Undead and Thriving

**As this is a story about a corpse, please be aware that there are descriptions of gore and bugs. Thank you!**

Contrary to popular belief the reason the dead envy the living is not simply because they are alive. It is because they continue to grow. There is nothing vain about it.

It is not because of their elastic skin that snaps back into place when stretched. Mine, which is grey from the last decade of being dead, rips and snaps. There’s a hole in my cheek from the last time I decided to go for a stroll around the graveyard. A wayward wind threw a twig in my face, sending it right through my cheek and into my mouth. I could chew on the thing if I wanted to. Like a horse with a bit. In frustration, I tore the twig out and made the whole even bigger. The crows cackled at my misfortune.

We don’t envy the living’s pretty hair either. Well, as a whole we don’t. I for one do like seeing that one woman who comes by to clean the old headstones. Her hair is blonde, long and wavy. She wears t-shirts with skulls and carries her cleaning supplies in a coffin shaped backpack. Her pretty hair has streaks of red framing her round face. It looks like she's bleeding from a head wound. 

I’m not sure if being dead has made me so morbid or if I was like this before. My life is getting harder to remember with each passing day. 

Before I saw her, I didn’t know my dead heart could still skip a beat. Or maybe it’s just a memory of a sensation. A ghost of a sensation. 

The ghosts I know would probably take offense to that turn of phrase. Unlike us walking corpses, they do feel envious of the living. It’s why they float above their rotting bodies and try so hard to look like they once were. They glide about and pretend to be alive. Repeating the same motions, the same conversations, from when their hearts still beat.

 I don’t mind being dead so much. Except for the hole in my cheek and the mushrooms along my back. That's the only thing that a dead person can grow. Mushrooms. Fungus. Maggots. I’m young enough to still have maggots living in my chest. I guess I do have some vanity left as I try to keep them away from my face. My torso is a lost cause. Whatever meat I have left is barely clinging to my bones. 

I like my bones. Maybe that woman I see cleaning graves would like them too. Sometimes, she wears snake bones as earrings. 

Oh, but my bones! They’re so white. Ivory might be the better word to describe the color. Not a blinding, pure white, but one that was created from blood and viscera. White is the absence of all color. My bones weren’t missing a thing. 

I like to stand in the sun and pull up the tatter remains of my shirt to see my ribs in the light. They glow amongst the aging viscera. Gleam like treasures buried in the deepest pit. The skin of my fingertips have also worn away. Little sharp points of ivory peak out like claws. I like the sound they make when I tap them on the headstones. 

What was I talking about? Oh yes, envy and growing and the difference between the living and dead. 

To be perfectly honest, undead life doesn’t feel much different from what I remember about being alive. I get up, I don’t eat, and then I wander. I wave off the crows from picking at my rotting skin. I greet the ghosts, some who make faces at my decaying body. 

The other walking corpses shuffle along and we meet by the oldest tree in the graveyard. We play games with stones and share tips on how to keep our limbs attached. One of the oldest of us is pure bone, his flesh long since melted away. He keeps himself together with tree roots and sticky sap. 

I let one of the others patch the hole on my cheek, though I know it won’t stay. We can’t use a needle and thread because that would just create more holes. Instead we use paper mixed with water and glue. Where does the glue come from? One of the witches trades it to us in exchange for our grave dirt. She needs a steady supply for the hexes she casts. 

The glue smells funny, but I think that's another one of those ghost things again. I can’t actually smell anymore, my nose is gone, but I think I remember what glue smelled like. I definitely remember what it felt like to scrunch up my nose when the smell took me by surprise. 

After chatting with folks like me, I take a walk around the graveyard. I think technically this place is a cemetery, what with the old church on the hill above. It looks down on all of us, casting a shadow on every stone once per day. It’s almost like a giant sundial. Maybe that was the point. 

As I shuffle along, my tattered clothes billowing in the breeze, I see her. The pretty blond who comes to visit. She’s cleaning my headstone this time. That old feeling in my chest comes back. An echo of life rattling my bones and disturbing my poor maggots. I’ve grown fond of this batch. Fond enough that I’ve begun to name some of them. 

It’s easy for me to hide behind a tree. I was large in life, but now I’m just tattered skin and bones. Hiding is easy, so long as a strong wind doesn’t blow me over. 

The woman is wearing headphones. They’re big and black with cat ears on top. I watch as she unpacks her bag and pulls on gloves. By her feet, there is a large bucket of water. 

I want to say something to her. To tell her that it’s my grave she's cleaning with such care. Plucking weeds and removing litter. 

A week ago, there was a pair of kids using the cemetery as a shortcut. They knocked over several trashcans and kicked plastic bottles and empty cans everywhere. The crows circled them all the way home while the ghosts passed their names along the wind. Eventually, the wind whispered to the witches, telling them about the mess. I’m not sure what happened after that, but knowing those witches, it was probably incredibly spiteful. 

It was a kind thing for them to do, and yet they refused to use their brooms to sweep up the mess. I guess their kindness only goes so far. 

The woman is moving onto my headstone now. It isn’t too dirty, if I do say so myself. There is very little for us corpses to feel prideful over but our graves are one of the few. Still, my standards for cleanliness have changed drastically since I was alive. I do have maggots in the remains of my stomach, after all. By living standards, that is horrific. To me, I just think little Bartholomew and his friends are misunderstood. 

I stand behind a tree and watch as she takes a brush to my name. Her blond hair is tied up today, the red streaks like race strips along her head. She has such a nicely shaped skull. Round and perfectly proportional. I wonder what shade of ivory her bones are?

The thumping sensation in my chest is getting worse. It’s like there’s a bee hive attached to my ribcage. I check just to make sure, but there's nothing in the empty spaces where my organs used to be. Just pockets of my little friends and the occasional beetle. I don’t like the beetles as much. Something about their legs unnerves me. 

“Dammit,” the woman says under her breath. I look up and see a bottle rolling towards my hiding spot. It’s a spray of some kind, bubbles building up along the clear plastic as it’s jostled. It stops as it bumps into the tree I’m hiding behind. 

I suddenly realize something. This is my moment. To introduce myself. To be seen. To look at her pink cheeks and see the life still pulsing through her body. To see the potential all living beings have. To see if she really is just as charming up close as she was from far away. 

With confidence, I pick up the bottle of cleaner and step out from behind the tree. 

“Ruaaaggggghhh huunnnn grrrrrrr,” I said.

Instead of one of the dozen scenarios I’ve envisioned, the woman’s jaw drops into a horrified scream. She spins away, scrambling as she trips, and runs. Her coffin shaped bag is still sitting at my grave. 

Oh. I forgot. I don’t have a tongue anymore. 

Damn.