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The world stops for nothing. One could lose everything they cared for in a second, feel their world slip through their fingers or their earth shatter beneath them - but time is cruel and the seconds will keep ticking by, the earth will keep spinning and the rest of the world will continue on with their lives. It doesn’t matter how broken one is; they’re expected to pick up the pieces and glue them back together as best they can and get back to life like before - so as to minimise the disruption to the eternally-running machine of society.
Icy blue eyes glistening with tears observed the world that continued on around him, nurses doctors, patients and visitors ran past him back and forth, continuing on with their lives as if nothing had happened - unaware of the heartbroken man sitting alone in a faux-leather chair; that's far too low for his height; in the hospital reception room, waiting to get called down the mortuary to identify the dead body laying on a stainless steel table as his younger twin brother.
Vergil wants to scream - why does the world keep moving when it feels like his own world has shattered beneath his own two feet from a single phone call.
Every detail of that moment was permanently etched into Vergil’s brain, playing on loop like a movie every time he closed his eyes. The way the afternoon sun glistened through his kitchen room window as he received the phone rang; the caustic network of light reflecting off a lone glass of water, sitting on the kitchen countertop was all his eyes could focus on when he heard a voice on the other side of the line - it’s Redgrave Hospital; they have his brother Dante, and the paramedics and emergency staff tried everything they could but they just couldn't save him, and then needed Vergil, his only living relative, to come and identify the body.
He didn’t want to think about how that was Dante’s drink that he’d accidently left out, or that he was about to pour it down the sink and grumble to himself about the mess Dante always seemed to leave for him.
The call still echoes in his head, the words engraved themselves into the walls of his brain and the obviously modulated voice still rings in his ears as if they were still talking to him - and the way clouds seemed to pass by the sun as the dreaded words left the phone speaker, making the world around him turn dark felt almost metaphorical to his mental state.
And Vergil would do anything to forget it all.
"Vergil, is it?" A woman's voice snaps the man out of his spiralling throughs, and his eyes dart towards her, noticing the few stray hairs of her messy ponytail, and the difference in her uniform compared to her colleagues - but he doesn’t bother to read her name tag. "I'm here to take you to the viewing room. If you would please follow me."
He stands up awkwardly, immediately noticing how he towered over the nurse - it wasn’t like he wasn't accustomed to towering over most people he met, he just hadn’t thought about his height since was a teenager - and he had a competition with Dante to see who would grow the tallest.
Vergil’s face scrunches in annoyance at the unwelcome memory. Under any other circumstance he'd find himself chuckling at the fact he outgrew his twin by just 2 inches (much to Dante’s chagrin) and how that was only part of the long list of his triumphs over Dante - but now his brother is dead, and they cant have any more friendly competitions between themselves, and the thought of it all made his eyes burn with tears and his temples throb in unbearable pain.
This was the first time he wish he’d lost to Dante,
Exiting out the entranceway and into the main corridor, the nurse makes a sharp turn around the corner and Vergil follows suit, and the way her heels clack against the vinyl flooring and echoes throughout the hallway makes Vergil almost explode in anger.
Time felt as though it was slowing down, and the hallway seemed to stretch further the more he walked, as if he found himself in some cursed alternative-reality. Hundreds of times Vergil had walked down this corridor, but he never remembered how long it took to hike its distance, or how loudly footsteps echoing throughout it, or how empty it seemed to be despite its grand size - and all of it just seemed off to him.
But everything felt off to him since the phone call.
He follows the nurse until she stops at a lone door hidden in the far corner of the hallway, and he almost complains about how far they trekked, as the nurse pulls something out of her pocket, which Vergil realises is a key after watching her slip it in the lock and open the door.
She holds open the door for him and moves her hand to guide him inside. "Come in. Someone will be with you shortly." The smile she gives him looks fake, and he just wants to scream at her to stop pretending to care - he’s lost everything; and she's standing there smiling at him like everything is okay.
Because it’s not okay, and it’ll never be okay.
But he realises attacking her and will achieve nothing, so he steps inside as his eyes take in every detail of the cramped room as the door shuts behind him and the nurse disappears, and he decides in that moment it's best for his sanity that she's dead to him.
Two black leather chairs adjacent to a black couch - one that's a slightly different shade which irritates Vergil - and in the corner is a simple white wooden side table, with a single box of tissues on top and a waste bin underneath. The walls are painted an off white colour, and the carpet in a shade of blue which makes Vergil cringe in disgust.
He takes a seat in one of the leather chairs, and it feels far too cold, even though the sturdy fabric of his clothing; and Vergil doesn't realise how sweaty his hands were until he touches the armrests and notes that leather seats shouldn’t feel sticky, and when he looks down he notices his hands are trembling.
Vergil doesn’t remember the last time he felt this nervous.
Sharpened eyes darted around the room, looking for something to find a distraction to the dread his mind was drowning in. The walls are blank, juxtaposed to the ones throughout the hallway that were buried under a sea of informational posters, laminated pamphlets of services provided by the hospital and warning signs of a local epidemic of the flu.
Then his eyes noticed the clock.
5:28 pm.
43 minutes after Vergil got the call to say his brother was dead.
Nausea tore his inside up, the sick feeling in his stomach was so intense he almost wished his body would allow him to throw up - maybe then they would send him home, they’ll do some other tests to confirm the identity and Vergil wouldn’t have to continue in this nightmare anymore. A nightmare where minutes felt like hours, the air felt too heavy and the bareness left him in a depressive spiral; in a room completely isolated from the rest of the universe, waiting to get called to look at his brother's corpse.
He would give up everything to be anywhere else.
