The Funeral
Father Mitchell had performed 2,847 funerals. None of them prepared him for autolysis.
St. Michael’s Church, Tuesday, 2:00 PM.
The funeral of Dr. Harold Pemberton, Professor Emeritus of Molecular Biology.
Father Thomas Mitchell has performed 2,847 funerals in his thirty-one years of ministry. He has guided grieving families through tragedy, offered words of comfort in the darkest moments, and stood as a bridge between the mortal and the divine.
Bill Morrison is in the third pew. He is wearing his only suit, which he has not worn since his PhD defense.
He did not expect to be asked to speak.
Father Mitchell did not expect what was about to happen.
No one did.
Thirty Minutes Earlier - The Parking Lot
Dr. Pemberton’s widow, Eleanor, had found Bill outside the church.
“William,” she said, her eyes red, her voice trembling. “Harold always spoke so highly of you. He said you were the most… thorough student he ever had.”
“That’s statistically probable. I submitted a 47-page appendix with my dissertation. Most students submit three to five pages.”
“He mentioned that.” Eleanor attempted a watery smile. “William, I know this is last minute, but Father Mitchell said there’s time for one more person to share some words. Would you… would you say something about Harold? Something personal?”
Bill considered this.
“I’m not skilled at ‘personal.’ I could provide an accurate assessment of his contributions to the field of protein folding dynamics.”
“That would be lovely, dear.”
“I should warn you that accuracy and loveliness don’t always correlate.”
“I’m sure whatever you say will be perfect.”
She squeezed his arm and walked into the church.
Bill stood in the parking lot, suddenly aware that he had agreed to speak publicly about a dead man to a room full of grieving people. Eleanor had asked for something personal, and he had decided the most personal tribute he could offer was an accurate one, the kind Dr. Pemberton had spent his life earning.
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Pre-Funeral Status
Location - The eternal intersection of faith and flesh. Current status: CONFIDENT.
FAITH CENTER - “Another funeral. Another opportunity to shepherd souls through grief. We’ve done this 2,847 times. We are GOOD at this.”
COMPASSION LOBE - “The widow is in the front row. Eleanor. Married to Harold for 49 years. She’ll need extra attention during the committal.”
SERMON PREPARATION ZONE - “Remarks are ready. ‘Harold has gone to his eternal reward.’ ‘He rests now in the arms of the Lord.’ Standard comfort package. Reliable. Tested.”
FAITH CENTER - “Eleanor mentioned she asked a former student to say a few words. Some scientist, Bill something. Shouldn’t be more than three minutes.”
COMPASSION LOBE - “Scientists at funerals can be awkward. Remember the chemist at Mrs. Patterson’s service who kept mentioning ‘oxidation’?”
FAITH CENTER - “That was uncomfortable, but brief. This will be fine.”
HOLY SPIRIT RECEPTOR - “I’m picking up something. A strange frequency. Almost like… a warning?”
FAITH CENTER - “Pre-service jitters. Focus on the liturgy.”
The Service - 2:47 PM
Father Mitchell stands at the pulpit. The service has been beautiful so far. The hymns were sung with feeling. His homily on eternal life landed well. He saw Eleanor nodding, tears streaming, but peaceful tears.
This is what he trained for. This is what he does.
“And now,” Father Mitchell says warmly, “Dr. Pemberton’s former student, Dr. William Morrison, would like to share a few words.”
A man rises from the third pew.
Father Mitchell’s first thought is that the man moves strangely. Rigid and mechanical, like someone who learned human locomotion from a textbook and never quite mastered the practical application.
His second thought is that the man’s suit doesn’t fit properly.
His third thought, which will stay with him for the rest of his life, comes approximately ninety seconds later.
Bill - Opening Remarks
Bill reaches the pulpit. Two hundred faces look up at him. He doesn’t make eye contact with any of them. Eye contact is distracting.
Bill - Dr. Harold Pemberton was my doctoral advisor from 2012 to 2017. In that time, I observed him to be consistent, methodical, and biologically robust for a man of his age.
Eleanor’s smile flickers. “Biologically robust” is not how one typically describes a beloved mentor.
Her daughter, Meers, leans over. “Mom, who is this?”
“Bill Morrison. Your father’s favorite student.”
“He seems… odd.”
