#kadavernagh

It was in her fingertips and toes—they were growing grey, almost marbling. Regan curled them around the pendant on her necklace, feeling each line of the knot against her skin. It didn’t make sense. Even when Regan wore the necklace for too many hours, the illusion held; the problem instead was physical illness. So what was happening to her? To it? She’d snapped nitrile gloves over her hands and went in search of someone who might be able to discretely fix this problem. The woman she’d found online—Jessie—was a risk, but if the necklace stopped working entirely, she didn’t want to be caught in the center of town. Teagan’s was a cautionary tale.

However littered her past was with social misunderstandings, Regan knew that a woman might not wish to meet a stranger somewhere private. So instead of suggesting one of their homes, she decided on a perfectly appropriate location for such a meeting: a cemetery. Jericho. Who wouldn’t feel safe there?

Death held her as soon as she walked through the gates, stroking her in its palm as she had her necklace. Even that persistent wrongness that she felt over her shoulder at times seemed to quiet here—lost in the sea of death rattles. People feared night in places like this, but the dead didn’t mind the sunlight. Regan waited near one of the mausoleums, studying her gloved hands. Just to be sure, she took a quick look at her reflection on her cracked phone screen; her eyes were still her father’s (fake, running, cowardly). 

She stood straight at a woman’s approach. Mid-twenties, dark skin, an expression that Regan felt was appropriately serious to have living on one’s face the majority of the time. “Hello,” Regan said, quieter than she would have preferred, “I’m Regan. Are you Jessie? The make-up expert?” She hesitated, mind flicking through various conventions she should deploy. No handshake. No wave. She gave a small nod. “It’s nice to be here. I mean, meet you.”

—

The request was very odd. So odd, in fact, that Jessie almost didn’t go. How Regan had gone from Irish birthday wishes to needing Jessie’s makeup assistance was a leap. And then to suggest they meet up in a cemetery? This had felt ominous. But if she was being truly honest with herself, these days, everything felt ominous. The only problem was that Jessie had been out of practice for nearly a year. Color matching, airbrush techniques, the whole process, but she had been doing this for so long that it had to be like getting back on a bike after falling off right? Innately there. She just had to trust herself.

As her GPS led her to the requested meeting location, Jessie had Ghost sitting in the back seat and on lock, just in case she needed his assistance. It wasn’t that she wanted him to get hurt or worse, but knowing she wouldn’t be there alone in theory was better than going out there to meet some strange lady by herself. And as she parked the car and cracked the windows, she spoke reassuringly to him, “This shouldn’t take too long, Ghost. Then we’ll go to the park.”

A kiss on the forehead followed by grabbing her makeup kit, and Jessie was making her way down through a grim reminder of where a lot of people recently in her life had found a home. It was seeing this woman hanging out alone that had increased her nerves. Was this a setup? Or did this woman genuinely need help? She had already made an effort to help someone else recently, and it hadn’t gone so well, “Hey, yeah, that’s me. It’s nice to meet you too. But why in a graveyard? Could we have not done this in a more populated setting? I mean, no offense, Lady, but I don’t know you that well.” She glanced around, “Also, I’m gonna need to set my stuff somewhere…” Jessie motioned to the mausoleum. “Maybe we can go in there?”

—

Why a graveyard? Regan tilted her head, eyes searching Jessie’s face for the reason behind the question. It made no sense. It was like asking why humans consumed meals at restaurants (although, she wasn’t entirely clear on the answer). “Do you not like it here? I can think of no better place to meet someone. Where I am fr—I mean, it’s—it’s quite common, really, meeting others through the dead. Beautiful, too. We are a fungus fed by their decomposition.” Regan thought this would put Jessie at ease. 

It was true they needed to find a surface on which to work—Regan would never place anything other than a hand on a headstone. The mausoleum was promising. “So long as they don’t mind.” Regan’s eyes drifted to the name carved atop the mausoleum in that Greek revival lettering. Williams. A common surname. Did anyone take the time to know the deceased now, or did they just walk past the mausoleum, thinking it housed Williams like every other?

