The Beautiful Dead (4 page)

“Do you like
poetry?” I ask him.

His face
narrows for one perplexed moment. “I do.”

And with that,
I agree to let him escort me to my quarter, which I learn is the first, west
end. We carry on with small talk where I make quite sure not to ask too many
questions regarding my New Life. I don’t want to talk about those things …
Worrisome thoughts about what’s different, what’s lost, what’s never to be
again. Instead, I want to feel normal for a while. I want to forget where I am,
and assume that I’m on a very long vacation and have run into a nice,
attractive man with which I’m enjoying a simple conversation.

It helps.

When we walk
past a restaurant, I have to stop and laugh. A restaurant, when we don’t eat
and have no need for food. I ask to go inside, curiosity taking the better of
me, and we seat ourselves at a table in the back. Idly wondering why anyone
eats or drinks, I come to the conclusion that everything in this world is
indulgent. People drink not from thirst or necessity—they do it just because
they can. Same with eating. They pretend, like they’re replaying their lives. I
wonder if they miss the people they used to be … If they even remember them.

Finally we
make it back to the cul-de-sac. There’s my little squeaky house, just as I’d
left it. I have no idea how long I was out and it doesn’t matter. Time has no
relevance anymore.

I wonder if it
ever did, even when I was alive.

Grimsky has a
curious reaction. “
This
is your house?” When I nod, he bursts out
laughing, then says, “So
you’re
my new neighbor??”

I blink. “New
neighbor?”

“That’s my
house,” he says, pointing. “Right there.”

I stare at the
house right next to mine. I’ve not been very observant, clearly. Until now, I
hadn’t a moment to notice that, of all people, it was my cliff-savior friend who
lived just next door.

“What are the
chances,” I say, genuinely surprised. “On that first day when you brought me
back, we parted ways before reaching my house. Otherwise we would’ve learned we
were neighbors sooner.”

“Better now
than never. I wouldn’t have made a good neighbor if I let you sit in that house
for all eternity.”

I smirk at
him. “Either this is a pretty remarkable coincidence, or you’re a not-so-subtle
stalker.”

“Yeah, that’s
it. I moved in next door so I could make sure you don’t run off to the cliff
again.” He laughs. I try not to, hiding my face. “So tell me, did you enjoy
your tour of Trenton today? I would’ve taken you earlier, but you seemed a
little ... ah ...”

“I’m still
adjusting,” I explain, excusing him from having to describe my clearly sulky
and despondent nature. “The people are … interesting. Though I haven’t much
else to compare it to, come to think of it.”

“There’s
plenty to compare it to,” he says. “There’s a lot more out there you haven’t
yet seen, Winter. Places left behind by humankind. I can’t wait to show it to
you someday. The world’s changed since we were alive—whenever that was.”

I sit in the
rocking chair on my porch, which creaks under my weight. “So what happened …?
Did the zombie apocalypse come and go and the zombies won?”

“There are
nice things out there, and some not-so-nice.” He grimaces. “I’ve only heard
about a few things myself, the Deathless for one, but don’t know much about
anything. As far as I understand, we’re safe here to live long and happy
lives.”

“Seems like a
big waste of time, doesn’t it?”

“Wasn’t Life?”
He leans on the porch railing. “Not that either of us know yet. I still haven’t
had my Waking Dream. I don’t know what my life was like at all ...”

“Me neither.”
I pick at something on my hand. An entire fingernail comes off. “Oh, crap.”

“It’s okay.
That’s what we have the Refinery for. Upkeep. This guy down the street, his
toes keep falling off. He makes a trip to the Refinery once a week, not that
I’m keeping track.”

“That’s ...
awful.”

“Be thankful
you were Raised with all your body intact. I hear some needed arms and legs
when they were Raised … Can you imagine??”

“I’d rather
not.”

Grimsky
smiles, looks away. “I guess I’m going a bit fast for you, aren’t I ...”

I shrug.
“What’s it matter? We only have all eternity. To do what, I have no earthly
idea. I guess I’ll figure it out. Welcome to the End of Time, you said so
yourself.”

