sigh. Parts of their mane still flow in the wind, the only sign of life.
Gently, she turns them on their side. They stare up at the night sky with open, empty eyes. Whatever soul that was here left a long time ago. She does some calculations and checks the body’s stiffness to get an estimation of the time of death.
Tenderheart glances behind her. The officer sips from his thermos. Her assistants are pulling the wagon closer to the scene. The waves still crash around them, and far in the distance she can see the lights of the pier.
She straightens herself up, staring sorrowfully at the shapeless form below her. It wasn’t her first. It wouldn’t be her last. Having done this for so long, all of the faces are starting to blur together. She doubts she’ll remember this one.
Death had come and gone once again, and it was up to her to decipher how he had done it today. Not why he had done it, but how.
Tenderheart turns to the sky to stare at the moon. She wonders what this pony had done to end up here, naked and cold on the shoreline, or why death decided that today was the time. She wonders if anypony knew they were gone, or if anypony misses them.
She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out her cigarettes. Of course she knows better, but it’s either this or the alcohol. Both, perhaps, on a particularly bad night. Tenderheart glances up at the sky again, with about as much life as the lump in front of her.
Did anyone notice? Did anyone care?
Tenderheart hopes so. She hopes that someone will cry for them, because she can’t. Not because she doesn’t want to, but more because she’s out of tears. Sometimes she wonders if the husks she works with have more life than her.
The waves crash beneath the soft glow of the moonlight. An early fog is going to roll in tomorrow morning, wrapping the world in a thick blanket and gently singing it to sleep.
The stars seem bright tonight.
She wonders why.