Regan led Jessie inside, her nose immediately taking in that damp, mineral smell that structures of old marble always seemed to possess. There were two rows of crypts; Douglas, Charlotte, Elizabeth, and Peter Williams were all here. Regan took the time to remember their names. None of them seemed to mind their presence after all, but she would avoid sitting anywhere on the crypts. Instead, she sat in the middle, where a stone bench was fit between the central pillars. She watched Jessie, ready to tell her to move if she so much as considered setting her buttocks upon the dead. Why a graveyard? Did Jessie still wonder, even now? Regan closed her eyes and breathed in the stale air. “Coffee shops don’t have these,” she said, leaning back slightly, admiring the marblework and friezes. “Not that I have anything negative to say about Just Coffee, but here, we have privacy and atmosphere both, don’t we?” 

Privacy. Jessie probably didn’t understand why that was so important to Regan. “Remind me of your qualifications? I don’t know how to—I mean, how shall we start? Can I hear a commitment to discretion?”

—

Okay, this woman was weird, but Jessie didn’t want to be rude. Everyone had their quirks, and most people probably thought she was weird considering what she enjoyed doing for a living. Well, when she did it. Her mind had been drawing a blank of what kind of content to even make since last Halloween. In fact, anytime she tried to research and study things she had once been interested in, it had all just kind of fell flat. But depression did that. Grief did that. “If this is some metaphor for “live your life to the fullest before you become worm food”, I’m not really digging it, but you’re right. It is beautiful here” in a morbid kind of way.

The proposed question of if these people would mind two random strangers using their final resting place as a temporary makeup studio made Jessie raise her eyebrows. How the heck was she supposed to know? They were bones, and unless bones could talk (which she didn’t want to know), she was just going to have to assume no. Just like she assumed Regan had thought no with the pair now making their way into the cold, stone building. And once downstairs, Jessie made sure to set her makeup on the bench next to Regan. Sure, she didn’t really want to be doing this in a cemetery (any other time in her life, yes), but she wasn’t heartless, “Right. Privacy and atmosphere. And gotta say, no offense if you are, but not a huge fan of Just Coffee.”

Pulling out her airbrush kit and the makeup that paired with it, she began looking to see what all she had available, and what exactly Regan was wanting done, “Well, I have a very well known Youtube channel. I went to school for this. I’ve been around makeup artists and movie sets most of my life. Does that seem to ease your fears? Also, I do need to ask…any latex allergies? And the even bigger question, what exactly is it that you want me to do?” She paused on unpacking until she got the answers she needed from Regan.

—

“Who said I have fears?” Regan looked down, eyes angled up. Even two years of Jade’s support hadn’t made Regan comfortable baring her throat to others. “Congratulations on your success. What is the number of your channel? I… my concerns are slightly alleviated, yes. Your discretion is as good as a promise to me.” She wouldn’t ask for it in words—she rarely went that far, human that she was these days—but Jessie should know its weight, even without understanding what a promise meant to something like her. After a moment, Regan lifted a gloved hand and said, “I have no latex allergy, though these happen to be nitrile. It’s good of you to check. Medical professionals thank you.” Regan would be recommending Jessie to everyone she knew, now. Perhaps leave an online review. That one, diligent question was all it took to endear her. 

If Jessie didn’t run screaming. “There are a couple areas of concern,” Regan said, watching her hand. “But my hands are the most difficult at the moment. You’ll see. I am not creative, but you may have a solution to this.” Slowly, she peeled one of the gloves off, feeling the cool air against her clammy skin. A couple of weeks ago, Regan had been able to convince herself her hands looked perfectly fine, perfectly glamoured; human, human, human. If there was any difference, it was subtle. Now ‘subtle’ no longer seemed like an apt descriptor. Her fingers were grey—darkest at the tip, growing lighter as the rot climbed each knuckle. It was only cosmetic, but it felt like an infection claiming her limbs. Seen on a frozen decedent, fingers this color might have snapped off.  

“So, can you fix this?”

—

“Thank you. And it’s on Youtube. You know…the website? I can show you later, if you want me to.” Jessie could see the uneasiness clearer than she could before. Whatever it was, the fact that she was letting a stranger take a look at this situation was a big deal, and Jessie wouldn’t forget that. Especially, because trust was a very fragile and delicate thing that she had learned about over the years of being in the public eye. And once it was broken, it was a very hard thing to gain back.

“That’s what I use, actually. The only reason I ask is because if I have to do any prosthetics, there’s a chance I might have to use latex, but not having an allergy to it will make this a heck of a lot easier.” Jessie sent a smile in Regan’s direction. And as she did, she glanced down to see the woman slowly peeling off a glove. What she didn’t expect was what was found underneath. In fact, it had almost looked like something she would’ve done to someone on a movie set already, and as much as she wanted to pose the age old question of: Is this a joke? She didn’t.

