Forever yours

 1.Forever Yours:

J/3-2025

Down in the piss-cold guts of St. Lydia Hospital’s morgue, where the air’s so thick with misery it chokes you, a widow drowning in her own damn grief trudged alongside Dr. Shermer to ID her dead bastard of a husband. The place stank of despair, the walls practically bleeding with the echoes of every sorry fuck who’d croaked there. Valentine’s Day, that Hallmark horseshit for sappy love, was a sick joke here—a slap in the face with love’s rotting flip side. This morgue had seen it all: love-sick losers offing themselves, passion-twisted freaks carving up their sweethearts death’s own fucked-up romance novel.

They hit the steel slab room, lights harsh as a prison spotlight, shadows clawing the floor like demons. The widow’s scream ripped through the silence, a banshee wails that damn near shattered the walls, her nose twitching at the ghost of her man’s cheap-ass cologne. Meanwhile, Dr. Shermer stumbled into the coroner’s office and found a shitstorm Dr. Strode, face-down in a puddle of his own blood, scalp split like a melon, a gore-slick scalpel next to a note that read, “there was no heart.” Fuckin’ poetic, right?

All hell broke loose security swarmed in, turning the morgue into a crime scene straight outta some B-rate slasher flick. The widow, half-mad with sorrow and puking her guts out, yanked the sheet off her husband’s corpse. There it was: a cryptic-ass number scrawled on his foot 515025648675309 like some psycho’s tattoo. She snapped a pic, gagging as the Y-incision on his chest burned into her brain, a butcher’s love letter in flesh.

Back home, her kid Leslie was clutching a FedEx box, that same damn number plastered on it, with “forever yours” scratched in some gothic bullshit font that’d make a vampire hard. Inside? A note from Daddy Dearest: “This is for both of you, as I promised, my heart will be forever with you.” Next to it, a plastic bag sloshing with his fucking heart, pickled in clear goo love or lunacy, take your pick, ‘cause it’s a coin toss in this nightmare.

The news was all over it coroner’s suicide, his last scribble claiming he’d “seen true love.” Yeah, real touching, asshole. The widow and her girl were left staring at that box, a fucked-up shrine to their shredded lives.

Days crawled by, and the widow still a goddamn wreck got a letter that screamed trouble. Postmarked from who-the-fuck-knows, wax-sealed like some medieval psycho’s wet dream, and yep, that same number stamped on it. Inside, on yellowed paper with smudged ink—like it was written while the bastard was shaking or bleeding out—read this:

“Dear Sarai,

You’ve only peeked at the love that bitch-slaps death in the face. That heart you’re clutching ain’t just some mushy symbol it’s the key to a secret I’ve been choking on. Quite staring at the obvious, the truth’s buried in the numbers and letters. Crack the code, and you’ll get why I checked out like this. Love’s eternal, sure, but so’s the fucked-up shit we hide for the ones we’d die for.

Forever yours,”

No signature, just that gut-punch promise hanging there like a nose. The widow’s world tilted hard love, death, and a puzzle carved in blood. This ain’t no fairy tale; it’s a meat grinder of devotion, and the gears are still spinning.