''What a beautiful focken day!'' The door behind Emil burst open and a draft of air rushed through the room, filling the nostrils of the burly bull of a newcomer who must have been Sean, or an idea of him, something distant but Seanian enough to allow the subconscious depths of Emil's mind to register it as the awaited roommate as he started at the mess from his window, speechless, jaw hanging so low it seemed dislocated. The heavy suitcase fell on the floor near the bed opposite of Emil's, the jacket was taken off and tossed over the chair, and the heavy hand rested on Emil's shoulder. ''Oy there, you ain't the friendly type, are ya?'' says the cohabitor playfully and joins Emil.''What the fock, man?''
''Ja...''
Among the apparitions down there, a man was shouting for a doctor. Emil looked up for a moment. The clouds hung low, impossibly low, so low it seemed unnatural. No, it was unnatural. Corpsle-like faces went to and fro, just pale orbs placed above their tattered coats, they paced around the man as he called for help. Emil didn't know why but he felt as if their breaths would smell of ash. Yes, ash, cold and damp, distinct smell, but sterile. Put it on the wound. A bitch can lick the cut, too. They put them in urns when they die. They don't want to be buried. Why do we? Six feet down. Worms.
''Let's go!'' says Sean. ''Medicine, second year, I might help before that doctor cunt comes!''
Emil grabs his jacket and slides into his shoes and they are off down the hall and stairs and through the doors and gates right into the yard. He introduced himself along the way, apologised, and collected his thoughts, bracing himself for the grisly sight.
Red. Real. Looks like a crimson chalice. This is my blood and this is my flesh. Drink of me and eat of me. Transubstantiation. A woman cannot. Blood might fall. Sean pushed through the scarecrows of people right to where the man lay, knelt and... Nothing. Like a big cherry. They must have had some when they celebrated without me. Habebat corpus.
Sean covered his mouth with his hammer-like hand, not to vomit. His red eyebrows connected as he frowned upon the shapeless head of the deceased. ''No need for a doctor, you need an undertaker.'' He stands up and strokes his beard, still looking down.
A frail boy at the back of the crowd fainted.