Jessie had done her research. She knew there were all kinds of dermatology issues in the world, but this straight up looked like the woman had decided to play a game of chicken with a block of dry ice, “Look, I’m gonna say this as nicely as possible, but if this is frostbite, you might want to go see a doctor, because I don’t know if some makeup is going to fix that? Doesn’t it hurt?” She was tempted to reach out and touch Regan’s hand, but she held off for fear of hurting her. She did, however, squat down to observe the woman’s hand, “Is this what your other hand looks like too?” Would she even be able to cover this up? And if so, would DermaBlend work on this? 

—

“I know the website… perhaps not how it works.” Regan was fairly sure she knew Youtube, but there were so many ‘television’ options these days, no one could possibly keep them all straight; she and Jade spent too many hours utilizing streaming services. “Very cautious of you. Respectable. What kind of prosthetics are you referring to? I am interested, not for myself, but in general. We should engage in conversation.” She looked to Jessie, wondering if she’d find eyes looking back at her, and whether they would spark with kinship, or push her into the shadows of the crypt. 

“Frostbite is warmer.” Regan exhaled through her nose and felt something in her chest that might’ve been a trapped laugh. A small one, barely there, subject to denial. “I am a doctor, and I can assure you this is not a medical condition that needs to be seen by a dermatologist. On that note, I have the hands of a doctor—cold. Be forewarned. And you are to work on the dorsal side only. My palms are to be untouched.” Concealing those scars was tempting, but explaining them was even more daunting than explaining the… well… she peeled the second glove off and set it on the marble bench. “The same. It doesn’t hurt.” Now seemed like a poor time to explain that she couldn’t even feel anything on about a quarter of her hands’ surface area. “I am prepared to hear that there is nothing you can do. I’m quite the messenger of bad news, myself. You won’t be shot.”

—

“It’s okay. I had to explain it to my parents when I first wanted to make videos. It’s super easy to navigate once you know what you’re looking for.” Jessie had found Youtube to be a pretty good way to bond with people. Even if they had never used the website, it always piqued people’s curiosity; even more so when they knew they could search just about anything on there and find results. Well within reason. There was some stuff on there that no one ever needed to see. “As for prosthetics, I can do really anything. Wings, horns…I can make you look like a zombie or even some kind of animal. Really nothing is off the table. It’s just how much time and effort someone wants to put into sitting through the application of it all.” She knew it could be a tedious process, but the end result was usually what made it all worth it, and she had loved that about special fx makeup.

Oddly, Jessie was feeling very comfortable around this woman now. She was interesting. And maybe it had been the morbid side that the woman could relate to, but she had hoped that she could continue their conversations on outside of a mausoleum sometime, but right now, there was business to attend to, even though the smallest of laughs from Regan had made Jessie crack a genuine smile. The first in a long time, “Look, I don’t touch anything you don’t want me to touch. The appliance of Special Fx makeup can be a lot for some people, especially when you start working around their face. It can feel claustrophobic, and I respect that. It’s your body; my canvas, and to make great art, you have to respect your canvas.”

Jessie slipped on a pair of gloves that she had pulled out from her kit, “Nitrile.” She winked at Regan as she began digging into her bag of tricks, finding exactly what she was looking for. In fact, she had almost forgotten she had bought this on the off chance she would ever need it. “Perfect!” She had never seen someone with Regan’s deathly pale skintone, well among the living anyways. But after doing makeup on a few deceased friends and family members (Jenna included), Jesse knew people deserved to look just as lovely in death as they did in life.

“Okay, so this is actually formulated for blemishes, tattoo coverup, etc. I’m really hoping it will work with your current skin tone to match your regular skin tone. What do you think? I’m not doing anything until you give me the all clear to…”

—

Wings and horns and—oh, that kind of prosthetic. “No, no, none of that! I—human. Human is the look I must achieve.” Regan couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to look like something else, but she supposed there was a whole holiday about pretending. (Samhain was superior, by the way.) “How can you make someone look like something that doesn’t exist? By what metric do you accomplish this?” She paused, testing her words, trying to figure out how to say this in a way that lacked the sting of her usual complaints, because her curiosity had won out. “I mean, zombies do not exist. So how can you make someone appear to be one? Do you understand?” The Williams family would have supported her in this.