“Your father always said he was ‘unique.’”
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Initial Readings
COMPASSION LOBE - “’Biologically robust.’ That’s an unusual opening, clinical.”
FAITH CENTER - “Academics. Different communication style. He’s probably nervous. He’ll warm up.”
LITURGICAL PROTOCOL UNIT: “Good projection, at least. Clear voice.”
HOLY SPIRIT RECEPTOR: “The warning signal is getting stronger.”
FAITH CENTER: “Ignore it. Let the man speak.”
Bill - He died of cardiac arrest eleven days ago.
The Congregation - Growing Unease
Several people shift in their pews. The past tense feels abrupt and harsh.
Dr. Margaret Reeves from the biology department whispers to her colleague: “Is he going to explain HOW Harold died?”
“Surely not. That would be…”
Bill - For those unfamiliar with the process, cardiac arrest occurs when the heart’s electrical system malfunctions, causing an irregular heartbeat that disrupts blood flow to the brain.
“Oh God. He is.”
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Alarm
COMPASSION LOBE - “He’s… he’s explaining the mechanism of death. To the widow, who was there when it happened.”
FAITH CENTER - “This is unusual, very unusual, but perhaps he’s building to something. Context before comfort.”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER - “What kind of comfort begins with ‘irregular heartbeat’?”
HOLY SPIRIT RECEPTOR - “I TOLD you something felt off.”
Bill - Without intervention, consciousness is lost within 10 to 20 seconds, and biological death follows within 4 to 6 minutes as neurons begin dying from oxygen deprivation.
Eleanor Pemberton - Front Row
The blood drains from Eleanor’s face.
She was there, she was holding Harold’s hand when it happened. She watched his eyes go distant. She counted the seconds while waiting for the ambulance.
She did not need a timeline.
She did not need to know about neurons dying.
She knew. She KNEW.
Meera grabs her mother’s hand. “Mom. Mom, are you okay?”
Eleanor can’t speak. She’s back in the living room. She’s watching Harold collapse. She’s counting. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. The neurons dying.
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Alarm Phase Two
COMPASSION LOBE - “Eleanor. Look at Eleanor. She’s reliving it. He’s making her RELIVE it.”
FAITH CENTER - “This can’t continue. We need to -”
LITURGICAL PROTOCOL UNIT - “We can’t interrupt. There are protocols. Decorum. We’ve never interrupted a eulogy in 2,847 funerals.”
FAITH CENTER - “Give him one more sentence. ONE more. Then we reassess.”
Bill - But I’m not here to discuss the mechanism of his death. I’m here to discuss his life.
FAITH CENTER - “See? He’s pivoting. He’s moving to the life. This is better.”
HOLY SPIRIT RECEPTOR: “The signal is still wrong. Something bad is still coming.”
Bill - Specifically, his contributions to our understanding of protein folding dynamics, which will endure long after his body has completed the decomposition process.
Two hundred people inhale simultaneously.
The word hangs in the air like a grenade with the pin pulled.
Decomposition.
At a funeral.
In a church.
With the casket ten feet away.
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Red Alert
FAITH CENTER - “He said DECOMPOSITION. He said DECOMPOSITION at a FUNERAL.”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER - “In thirty-one years of ministry, no one has ever said ‘decomposition process’ during a eulogy. I don’t have a FRAMEWORK for this.”
PATIENCE RESERVES - “Down to 40% and dropping.”
ANGER MANAGEMENT SECTOR - “Let me handle this. I have solutions.”
FAITH CENTER - “What solutions?”
ANGER MANAGEMENT SECTOR - “Physical ones.”
FAITH CENTER - “We can’t ASSAULT a eulogist!”
ANGER MANAGEMENT SECTOR - “Can’t we? CAN’T WE THOUGH?”
Dr. James Whitfield - Fifth Row
Dr. Whitfield, chair of the biology department, watches Bill Morrison standing at the pulpit, apparently unaware that he has just dropped the word “decomposition” into a room full of grieving people like a biological bomb.
“Jesus Christ,” Whitfield whispers.
His wife elbows him. “Don’t blaspheme. We’re in a church.”
“I think blasphemy is the least of our problems right now.”
Bill - “His body is currently in the casket behind me.”
Every person in the church becomes acutely aware of the casket.
