While standing in her foyer, waiting for her to go and grab a wrap to wear, you notice her dayplanner open on the table under the mirror. She had asked you to touch nothing while you wait, but she didn't forbid you to look. It's open to this week. You barely even have to glance at it to make out the word "Mausoleum" written in the box for tomorrow. No time even. Just that word. "Mausoleum."
At dinner, you bring up all of the people in your family who have died. She mentions her grandmother.
"I hate going to the cemetery," you say.
She says that she got lucky because her grandmother opted for cremation and a sprinkling of ashes over the Redwoods in California.
Over dessert you try another angle. "I like all music except Death Metal."
She says she doesn't even know what Death Metal would sound like. "Sounds gross," she says. "I like mostly alternative rock I guess."
Walking by the water you start grasping. "My friend is so boring and his house is so musty and dismal whenever I visit him I tell people, 'I'm going into the coffin.'"
Riding on the Ferris Wheel, just after you've kissed at the top, you say, "Dance clubs have the silliest names don't they? Morgue. Coroner's Office. House Where The Dead People Are Buried In The Walls."
She says she never heard of those and that she hates clubs.
Staring at the moon and the shooting stars that are constantly flying past, you say, "I broke up with a girl once because she liked to fuck corpses. You don't do that do you?"
She says nope.
Back at her house, she invites you in. You say, "I don't know, you don't have any big plans for tomorrow?"
She says not until sundown.
After having sex for the fourth time, you say, "I feel like I could share anything with you."
She says, "Me too. Almost anything."
You ask her why she's building walls between the two of you already, and if she knows a nine-letter word for gravesite that begins with the letter M so that you can solve this crossword puzzle you've been working on.
"I'm not. I'm just reticent to share everything with someone right away. And does Mortuary have nine letters?"
You sigh. You tell her about the dayplanner. She says, "It's all right. You couldn't help it. You shouldn't blame yourself for what's going to happen."
"What's going to happen?" you ask.
She doesn't say anything, but her eyeballs go white and some cloaked figures appear out of nowhere. Your depth perception gets skewed in a million wild ways. Figures that are miles away from you seem to hold you down on the bed. Though you're alive, you can feel your insides being torn to shreds. You scream with all of your strength but all you hear is laughter. Your date is dancing on the windowpanes like a fan dancer. Your pain is unimaginable and seems to last for centuries, though you can still make out the clock, which says that not twelve minutes have passed since your date last spoke. There are dogs in the bedroom now and they're coated in blood and your innards dangle from their teeth. They bite your face. A fire has started and flames begin to climb up your legs and over your torso. Two of the cloaked figures carve a hole in your chest and punch you in the heart. Your date is having sex with a pig on her roll-top desk. You swear that you've lived three lifetimes, but the clock says only another minute has passed. The cloaked figures stop up your breathing by taking turns covering your nose and mouth with their anuses. They found a hammer and a garlic press and they're going at your kneecaps and ears (hammer to the ears, garlic press to the kneecaps). Now they all sigh at once, growing tired of creating a hell from your existence, and one says to the other, "Anything going on tomorrow?"
Everyone looks at that cloaked figure like he's an idiot. He looks at them, looks down at you, then says, "Oh yeah! Duh."
Happy Mausoleum Day!