The Beautiful Dead

by Banner, Daryl

  Then I stare at the flame.

  This must be the first time I’ve ever seen fire with my new eyes, because I’m instantly entranced. I realize now that I have never seen fire. I have never truly, wholly, completely seen the essence of a spark, an ignition, a breath of life, the dance of particle and power at the end of a little match, at the seat of a candle wick. The twisting of light, reds and whites and greens and purples.

  “What?”

  I look over at the man, startled. “What?” I bark back.

  “You gonna light the candle sometime tonight or let it burn to your elbow?”

  “What’s it to you?” I move the match over the wick, kindling a bit of vision for my guest, then with a puff, extinguish the beautiful thing at my fingertips.

  “What is this?” he asks the basket I set before him, not caring to hide the distaste in his voice.

  “Dinner,” I snap back.

  “Half of it’s wilted. The tomatoes look soggy. How am I supposed to eat this?”

  “I could feed you frog carcasses if I want. If there’s even frogs left in this dumb world. Or bird feathers or dirt. I didn’t ask to be hostess to a human tonight.”

  He squints at me. “Human.”

  When I let the word slip from my mouth, I hadn’t realized what it would do. It placed the two occupants of the room into separate categories. He, the Human. Me, the not. The moment I say it, it’s like learning I’ve died all over again.

  Finally, he looks down at the basket, frowning as he picks through it. He peers up at me with a pouty glare and mumbles, “Dinner it is,” then slowly brings one of the soggy tomatoes up to his face to smell it, whether out of suspicion or curiosity I can’t tell, and decides it’s safe enough to take a bite.

  I hear the penetration of teeth through tomato skin.

  The crisp cut of water and membrane and juice.

  His lips, tongue, teeth, inviting the produce into his mouth, the slurp of salivation, taste.

  Chewing, chewing, chewing, teeth rearrange, fumble, tumble the tomato within the cheeks, crunch.

  And he swallows.

  Down the throat, carefully, slowly, succulent of moment to moment, the sustenance of Human life in the simple art of a bite, the dance of fingers clutching food clutching mouth clutching food again, then descending the smooth inviting vessel of throat, to the belly, to the muscles, to the core.

  Reinviting strength. Reinviting awareness. Reinviting focus and hope and life.

  He flits his eyes open, connects with my longing gaze, the symphony of eating taking one small rest for the Human to say: “What?”

  I catch my breath—my unnecessary breath I hadn’t really taken, the illusion of life once again having fooled me—I catch my whatever and say: “Nothing.”

  And he takes another bite.

  The symphony resumes.

  By the fourth or fifth bite, he looks at me again, narrows his eyes. “Something wrong? You’re … staring.”

  “Sorry,” I murmur, looking away. “I just—I just miss eating.” I laugh, put my hands together. “I know that sounds stupid. But there’s a lot of things I miss.”

  Chewing, he studies my face for a while before asking, “So how’d you turn into that?”

  That.

  “I don’t know,” I admit, deciding not to be offended with his brashness. “All I know is, I was alive once. Like you. Apparently I died. Lucky me. Then for whatever reason, I was Risen from a field, brought to a building to be fixed up, and here I am.”

  “Fixed up?”

  I sigh and look in another direction—any direction but him and his food, for some reason. “Detail isn’t necessary. It should suffice to say, I didn’t look so pretty coming out of the earth. I mean, what does, really?”

  “Vegetables.”

  I laugh. I don’t think he meant to be funny, but I laugh anyway, then say, “Yes, well. Far as I know, I’m not a vegetable. I’m a person.”

  “You’re not that, either.”

  I bite my lips, look in yet another direction. I’m very actively choosing not to be insulted, once again, by this awful, insensitive, breathing being in my house.

  “No,” I finally agree, keeping my tone level. “No, I’m not a person like you. I’m very different.”

  “An abomination,” he murmurs. “That’s what we call you. Crypters. Wraiths. The Soulless. Unholy of the Flesh. We have lots of names for you.”

  “We?” I look at him finally. He stops chewing. “We? There’s more of you alive out there?”

