Then she died, compressed underneath the six layers of concrete of the apartment. The white walls turned a pale, earthy colour from the dirt and grime, peeling ever so slightly at the edges. No sunlight penetrated the thick, prison-like windows. The apartment was a hollow shell: she lay upon a useless mattress with one sheet and pillow, near her was a single chair leaning against a tiny table, a piss-stained carpet from previous owners lay upon the floor, with a small kitchen stove with a barely passable fridge as her kitchen. Everything in one room. Everything smelled like ammonia. Bugs harvested the sink for scraps, and mice whispered in the walls. The only light was that of the flickering bathroom static, which pulsed against the emptiness and illuminated her body.

She wasn’t sure exactly when it had happened. Some time between ten and two. By all accounts, everything living within her was gone. Her heartbeat stopped, her breath dissipated. There was no rush of blood in her veins or squelching of saliva in her mouth. Her muscles didn’t ache, and yet, they weren’t relaxed. Acid bubbled at the back of her throat, as though her body was starting to eat itself. However, nothing hurt. That was the worst part about dying—it had left her with truly nothing. No pain, no joy. She had gone cold.

When she was able to peel herself off the bed, it pulled at her greying flesh like putty. The sound it made was sickening. Her body moved like a doll. The soft meat holding her bones together threatened to split apart. One quick movement and she would crumble to dust. In the bathroom, under the soft hum of the dying light, she was able to see what death looked like. Parts of her hair had fallen out. Her flesh peeled away from her face and hands. There was a hole in her right cheek, exposing her mouth tissue. Her jaw refused to close; instead, it hung agape. Each of her teeth was rotted and wiggling in her gums. She took the tip of her finger and gently rocked one of her front teeth. It squished against her gum before tumbling out of her mouth and clattering into the sink. Carefully, she placed it by her toothbrush. She licked the blood off her blue lips. Her eyes were bloodshot, sinking into her face as though they would fall right through to the back of her skull. Clinging to her ear was a small, pale creature, plump and full. Carefully, she pulled it off. The little worm wiggled about in her grip. Gently, she squeezed it, and it popped, leaking juices onto her fingers.

She drew a bath with the determination that her ailments could be cured. Rust lined the tub and turned the brownish water a cool, murky red. The steam filled the room, hiding her reflection from the mirror within. She hadn’t wanted to die. Not here. She was supposed to escape this. She was supposed to be something, even though she had no true goal, no true dream. If she could live again, she’d find one. There perhaps was a dream inside of her, one that she had killed as a young girl. The bath could not cure her death. It would only make the room stink of rotted flesh and kill the remaining maggots.

A knock broke the immovable silence. At first, she wondered if she had imagined it. She stood completely still. The knock sounded again. It was so loud that the bath water seemed to ripple.

“Hello?” a deep voice called. “I’m here to fix the plumbing.”

“Just a minute,” she said, turning off the faucet and pulling a robe around her.

The stranger in the doorway was beautiful, dressed in blue overalls and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms were exposed, revealing muscular and tender flesh covered in veins which bulged out of his skin. He was young; age had not started to wear his features. His eyes, though shaded slightly by a baseball cap, were still full of life. He was taller than she expected. Lean, with not too much meat on his bones. Perhaps he was a runner. His hands were long and thin—in another life, he must have been an acclaimed piano player. In this life, they were rough—calloused and covered in scratches which had healed and scarred. She watched his chest rise and fall as he breathed. The shirt, clearly too small for him, clung to his body. For a moment, she thought she heard his heart beating. Wet and steady. She could picture the blood in his veins. The way it rushed and moved over the scars, through the tissue of his arms, landing in his cheeks and turning them flush. He smelled alive. With that scent, she realized how much she truly missed it—the feeling in her lungs as she breathed: hunger, fear, joy. She craved life. She craved him.

“Please,” she smiled. “Come in.”

Under his breath, he commented about the state of the apartment. She didn’t care. How could she when it was he who said it? Her beautiful stranger. She brought him a towel to soak up some of the water, then watched him with intensity as he knelt down to fix the pipe under the sink. She stood at the other end of the kitchen, watching him.

“So.” She traced the rim of a dirty glass cup that sat on the side of the sink. “How long have you been doing this for?”

He hesitated. As though he was scared to speak.

“Just a few months,” he grunted. “On my own, that is.”

“And you like it?”

“Yeah.”

His head disappeared under the sink, but she could see his muscles tensing and moving as he worked. His breathing grew more rapid. He moved with grace and strength, like a workhorse ploughing a field. Sweat started to build on his body. It stained his shirt under his armpits. The tangy scent of his sweat counteracted the other smells in the apartment; those were markings of decay, rot and death. His smell marked a body that had been lived in. She thought that one could get drunk off that smell, the same way one can get drunk off joy or pain. She realized then how much she truly missed it, living in a body like his. Her own was rotting, she could feel it. Here he was, the perfect specimen of life. Young, active, relatively well kept. She was empty.

The apartment moved around her, swaying back and forth. Quickly, she shut her eyes. His voice spoke, but she couldn’t hear what he said. She opened her eyes, and the world was on its side. Somehow, she had knocked the cup over. Glass shards spilled over the floor. Some were in neat, tiny pieces that shone against the tile, others in chunks like cement. His voice came again, more frantic, but the words were jumbled. He was kneeling next to her, his jaw clenched. That’s where he held his stress. She could see his muscles were so tight along his face. His heartbeat was equally frantic. With one hand, she gripped one of the glass shards, pressing it firmly into her palm. It cut into her plastic-wrap skin. If she were alive, it probably would have been excruciating. She raised her other hand and stroked the side of his cheek. The glass in her hand struck. She moved faster than he could.

Even his pain was so beautiful.

***

Life came back to her with a gentle hand. She savoured every breath, listened carefully to the steady pounding of her heart. She couldn’t help but smile to herself. Her humming echoed off the tile. Her tongue occasionally flicked the tooth she had placed back in her gum, and she could feel it firm in place. In the warm light of the bathroom, she painted her nails black. She thought that she should ask her landlord if she could paint the room white—it seemed too drab in the daylight. Her long, flowing hair was tied up in a bun, as a clay face mask slowly hardened. Blood clung tightly to her cuticles. She opted to just cover it under nail polish. After she finished, she washed the clay from her face with a hot towel, carefully dabbing all the spots of mud away. What was revealed was pure beauty. She glowed like she was pregnant. Her smile sparkled, her eyes shone, and her cheeks were rosy. Not a hint of blue bags remained under her eyes. Her skin was smoother and softer; not a crack in it. For the first time in a long time, she felt truly stunning.

The apartment glowed along with her. The daylight lay along the floor like a cat. The dirt, rats and bugs were chased away by it. From her window, she heard music pouring in from the street, a sound that had once annoyed her. Now, she swayed back and forth, entranced by the noises below. The city stretched out before her, giving itself to her with open arms. She had conquered death and came back. Not only whole, but ethereal.