I do realize
I’m being a little short with him. Maybe my patience has been exhausted for the
day.

“I’ve been
Undead for five months and twenty-eight days,” he tells me in a quiet voice,
like a secret. “There, I announced my age. How’s that for criminal?”

Despite the
anger, I break a smile.

But no matter
the kind words we share, I can’t lighten the heavy stone in my chest. Later in
the evening when the sun has apparently fallen, according to Grimsky’s keen
eye, I walk the inside of my house one hundred times. Staring miserably into
the bathroom mirror, I find that smooth porcelain face that isn’t mine. The
curl of my eyelashes, it’s fake. The striking blue crystals I have for eyes,
they’re fake. Icecap Blue or Cerulean or Moonglow Azure, I don’t really care. I
never did. Call me Winter. Call me Summer. Call me the Devil’s Doornail, I’m
still a dead girl underneath. Even the subtle pink blush in my cheeks is a lie,
pressed onto me, injected into me, just to hide the fact that I’m dead. That
we’re all dead. That underneath all this prettiness, there lies corpses.
Underneath our flawless complexions, fettering flesh that belongs in the earth.

I clench shut
my eyes and try to remember my life.

I loathe
what’s happened to me. Every cell in my body pulses with resentment so
powerful, so vile, so passionate that I may as well be alive right now. But I’m
not, and that is the greatest anger of all.

I want to be
alive. So badly, I want nerves to pinch every inch of my skin. Blood should
rush through me at the sight of the fetching Grimsky, my heart racing in his
presence. What thrill would it be to even kiss him, if I haven’t a heart that
races? Or blood to pump into my fingertips?—into my lips? I want my knees to
turn into noodles, is that too much to ask? I want hairs on my neck that will
stand on end when I’m frightened, when I’m tickled, when I’m turned on.

Maybe all
Undead feel like this at first. Maybe they all ache and long for their senses,
but I don’t care.

I want to be
so hungry it aches. I want to fall in love so deeply it makes you squeeze a
pillow in the middle of the day and cry. I don’t remember a second of my Old
Life, but I know what it felt like to get ready for Prom. Like a friend I’d let
go of centuries ago, I want it back, every good sensation and even every bad. I
know the agony of stubbing your toe on a chair leg.

I’d do almost
anything.

Weeks slowly,
slowly, slowly pass. I’m growing used to Trenton. I even spot Helena a number
of times, but she always seems preoccupied with something, and whatever it is
always looks to be such a bother that she can’t possibly turn around and notice
me. I tell myself she isn’t doing that deliberately.

One day, I run
into two of the girls from the Refinery, the one called Roxie and the plump one
who reattached my right arm recently. Her name turns out to be Marigold, like
the flower or whatever. She always waves cheerily at me. There’s a group of men
who always sit outside a furniture store playing cards. They’re pretty
friendly, always seeming to interrupt their game just to say hi to me when I’m
passing. I pretend not to notice them ogle me from behind as I walk away. I
guess I don’t mind the attention. It’s more entertaining than anything else,
seeing as what they’re ogling isn’t the real me. It’s Winter. The real me died
however long ago, and I may never know who she is until I have my Waking Dream,
or Death Dream, or whatever we feel like calling it today.

They say once
you have your Dream, everything changes. With the memory of your Old Life
suddenly assaulting you, everything is put into vivid and horrifying
perspective. Most people, like Helena said, just toss their Old Life behind
them, say good riddance and move on. Only a few can’t handle it. They seek help
or go insane.

There’s a wise
older lady named Jasmine who lives across from me. I took many of my difficult
questions to her, ones I couldn’t ask just anyone. She was very kind to attempt
answering the most of them, one of them being: When will I have my Dream thing?

Another: Is it
true there’s no more Livings, anywhere?

Livings is
what they call people who are alive, just in case that wasn’t obvious. Some
more derogatory terms include Breathers, or Fleshes, or Rosy Cheeks
(seriously), or ... and I regret to say this last one ... Humans.