“I tried painting recently. Twice… It did not go well. But you are a type of painter, I’m discovering—would you say that’s an accurate characterization?” Her attempt to paint with Jade resulted in an entirely black canvas, which could be claimed as Russian avant-garde, or a disaster (clinical term), or a blatant distraction, but certainly not a show of skill. And the less said about the egg she’d submerged in primer, the better. “Skin must make a better canvas than… well, canvas. I considered that. I wonder if I might have succeeded if I had changed the materials.” Probably not. It only changed what was on one end of the brush; not both.

A blush of heat rose in Regan’s cheeks at the wink, which was traitorous. It was the gloves (nitrile was a titillating word). She’d have to inform Jade. For now, Regan spread her hand out in front of Jessie for ease, staring down at her own fingers. They looked wrong. She had grown used to seeing them like this—darker still—at night, and naturally when she was in Saol Eile, but not out here, exposed and inhuman. Jessie had an impressive amount of contents in her bag—Regan could hear bottles clink and the patpat of brushes and other materials being pushed around. And then: victory. Her eyes went from the container in Jessie’s hands and the bright, unbothered expression on her face. “You… you have makeup for it?” Something warm clenched inside Regan’s torso and spread through her veins. She hadn’t expected Jessie to be able to help, not really. Only now did Regan realize she’d been expecting bad news. “That’s… yes, good. You may proceed. Please.” A rare word out of her mouth. “Do you think this will remain on my hands? And not… will it rub off on everything?”

—

“Human it is.” It was odd to hear someone say they wanted to achieve human when they were hopefully, more than likely, human. Jessie listened intently to Regan’s questions and curiosity. “Refrence photos from old movies. But mostly by imagination. And research of what happens to the body when it decays. Put that together, and you’ve got the perfect recipe for creating a zombie! Not a real one of course, since they’re not real.” She had to push Jenna out of her mind. It was hard to think of her in that context, and she really didn’t want to have a panic attack in front of Regan. Not here. Not now. This was a time to be professional.

“It’s like anything else. You just have to keep practicing at it, but yeah, I like to think of myself as a painter. Plus art is subjective. I’m sure whatever you painted was great in the eyes of another person.” She smiled, “Skin is…an interesting canvas. It’s like in order to work on it, you have to get rid of the blemishes first, unless you’re incorporating it into the look you’re going for. That’s where stuff like this comes in.” She motioned to the bottle with her head as she began pulling out her airbrush gun. Investing in a cordless one had been a lifesaver, especially being somewhere like this where there wasn’t a power source she could use.

Once everything was set up, she looked back up to Regan, “I do have makeup for it. A true artist has to be prepared for anything.” She wasn’t trying to fluff her feathers, but she did know how crucial it was to have what you needed on hand, especially on a movie set. “This should hold up for a little while. Obviously it’s not a permanent solution, and you would have to touch it up. I know not everyone has access to airbrush kits either. There are decent ones available online that aren’t too pricey. And once you get the hang of spraying it on, it’s pretty easy to do.”

Jessie switched on the machine and gently grabbed one of Regan’s hands. With a certain precision and delicacy, she tested an area of the woman’s skin first to see how well it would cover things up, and when it was a success, she began to go over her skin. Stopping every now and then to check her work. Once she was finished with one hand, she paused so Regan could see it before moving on.

—

Movies. That didn’t even pass muster as a secondary source. Why did everyone in this town believe these human fictions had any bearing on reality? Well, at least Jessie knew it was fake… but it was perpetuating a kind of propaganda, wasn’t it? Regan would ameliorate this situation. An idea came to her, lighting up her face. She sat straighter on the bench, boots scuffing against the floor. “Would you like to see decay?” She could find some. She could find some in ten seconds! “It would help. I’m certain. You will see sloughing skin and livor mortis with intimacy. Once we’re done, I will show you.” Her fingers stroked the marble at her side.

Jessie didn’t draw back from her cold skin or flinch away from the task. She was as professional as many of Regan’s colleagues (and more, in the case of Dr. Rickers, because Jessie didn’t shed beard hairs all over her). How greatly she could excel, if only she had more observational experience; Regan was determined to make it happen. “I like some blemishes,” Regan admitted, “I have seen vellum before—old parchment, bovine calf skin. Sometimes there are hairs, or irregularities on the page. It disturbs most people. They like to believe that when you die, you become something else—that your individuality has vanished with your breath. But it isn’t true. It’s when you are alive that you must conform…” Regan watched Jessie gently dab the off-white material (was that her skin tone?) onto her hand. “What were we saying? Ah, right, art. I don’t understand it.”