Nothing in the silent, barren room helped distract Vergil from the prison of his thoughts; until once again, a voice pulled him out before they spiralled too far.
“Vergil.”
Hearing his name makes his heart sink completely into his chest, and the burning headache returns behind his temples. Vergil looks up to the person the voice belonged to: a man who looked to be in his 40’s with black hair and a black suit to match, with a pair of small wiry glasses that sat on his sharp nose who stood with great posture in front of the only door in the room Vergil had not been through.
“If you’re ready.” The mortician’s voice is quiet and almost monotone, but every syllable feels like an assault on Vergil, and he just wants to scream and run away. “Please follow me.”
Vergil follows the man in the black suit through the door into a room, and he suddenly feels faint.
The room is dark, in the centre a single light hangs low from the ceiling almost blinding Vergil from its strong illumination. Curtains wall off the rest of the room, there to prevent visitors from seeing the walls lined with mortuary fridges, and the autopsy table surrounded by absurd looking machines and a utility cart covered in equipment that would anyone stomach turn looking at next to a body - but the curtains are just too short for Vergil, and he can just see a desk with piles of folders and papers scattered all over it, with a computer on it with some data program open, and a cup of coffee sitting by itself, slowly getting cold.
The coffee reminds him of the glass of water left on the kitchen sink.
And when Vergil manages to drag his eyes to the centre of the room it feels as though his heart had suddenly shattered, his stomach violently turns and his throat burns, and Vergil is surprised he didn’t actually throw up or pass out.
The white sheet glowed under the light above, a topographic map of the body beneath it. The metal bench is completely obscured from view by the sheet which came up to the mortician’s waist and mid thigh to Vergil. It was like a stage production of Vergil’s worst nightmare, front in centre with a spotlight shining directly on it to keep his eyes locked in place, and Vergil is sure the scene will haunt the back of his eyelids every time he blinks.
“Just tell me when you’re ready.” The man says as he his hands grasp the white sheet on one side, but Vergil could barely hear him over his heart beating in his ears. Everything hurts. He feels dizzy. He feels nauseous. A migraine is drilling into his brain. His eyes are burning with tears. Everything hurts.
All Vergil could do was nod.
The man slowly lifts the sheet pulling across slowly, each inch felt like a mile and each second felt like an eternity.
White hair emerges, and for the first time Vergil wishes his family’s distinctive hair colour had not been passed down to them. Then appears closed eyes, then a nose, and finally a mouth; Vergil doesn't remember the last time he saw Dante without the corners of his mouth turned up into a goofy smile - but the sight of him without one is sickening. The man then folds the sheet neatly over Dante’s chest, and holds his hands together behind his back, observing Vergil carefully.
Vergil observes his twin lying with his eyes closed, looking almost like he’s asleep - as if he was about to sit up and reveal this whole ordeal was just a prank, they'll leave the hospital together and Dante will ask if they can go get pizza on their way home.
But Dante’s eyes never open, he never sits up and it’s not a prank.
The cruel hands of reality wrap themselves around Vergil’s neck; any words that dared try to escape were slain before they ever managed to reach his mouth. His mind runs completely blank. The reality of death - the only constant in this world - crashes hard and fast onto Vergil. He never had considered what would happen if one of them were to die - they were both far too young and too caught up in their childish sibling rivalry to care. But now Vergil wished he had taken 5 minutes to talk it over with Dante when they had the time. Maybe then Vergil would have been prepared somewhat for his brother’s premature death, and the concept of death wouldn’t have completely caved on him in a single moment, leaving him with the feeling of his lungs about to collapse into themselves.
If he thought the phone call was his world shattering beneath him, then no words can ever describe the overwhelming feeling of loss and anguish Vergil felt from finally seeing Dante for the last time - dead.
“That’s Dante.” Vergil’s voice wavers and the words are almost silent.
Immediately the mortician moves the sheet back over Dante, and instinctively Vergil almost screams at the man to stop and rush over to grab Dante’s cold, limp hand and cry into his chest.
But he doesn’t. Instead, Vergil swallows hard, accepting that’s the last time he’ll ever look at his brother's face again, as it disappears from view under the white sheet.
“Thank you for your help.” The man smiles, but Vergil can barely look. “I understand it must've been really challenging.
An understatement, Vergil thinks.
The man leads Vergil back through the waiting room, asking him to stay put for a few seconds before disappearing behind the door and Vergil hopes for his sanity that the man won't take too long.
When he reamerages, Vergil notices he is now holding a piece of paper and a business card. The mortician hands Vergil a pamphlet, its navy blue, with a white banner on top with words Vergil is in no mood to read. "Here's information for our bereavement support services." The man then hands Vergil a business card, white and matte, with basic contact information in a simple font in the middle, with glossy lines beaming outwards like sun rays. "And here's contact information for a therapist here who specialises in family grief."
The cardstock feels cold in Vergil's hands, the edges feel so sharp he thinks he could accidentally cut himself with it - and he instinctively wants to throw them both in the wastebasket and storm away, but he resists the urge as he doesn’t want to make a scene.
He decides instead to just throw it away in the first bin he passes when he leaves. Vergil knows he doesn’t need them, he was never one to reach out for support in the first place - instead, he’ll just isolate himself from everyone and hope to find something to fill the colossal hole left in his heart.
"If you need any help in this journey, don't hesitate to contact them. Please remember there is always help."
Vergil scoffs. "I don't need help-" He thinks to himself.
"I need Dante back."
And Vergil doesn’t realise he was crying until he gets back to his car - and he sees his once blue eyes now grey like the streaks down his cheeks.