  He doesn’t answer, his face frozen. I get the sense he didn’t mean for me to know that, no matter how logical it is—obviously there’s more where he came from.

  Maybe he still thinks I want to eat him. “I’m just surprised, that’s all,” I say. “Surprised because—well, because I was given the strong impression that there were no people left in the world.”

  “It’ll do you best to keep that impression,” he mutters.

  “How many more of you are there?—and where?”

  “Nowhere.” He returns his attention back to the basket, inspecting it for something else edible. “It doesn’t concern you at all.”

  “Yes it does!”

  “Over my dead body will I reveal where my brethren live, where fiends like you can take their lives too.”

  “I AM NOT A FIEND!”

  Knock, knock. Both of us spin, watching the door as though it were a monster in the night about to leap on us. We peer at each other, locking eyes. I’m not sure who is more terrified, the one in the room with the racing pulse or the one without.

  Knock, knock.

  I motion for him to go to my room. “Under the bed, under the bed!” I half-whisper, half-mouth to him. He doesn’t hesitate a second to comply, scrambling to my room and sliding under my bed like a stowed away trunk. Snatching the basket and placing it on the table like a civilized person, I steadily move to the door, take a relaxing breath—again, that illusion of being alive I need to let go of—then calmly turn the handle to meet my fate.

  Grimsky’s anxious face meets mine in the doorway. “Hey there. You alright?”

  “Just fine, why?” I ask, then realize I sound too on edge. “Why do you ask?” I try, a bit more evenly.

  “I heard you talking.” He chuckles, his face softening. “Like, through the walls. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I frown. “That’s not normal?—talking to yourself? I better get that checked out. Does this town have any psychiatrists I can schedule an appointment with?”

  “Actually it does,” he says matter-of-factly. “There’s a few shamans that live downtown, and a witch doctor. Oh, and have you met Collin, the surgeon with the gym-nut brother? I’ll introduce you. Tomorrow, maybe?”

  “I was kidding,” I say, regretting making the joke.

  “I wasn’t.” He chuckles. “Can I come in?”

  “Bad timing.” I nearly begin to shut the door in his face, then stop. “It’s been a long day, what with the strange incident at the tavern and the whole getting-impaled thing …”

  He studies me for a while, dimples crushing either side of his face as he smiles endearingly. “I can’t wait for you to grow into yourself. You are going to love the possibilities that open up to you here in Trenton when you embrace your new foreverness. Possibilities like never needing to sleep. Ever. Never needing to rest, never tiring, never getting sick, or old, or—”

  “Sounds wonderful, Grim. Good night.” I try shutting the door again.

  He playfully puts his foot in the way. “I wanted to say one other thing. It’s really super-duper important.”

  I sigh, roll my eyes. “What?”

  “This.”

  And he kisses me.

  His cool, soft lips on that long mouth, that snarky mouth that curls. He kisses me. With those lips that surely spun poetry a lifetime ago. He kisses me, lip to lip, cool currents of electricity touching me somehow. The surprise of it, the unexpectedness of it, the little bow tied to the
end of a very curious day.

  He kisses me and then it’s over.

  “Good night,” he tells me, then steps off my porch and heads for his own, vanishing from sight.

  I close my door, lean back on it and hold my chest. A smile finds my face. I have no idea what just happened, but I want it to happen again straight away. I can’t stop smiling.

  “Seems dashing,” the Human says, having emerged from my bedroom.

  The moment crashes to the floor like a chandelier. “Okay, listen,” I tell him. “If you’re going to be staying here—and only for a little while—we need to lay down some rules.”

  “Not for long. Soon as I’m 100%, I’m gone. There’s people depending on me back home.”

  “Great, fantastic. First rule,” I start, then realize I don’t have one.

  “First rule,” the Human picks up, taking a step into the room. “No eating me.”

  “Second rule,” I say, taking back control. “No trying to kill me. Apparently we can’t die again anyway. I’ve been impaled with a sword and didn’t so much as feel a pinch.”