They had, through the gentle ritual of the service, managed to abstract it. To see it as a symbol rather than a container. To focus on Harold’s soul rather than Harold’s remains.
Bill Morrison has just reminded them that there is a BODY in that box.
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Critical Failure
FAITH CENTER - “THE BODY. He’s talking about THE BODY.”
COMPASSION LOBE - “He POINTED at the casket. He GESTURED toward it.”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER - “The entire point of funeral liturgy is to draw attention AWAY from the physical remains and toward the eternal soul. He is doing the OPPOSITE. He is doing the OPPOSITE OF MINISTRY.”
HOLY SPIRIT RECEPTOR - “I think the Holy Spirit has formally abandoned this building. I’m getting nothing. Complete void.”
PATIENCE RESERVES: “25%. Below safe operating levels.”
Bill - For those curious about the timeline, decomposition begins within minutes of death, when cells begin autolysis, essentially, self-digestion.
Eleanor makes a sound.
It’s not quite a sob. It’s not quite a gasp. It’s something in between. The sound of a woman who has just been told that her husband of 49 years is self-digesting.
Meera wraps her arm around her mother. “Don’t listen. Mom, don’t listen.”
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Spiritual Emergency
FAITH CENTER - “Self-digestion. SELF-DIGESTION. He’s telling a widow that her husband is DIGESTING HIMSELF.”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER - “I studied for seven years. Augustine. Aquinas. The Catechism. The complete works of Chrysostom. NONE OF THIS PREPARED ME FOR AUTOLYSIS.”
FAITH CENTER - “Lord, forgive what I’m about to do.”
Dr. Patricia Langley - Sixth Row
Dr. Langley, a microbiologist, knows exactly where this is going.
“Oh no,” she whispers to her husband.
“What?”
“He’s going to mention the gut bacteria. I KNOW he’s going to mention the gut bacteria.”
Bill - Within 24 to 72 hours, bacteria from the gut, primarily Clostridia and Coliforms, begin migrating through the body.
Dr. Langley closes her eyes. “There it is.”
The Congregation - Peak Horror
The seventh-row woman is now openly gagging.
A man in the back stands up, apparently unable to remain seated.
Several people are crying, though it’s no longer clear if it’s grief for Harold or trauma from the eulogy.
Eleanor has stopped shaking. She’s very still now. The stillness of someone who has dissociated from reality.
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Complete System Failure
COMPASSION LOBE - “I’m shutting down. I can’t process this. There’s no compassionate response to BACTERIAL MIGRATION.”
PATIENCE RESERVES - “5%. CRITICAL.”
ANGER MANAGEMENT SECTOR - “INTERVENE. NOW.”
FAITH CENTER - “Lord, give me strength.”
Bill - Dr. Pemberton, as a biologist, would have appreciated this irony. The microbiome he spent his career studying is now, in a very real sense, consuming him from within.
Meera Pemberton - Fury
Meera’s grief has transformed into something else entirely.
“He’s saying Dad is being EATEN,” she hisses. “He’s telling Mom that Dad is being EATEN BY BACTERIA.”
“Shh,” Eleanor whispers, but there’s no strength in it.
“I’m going to kill him. After this, I’m going to actually kill him. The church has a garden out back. I’ll bury him there. Let HIS microbiome consume HIM.”
Father Mitchell - Intervention
Father Mitchell moves.
He doesn’t remember deciding. His body acts on thirty-one years of pastoral instinct, overriding protocol, overriding decorum, overriding everything except the desperate need to MAKE IT STOP.
He appears at Bill’s elbow like a manifestation of divine intervention.
“THANK YOU, DR. MORRISON.”
His voice is too loud. Several parishioners flinch. The woman in the seventh row jumps.
“Thank you for those… illuminating words.” Every syllable costs him something. “I’m sure Dr. Pemberton would have appreciated the, ah, scientific perspective.”
Bill turns to him, his face showing nothing but polite confusion.
“I wasn’t finished. I hadn’t discussed putrefaction or the role of cadaveric fauna…”
FAITH CENTER - “CADAVERIC FAUNA.”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER - “What in the name of all that is holy is CADAVERIC FAUNA?”
COMPASSION LOBE - “I don’t know and I don’t WANT to know.”
PATIENCE RESERVES - “0%. Take whatever you need from other systems.”