I asked, “But
aren’t
we
Human?”

My neighbor
Jasmine, she just smiled endearingly and said, “Oh, poor child ...”

Undead. Gotta
remember that for my next job résumé. Name: Winter. Gender: Female. Race:
Undead.

It must be a
month and a half since my Raising, and I lean over the railing to spy on my
favorite neighbor’s book. He pulls it away, grinning. “Get your own copy!”

“Hi, Grim.” I
smile at him. “You never did get me that drink at the tavern.”

“I’m never
good at making a first move,” he admits coyly. “Can I call this a date?”

“Call it what
you want. I’ll be in town browsing Hilda’s new line of dresses. Maybe I’ll pick
something up and meet you at the tavern?”

And so it’s a
date. Just like that.

Down at the Singing
Seamstress, which is Hilda’s little dress shop downtown, I find myself a sleek
little red thing that, according to three giggly women, looks simply perfect.
“You’d stop hearts if they weren’t already!” one murmurs, inspiring breathy
chortles from her friends.

I guess I have
myself a winner. “What do I owe you for the dress?” I ask Hilda at the door.

“Every detail
about how your date goes, including how he looks at you in that splendid red
thing,” she says, her giggling eyes overjoyed at seeing me in her creation.

I take a spin
in front of a mirror. I look like someone else, but maybe she’s a little more
familiar to me now. Maybe I hate her a little less than I did on my first day.

Maybe Winter’s
growing on me.

When I arrive
at the tavern, it’s already bustling with activity from drunken men and women,
cackling over tabletops and stumbling around the bar spilling drinks
everywhere. I smile and nod at a few familiar faces, all of whom seem to regard
me like some sort of celebrity. This little red dress is really doing the
trick, it seems. I wonder what effect it’ll have on my fetching maybe-poet friend.

Seated at a
table, I wait for said fetching friend to arrive. Every person that comes into
the tavern isn’t him. I’d check a clock but, you know, there isn’t one. Telling
time in any way is forbidden or whatever. Makes for planning things—like a
date—a little troublesome.

Honestly, I’d
kill for a watch right now.

After a while,
I slip into the women’s bathroom—a tight-spaced little box—and poke at my face
in the mirror, deciding I could use a little touchup. I pull out a small Living
Red lipstick that Marigold gave me one day.
It’s for your Upkeep
, she
told me in secret. I rub a little of it on my lips, air-kiss my reflection like
an actress. I can play this role, this Winter role. A sultry seductress who
wins the unbeating hearts of zombies everywhere. Oh, excuse me, I said the
horrible awful word. I meant Undead.

I ask my
reflection, my living dead reflection, “Can we do this?—for the rest of
eternity, can we do this?”

Then I hear a
shriek in the tavern and something crashes against the bathroom door. I jump,
whip around to face the noise. I hear another scream followed by what sounds
like a bottle shattering. Someone with a deep voice shouts out a bunch of
things I can’t make out. There is a lot of shuffling on the wooden floor,
vibrating even the soles of my own feet.

A bar fight.
Yes, that’s all I need. A bunch of intoxicated Undead men fighting to prove
each other’s manhood. I’d never considered whether Undead men could even
get
intoxicated until now. Maybe they pretend, just like they pretend
everything else. Clinging to the memory of a bar fight they experienced when
they were alive. Let’s recreate it. Let’s relive it.

The Living
Dead world, you come to learn, is just a bunch of actors, and a regretfully bad
show of acting. Maybe life was like that too. Actors, playing the role of
themselves. Life’s greatest contradiction is also death’s.

Closed up here
in this tiny bathroom, I just shut my eyes and wait for the show to end. The shouting,
the scuffle and kicking of feet against floor, the crashing and smashing of
bottles, I just shut my eyes and wait it out like I would an annoying person I
wish would shut up.

Thoughts
entangle me like a web. I find myself staring at my face in the mirror, puzzled,
captivated by … I’m not sure … Am I remembering something?