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The Totally Unreal Diary of a Fairy Mortician

Summary: Lucas Wahl cannot sleep, helps people, and has problems separating work and life.

...Also, he's immortal.

*******FOREVER*******

Dear Diary,

hi.

...

...

Um. I don't know how to say it, so, just, don't write me off as a loon right away, 'kay? Ha, you got that, 'write me off'! That was a pun.

My name is Lucas. Lucas Wahl. I'm an assistant medical examiner in New York City. It's a neat job, and keeps me out of the street – by day.

'Cause at night I turn into a tiny creature with wings and a silly wand and a bag that fits into my arms but so much larger on the inside, and I flit around, la-la-la, collecting people's teeth.

I know, right? Teeth. What a nutcase.

But it's not my fault, I've just...always been like this. A tooth fairy. I'm not a creep, I only take unattached ones. (Well, there was that one time, but the owner was choking to death, and nobody noticed, so. It was all right?)

It's a hard task here in New York. Much easier in a village – I was a dentist once, it was hilarious – or on a ship out in the sea. Especially now that scurvy is a rare exception. Workload aside, you can't escape getting to know the people if you sail together for months or years.

And...yeah. I'm old enough to have seen my share of it. Long story. At least I don't look my age.

Hey, gotta run. Bye.

*******FOREVER*******

Dear Diary,

today has been AWFUL. Got any gothic script? No? You sure you're a construct of my imagination? Okay, nevermind.

I like working with dead bodies. Some guys can't stand to be near decomposing flesh, but I guess seeing a thousand cavities up close and personal gives one a thick skin. I'm okay with it. After all, bodies are teeth's homes, it stands to reason some are abusive, some are loving, and some pretty much slams.

Someday, I'll create a short film about what it means to live there (a true horror, multiple POVs, special effects). So here's what happened.

'Mr. Wahl?'

Oops. That was my new boss.

'Sorry, Doc, what were you saying?'

Boss ain't a real doctor, he's a medical examiner, but he's practised medicine before, and 'Doc' has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Anyway, cool guy, and an honest-to-God Brit. Fashion sense, accent, everything. Met him last Monday, got the impression he didn't notice I'm cool, too, but meh. Needs some weathering down.

'Your findings are very precise,' Doc said politely, looking down at my write-up for Mrs. Mary Grunning. Aww. 'I commend your attention to detail, although I should notice that since the deceased died of a heart attack, your final report didn't have to contain an overview of her chewing difficulties.'

And man, who but Mr. Washington washi-ed up and shared with Doc what he thought of me. Not only that (experience shows I can live with him disapproving my every minty breath), but he made it sound like the whole department only tolerated me because I had no other way to pay off my college debt. And I stood there and took it like a man. (No pictures, but it totally happened.)

Stupid busybody. Stupid college debt. I can want to be an ME! I know I used to.

Screw it, better go stain that liver samples again, they were clearly mislabeled last time.

Bye.

*******FOREVER*******

Really? I have an imaginary chronicle gathering dust in a corner of my mind, and I lose it for a year? How does it even work?

I mean, hi, Dear Diary, I promise I will do a better job of keeping you from now on. Sanity is overrated, anyway. And horror films are underrated. Gotta keep up the balance.

*******FOREVER*******

Dear Diary,

ibuprofen ibuprofen ibuprofen water – whew.

Everything hurts. Got a cold. Ever tried flying ill? Well, don't. And the finds tonight were simply indescribable. Breathe out, Lucas, it's over. It's over.

I think there's been a murder. I mean, when there's a whole lower mandible on the ground, freshly removed, and no other body parts beside it, murder ain't stretching imagination, it's constricting it. I would say a man, Caucasian, middle-aged, smoker, caffeine addict; his last meal was probably pizza and beer. Sad. And scary. But that's New York, baby. The tool used to remove the bone was sharp, but it was hacked out like, I dunno, a piece of rock. I left it where it was (and it might be gone by now) and tipped the police.

Had to employ my physics just to dial! Talk about dancing on a shoestring. At least I can be sure the officers won't be able to trace me. Hope they are doing something about it. Ugh, tired.

Will call in sick today. Let old Washie run the tests, if he still remembers what 'DNA' stands for.

Bye.

*******FOREVER*******

Dear Diary,

I am baaack! Hooray! Back and feeling like a perp – three pearls from little girls, ya know. Almost got splashed across a windshield, what with eyes squeezed shut to keep myself from peeking. And navigating by Fairy Sense is ! #$, it's good only for teeth-seeking.

Back at my day job, nobody mentioned a Mysterious Mandible. Figures. Should have gone for it myself, but then I would get fired for sure, Washie's no fun like that. At least the day was quiet, aside from Doc being suspected of killing a subway conductor (what?) and Detective Martinez coming down to our place (squee). Can I use dismemberment in my next creation, or would it be a Glaringly Obvious Evidence of my Involvement?

I wonder if Doc did that guy in. He never talks about stuff. Maybe he's a brownie, like, the real deal, one who calls the firemen, sorts mail, and destroys all fungal growth in the bathroom? If brownies exist, I mean. Ha! In your dreams, Wahl. Although it would still be great to be pals with someone living (no offence). Doesn't have to be supernatural. Anyway, gotta close up the incision, so bye.