Nadia
Formalin and blood.
Scents I was already used to after spending so many hours in the morgue.
In front of me lay the body of a young man on the metal table. The sound the scalpel in my hand made as it cut through his skin resembled paper being torn. The incision ran from his chest down to his abdomen.
Although the cause of death was suicide, a full autopsy was mandatory to rule out any margin of error. And that’s where I came in—to make sure nothing went unnoticed.
"How was your weekend, Nadia?" My boss asked, approaching me, looking for small talk.
"Busy. I traveled," I replied, without taking my eyes off the cut I was opening in the body. "I went to New Orleans."
"Really?" He rested his hands on the edge of the counter, as if we were at a bar table and not sharing space with