  “Good to know.”

  “Third—”

  “Third rule, you will help get me food. Real food, not just garden throwaways. And—”

  “Hey! These are my rules, not yours.”

  “Why would you help me anyway?” he asks, his tone changing. “What’s in this for you?”

  I haven’t thought on that. Why am I helping him? It’s totally against Trenton law, as far as I understand. Why don’t I kick this man out onto the street, force him to run away and fend for himself? Why these random acts of kindness, putting myself at risk for this vile, crude, disrespectful man-person?

  “Because maybe,” I say, hesitate, then finish, “maybe you can find a way to make me alive.”

  He squints at me, unsure how to respond.

  “This world is changed,” I go on. “There’s so much I’ve yet to see or learn … Maybe there’s more to it than either of us realize. Maybe I don’t have to be this way forever. Maybe I can—Maybe I can live once more.”

  His eyes survey me from top to bottom, head to toe, before caring to respond. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe,” I agree.

  “Fourth rule. Can you get me some meat next time?”

  I lower myself into a chair, my eyes idly drifting over to the candle flame, the beautiful, eternal, burning show of lights and colors that the Human cannot see.

  “Better food,” I agree. “I’ll try for better food.”

  Slowly, he crosses the room, sits in the chair opposite me at the table. It’s the closest to me he’s dared to come since we first met.

  “You’re Winter,” he says. “I remember. You told me your name in the bathroom at the bar.”

  I nod. “Winter is the thing they call me, yes.”

  He very carefully puts a hand on the table, perhaps with the intention of offering me a handshake, but then retracts it, changing his mind I suppose. His eyes falter, then he murmurs, “John.”

  “John,” I repeat. “Not what I would’ve guessed.”

  And this is how the Human’s long day, in magical candlelight, at last comes to a kind and timely end.

  My days will never end.

  C H A P T E R – F I V E

  T U L I P

  Because we Undead require neither sleep nor comfort, I let John have the bed.

  Whenever I leave, I tell him to keep the door locked and to never go out under any circumstance. Should be needless to say, but we make it an official rule anyway. More than just his life is at stake, should he be found. When I come back home, in a playful tone I sing, “It’s a fine day to be dead,” as I approach the door. We came up with this little audio signal which tells him it’s safe to unlock the door and let me in. This is also to avoid the awkward circumstance of knocking on my own door to be let in, which would look quite suspicious in the case of any onlooking neighbors. Should I instead sing something to the effect of, “Is it summer yet?” then John knows not only to unlock the door, but also hide because I’m not alone. His assigned (and only possible) hiding place being, of course, under the bed.

  The routine is tedious, but necessary.

  “Such a fine day to be dead,” I halfheartedly sing, approaching my porch. Like clockwork, there’s a little click at the door and I seemingly let myself into my own house.

  “The code,” he tells me irritably as I come in, “is ‘It’s a fine day’ … not ‘Such a fine day’…”

  “I’m tired of singing the same old thing.” I set down the bag I’m carrying on the table. “I feel dumber every time I sing it.”

  “There’s a reason we do it the same every time. You can’t get careless. My life’s at stake.”

  “Yes, daddy,” I sing mockingly, which very visibly annoys him. “Seeing as you haven’t lit any candles, I assume it’s still daylight outside?”

  He frowns. “You really can’t tell?”

  Doesn’t matter how many times I tell him, he won’t believe me. “I got you a fresh kill of a bird of some kind. Just assume it’s chicken, should be safe enough.”

  “Last week’s wasn’t chicken.”

  “You get what you get.”

  I make my way to the bathroom as he tentatively approaches the bag, poking through it. There are no doors in the house except the front one, so he understands to keep away from the hall as I change. Out of the tattered blue dress I wore today, I slip into an evening cocktail-thing, black and satiny. My favorite.

  After a poke and a dab in the mirror, I emerge from the bathroom ready to go. John gives me a once over out the side of his face, smirks. “Another date?”

  “None of your business. Find enough in there to eat?”

  He shrugs halfheartedly. “It’ll do.”