Jessie finished and moved back a little, letting Regan admire her work. Regan looked, and her mouth fell open. Because her hand seemed… human. Mostly. She knew what was concealed; if someone didn’t know, they wouldn’t pause and see the lie beneath the skin. But the difference between her hands now was drastic—one fit for tenderness, the other for a blade. Regan turned the fixed one over, examining from every angle. Her palms were honest, always would be. The rest was a farce. “Yes, let’s do the other now. It’s only right.”

—

Jessie couldn’t get a full read on Regan. But it was like the universe had stuck her with a walking encyclopedia of death, and she couldn’t fault that. If this had been two years ago, the young woman would’ve been chomping at the bit to pick Regan’s brain and learn more. But somewhere deep inside, grief was slowly eating away at her. Yet, there was still a certain morbid curiosity. A need to satisfy questions she had always wondered about. No matter how famous your parents were, it’s not like people would just let you observe decay in person. She had read about the Body Farm in Knoxville, Tennessee, but that was off limits, unless you were a student or worked in the business of bodies. But then it struck her. She had read that Regan worked in that exact field, and now the offer was right here. Though every broken part of her was saying to let it go, Jenna was in the back of her mind screaming, “do it”, because it had been one of the things that had attracted the other woman to her – her morbid side and always searching for knowledge to make her craft better, “Really? You’d do that for me?”

It took her a few minutes to readjust to the task at hand; Regan’s hands, but after giving the woman an enthusiastic head nod, with an “Absolutely, I would love to. Thank you.” She returned to her current job, “I can go back after the main coat is on and add some fine detail, if you’d like. Let me finish your other hand, and you can let me know.” She wanted Regan to be happy. She had always wanted the people she worked on happy, even if it wasn’t always the most comfortable stuff to wear. But the woman’s words lingered about conformity and life, making Jessie think there was more to Regan’s story. Maybe questions for another time.

Turning her head when Regan put her palms up, remembering how important the skin on her palms had been, Jessie gave her some privacy, until she got the okay to resume, and when she did, she gently took the untouched hand and began working on it. It hadn’t taken as long as the other one since Jessie had gotten a feel for Regan’s skin and the absorbency of it, and once finished, she sat back letting her client observe to see if anything else needed to be done, including a few blemishes.

—

Regan’s judgement, as always, had been excellent. She had thought Jessie could help her, and she was right; now, she thought Jessie might benefit from witnessing decay, and the offer had been received with enthusiastic interest. A triumph! Such impressive human acumen she had developed (she would only brag to Jade a little). The word ‘friend’ still felt like a jagged stone in Regan’s mouth—a salivary stone would’ve been easier to crack or weather—but this seemed like a promising foundation for a pleasant acquaintanceship. What successful interpersonal relationship didn’t begin and end with death?

Regan gently tugged Jessie’s hand toward the marble, inviting her like there was a heartbeat to feel for. “Of course I would. After we are done, there will be no one more talented at capturing the beauty of the dead on the human canvas than you are. The real question is whether you are prepared to accept the responsibility.” She lifted her hand away from Jessie’s, from the cool surface. “For the Williams, for them all.”

Once Jessie finished with Regan’s second hand, she studied them curiously, like they were alien appendages, but ones that didn’t displease her. Quite the opposite. The grey was gone, hidden again. “They look—” She struggled with the words. With the prickle infecting her eyes. They looked human, like they did before her necklace had begun malfunctioning (who said it was the necklace and not you?) “—This is good. You’ve done well. Thank you.” Those two words were another stone, but this one had turned soft and silty, easier to swallow than others she’d choked down before. “Could you… would it be possible to learn how to apply this myself? In case it gets—” Worse. “—rubbed off and needs reapplication? And is this safe to use on the face?”

—

After Jessie had finished with Regan’s hands, she thought back to the brief moment when the woman had pulled her hand to the cool marble. Was she about to introduce her to the Williams family? Jessie was slightly confused, but she didn’t want to jump the gun. Instead, she shot Regan another warm smile trying not to show the confusion. This woman was offering her the chance to see real decay, and she didn’t want to mess that up…as weird as it had seemed, “I feel like you’re asking me to dawn a cape or something and be the next great superhero of the dead.” She laughed nervously, “But yeah, yes. I am.” She nodded softly.