“We’ll save that for another time.” Father Mitchell’s grip on Bill’s arm is firm. Perhaps too firm. This is not a pastoral grip. This is a ‘you are leaving this pulpit NOW’ grip. “Let us now turn to hymn 347.”
He steers Bill away from the microphone.
The organist, bless her heart, begins playing immediately. Twenty years of service. She knows when to provide cover.
Bill looks confused as he’s guided back to the third pew, but he doesn’t resist.
Father Mitchell returns to the pulpit. His hands are shaking. The congregation stares at him with expressions ranging from horror to gratitude to something that looks like shellshock.
Eleanor is weeping silently, her daughter’s arms around her.
The casket sits there, as it has throughout, now impossible to look at without thinking about what’s happening inside it.
“Let us sing,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly.
They sing.
It’s the most desperate rendition of “Amazing Grace” St. Michael’s has ever heard.
The Reception - Church Basement - One Hour Later
Bill stands by the vegetable tray, eating celery.
He’s noticed that people have been avoiding him. Several attendees have made eye contact, then quickly looked away. Two colleagues from the biology department walked in his direction, saw him, and immediately reversed course toward the coffee station.
He doesn’t understand why.
His speech was informative. It was accurate. It was, in its own way, a tribute to Dr. Pemberton’s life’s work. Who better to be consumed by the microbiome than a man who devoted his career to studying it?
Dr. Whitfield approaches Dr. Okonkwo by the coffee station.
“Did you hear Bill Morrison’s eulogy?”
“I heard it. I’m going to hear it in my nightmares for the next decade.”
“He calculated the dollar value of vending machine snacks Harold gave him.”
“Adjusted for inflation.”
“And then he described the gut microbiome eating Harold’s body.”
“While Harold’s widow was in the front row.”
They stand in silence for a moment.
“Should we… say something to him?” Dr. Whitfield asks.
“Say what? ‘Bill, you can’t describe decomposition at a funeral’? He won’t understand why.”
“No. He won’t.”
“He’s by the vegetable tray. He’s been there for twenty minutes.”
“Alone?”
“Of course alone. Would YOU stand next to the man who just lectured a grieving congregation about Clostridia?”
“Good point.”
They both look at Bill, who is examining a piece of broccoli with what appears to be scientific interest.
“Harold really did love him, you know,” Dr. Okonkwo says.
“I know. Harold once told me that Bill reminded him of himself. ‘Before I learned to pretend to be normal,’ he said.”
“You think Bill will ever learn to pretend?”
Dr. Whitfield watches as Bill apparently decides the broccoli meets his nutritional criteria and eats it.
“No,” he says. “No, I don’t think he will.”
Meera approaches her mother with a cup of tea.
“Mom. You should sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. That man just told you Dad is being eaten by bacteria.”
“He’s not wrong.” Eleanor’s voice is hollow. “That IS what’s happening.”
“That’s not the POINT, Mom.”
“I know it’s not.” Eleanor looks across the room at Bill, standing alone by the vegetable tray. “Harold always said Bill was special. ‘He sees the world differently,’ he’d say. ‘He can’t help it.’”
“That doesn’t excuse…”
“No. It doesn’t.” Eleanor takes the tea. “But I don’t think he meant to hurt me. I don’t think he CAN mean to hurt anyone. He just… doesn’t understand.”
“Doesn’t understand what?”
Eleanor watches Bill eat celery with mechanical precision, alone, apparently oblivious to the devastation he’s caused.
“Any of it,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t understand any of it.”
The Church - Upstairs
Father Mitchell kneels in the empty church, before the altar, in the silence that follows catastrophe.
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Damage Assessment
FAITH CENTER - “We survived. Technically, we survived.”
COMPASSION LOBE - “Eleanor’s face. I keep seeing Eleanor’s face when he said ‘consuming from within.’”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER -“I have performed 2,847 funerals. I have buried children. I have buried murder victims. And yet that - THAT - was somehow the worst thing I have ever witnessed in this church.”
ANGER MANAGEMENT SECTOR -“I want it noted that I wanted to physically remove that man from the building. I still want to.”
FAITH CENTER - “Noted. But we don’t act on those impulses. We’re servants of God.”
ANGER MANAGEMENT SECTOR -“Even God’s servants have limits.”