  “Know when you’re leaving?”

  “Once I get what I need.”

  “Not soon enough, in other words?”

  “I need more things.”

  “You’ve taken my comfort and joy,” I tell him dry-humoredly. “You want more?”

  Pulling out a long stalk of something from the bag, he bites the end off with a vicious crunch and, while chewing in all manners of a loutish, uncivilized man, says, “Food. That’s what I need. Lots of it. And a good plan.”

  “Plan?” I squint at him. “A plan for what?”

  “To find Garden,” he says, like I know what the hell he’s talking about. “Then I gotta find a way back home and, well, home’s a whole other thing …”

  “Why’s that?”

  He smirks, chomps off another hearty bite of his crunchy whatever, says, “Not so sure my homecoming will be a welcoming one.”

  “You left on bad terms?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he decides, suddenly switching off, chewing away. He does this, hot and cold with me.

  I’m still persisting. “And Garden? … What’s Garden?”

  “A place,” he answers dryly, turning away to tend to the rest of his dinner.

  I guess that’s enough chat for an evening. “Alright. Well, take care of yourself. Don’t choke on dead chicken. Or pigeon or housecat or whatever I got you.” I move to the door, draw a strand of white hair behind my ear and steel myself for a night on the town with Grimsky.

  “Don’t die either,” he says, suddenly right next to me, ready to lock the door after I go. “I kinda need you.”

  I squint at him. It’s a bit of work sometimes, learning to tolerate one another’s existence. For whatever reason. For whatever need, spoken or not.

  “Sure,” I say gently, then leave.

  A night on the town awaits. Grimsky, looking dashing as a silhouette with a face and wearing his fitted black button-down—tonight with a clever cream tie—meets me at the Town Square. At the sight of me, his handsome smile appears and he shakes his head. “I’ll never get used to you on a Saturday night.”

  “Saturday? Today’s Saturday?”

  “Every day’s Saturday.” He grins. “You ready to see w
hat I’ve to show?”

  The way he talks, every sentence is like a little poem. “Yes! Let’s see what you’ve to show.”

  He takes my hand, which I wasn’t expecting. So we’ve advanced to handholding now. The pair of us tread a narrow path into the heart of Trenton. Somewhere between a row of tall buildings, there’s a little girl curled up next to a door watching us walk by. Her hair is pulled back into a long black braid and her eyes are big deep oily pupils that peer up sullenly at me. Instantly I feel awful about something, seeing her face. I’m compelled to stop.

  “Hi there,” I say to her, making myself smile. “What’s your name? I’m Winter.”

  The girl doesn’t say anything back, of course. Creepy as she already is, she has to make herself creepier by just sitting there, unresponsive, staring with the eeriest tar-pit-for-eyes expression. Not even her lips stir. The dead are very, very good at playing statues. We could sit still for hours, for days and weeks without flinching a finger or batting an eye. As if we’re not odd enough.

  “Are you alright?” I try again. Grimsky, he’s standing patiently at my side, but makes no effort to address the girl like I am. Confused, I turn to him and whisper, “What’s wrong with her?”

  “No idea,” he admits under his breath, though I’m pretty sure the girl can hear us clearly. “It’s probably better we leave her be. Could be the result of a Waking Dream.” He squints. “Or she’s just disturbed.”

  YOU DID THIS TO YOURSELF.

  “Goodbye, little girl,” I say, not sure what else to say, then continue hand-in-hand with Grimsky down the narrow path. Yes, the girl with the long black braid keeps watching us as we leave, silent as a stone.

  After that offputting encounter, the mood of the night is a little changed. We arrive at the destination, a tiny “formal” restaurant at the end of town. Grimsky opens the door for me like a true gentleman. Once inside, I’m surprised at how—how do I put this?—“normal” the interior appears to be. Waiters garbed in vests walk the tranquil restaurant checking guests. A man sits at a piano in its center playing romantic tunes and other couples are seated at the tables, listening. One family sits in the corner of the place, two children and the pretend-parents, the four of them politely enjoying an upscale meal.