FAITH CENTER - “Yes. And today, we found ours.”
COMPASSION LOBE - “He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t know. You saw his face - complete confusion. He genuinely thought he was helping.”
FAITH CENTER - “I know. And that makes it worse somehow. He destroyed Eleanor’s peace, and he didn’t even understand he was doing it.”
“Forgive me for my anger,” Father Mitchell whispers. “Forgive me for the violence in my heart. Forgive me for wanting to silence him instead of understanding him.”
He pauses.
“And Lord… forgive him too. Whatever is broken in him that makes him see decomposition timelines instead of grief, bacterial colonies instead of bereavement… heal it. Help him.”
Another pause.
“And if you can’t heal it… at least keep him away from funerals.”
COMPASSION LOBE - “We stopped him before cadaveric fauna.”
FAITH CENTER - “Small mercies.”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER - “We still don’t know what cadaveric fauna IS.”
FAITH CENTER - “And we’re going to keep it that way.”
Father Mitchell crosses himself. He rises, knees protesting, and looks around the empty church.
The flowers are still arranged beautifully. The candles still flicker. The stained glass still casts colored light across the pews.
It’s still sacred space.
Even after decomposition timelines and gut bacteria and the phrase “consuming him from within,” it’s still sacred space.
That has to count for something.
Father Mitchell’s Office - Later
He sits at his desk with a glass of communion wine.
This is not standard practice. Father Mitchell is not a drinking man.
But today was not a standard day.
He thinks about Dr. William Morrison. About the rigid posture and the mechanical speech and the complete absence of awareness that he was causing harm.
He thinks about Eleanor’s face.
He thinks about the word “Clostridia” and how he will never, ever be able to unhear it.
Father Mitchell’s Soul - Final Thoughts
FAITH CENTER - “What do we do with today? How do we file this?”
THEOLOGICAL REASONING CENTER - “Under ‘Trials of Faith.’ Subsection: ‘Unprecedented.’”
COMPASSION LOBE - “We need to call Eleanor tomorrow. Check on her.”
HOLY SPIRIT RECEPTOR - “I’m stabilizing. The connection is back. Weak, but present.”
FAITH CENTER - “Good. We’re going to need it.”
Father Mitchell finishes his wine.
Tomorrow, he’ll call Eleanor. He’ll check on the congregation. He’ll review the liturgy for Sunday’s service and make sure everything is normal and predictable and blessedly free of biological terminology.
Tonight, he just sits.
In thirty-one years, he’s learned that some days cannot be processed immediately. Some days need to settle like sediment in water, slowly sinking to the bottom where they can be examined without stirring up the whole system.
Today is one of those days.
He turns off his desk lamp.
“Lord,” he says quietly into the darkness, “if it’s not too much to ask… never again. Never again.”
He pauses.
“And please look after that strange man. Whatever he is, wherever he is, he’s going to need all the help he can get.”
The Vegetable Tray - Same Moment
Bill Morrison stands alone in the emptying church basement, eating his third piece of celery.
The reception is winding down. People are leaving without saying goodbye to him. Eleanor was helped to her car by her daughter, who shot Bill a look he couldn’t interpret.
He doesn’t understand why everyone seemed upset.
His speech was informative.
His speech was accurate.
His speech was, objectively, a more thorough tribute to Dr. Pemberton’s legacy than any of the vague platitudes about “eternal rest” and “better places.”
Dr. Pemberton was a scientist.
He would have appreciated the science.
Wouldn’t he?
Bill finishes his celery and looks around the empty room.
For a moment, just a moment, something flickers across his face. Something that might be doubt. Something that might be loneliness. Something that might be the first faint stirring of awareness that he has, once again, done something wrong without understanding what.
But the moment passes.
And Bill Morrison walks out of the church, alone, into the afternoon light, already calculating the most efficient route home
If you found this story interesting and wish to support me, I would prefer glucose to coffee.
Caffeine has a half-life of roughly five hours and interferes with my sleep architecture. Glucose does not. One supports the work. The other keeps me awake thinking about it.
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“That’s statistically probable. I submitted a 47-page appendix with my dissertation. Most students submit three to five pages.”
The record will reflect he provided adequate warning of what was to come.
Brilliant commentary on neurodivergence, and hysterical as well. 😆