by Lori Perkins
Some people seem to have pragmatic, accepting souls, an ability with death.
I don’t, I’m afraid. I don’t understand it at all.
Afterwards I stood at the graveside for a while, but not for long because I knew my parents were waiting at the car. As I stood by the mound of earth that lay on top of her I tried to concentrate, to send some final thought to her, some final love, but the world kept pressing in on me through the sound of cars on the road and some bird that was cawing up in a tree. I couldn’t shut it out. I couldn’t believe I was noticing how cold it was; I couldn’t believe that somewhere lives were being led and televisions being watched, that the inside of my parents’ car would smell the same as it always had. I wanted to feel something, wanted to sense her presence, but I couldn’t. All I could feel was the world round me, the same old world. But it wasn’t a world that had been there a week ago, and I couldn’t understand how it could look so much the same.
It was the same because nothing had changed, I supposed, and I turned and walked to the car.
The wake was worse than the funeral, much worse, and I stood with a tuna sandwich feeling something very cold building up inside. Rachel’s oldest friend, Lisa, held court with her old school friends, swiftly running the range of emotions from stoic resilience to trembling incoherence.
“I’ve just realized,” she sobbed to me, “Rachel’s not going to be at my wedding.”
“She’s not going to be at mine either,” I said numbly, and immediately hated myself for it.
I went and stood by the window, out of harm’s way. I couldn’t react properly. I knew why everyone was standing here, that in some ways it was like a wedding. Instead of gathering together to bear witness to a bond, they were here to prove she was dead. In the weeks to come they’d know they’d stood together in a room, and eaten crisps, and would be able to accept she was gone. I couldn’t.
I said goodbye to Rachel’s parents before I left. We looked at each other oddly, and shook hands, as if we were just strangers again. Then I went back to the flat and changed into some old clothes. My “Someday” clothes, Rachel used to call them, as in,
“Someday you must throw those away.” Then I made a cup of tea and stared out of the window for a while. I knew damn well what I was going to do, and it was a relief to give in to it.
That night I went back to the cemetery and I dug her up.
It was hard work, and it took a lot longer than I expected, but in another way it was surprisingly easy. I mean yes, it was creepy, and yes, I felt like a lunatic, but after the shovel had gone in once the second time seemed less strange. It was like waking up in the mornings after the accident. The first time I clutched at myself and couldn’t understand, but after that I knew what to expect. There were no cracks of thunder, there was no web of lightning, and I actually felt very calm. There was just me and, beneath the earth, my friend. I simply wanted to find her.
When I did I laid her down by the side of the grave, then filled it back up again, being careful to make it look how it had. Then I carried her to the car in my arms and brought her home.
The flat seemed very quiet as I sat her on the sofa, and the cushion rustled and creaked as it took her weight again. When she was settled I knelt and looked up at her face. It looked much the same as it always had, though the color of the skin was different, didn’t have the glow she always had. That’s were life is, you know, not in the heart but in the little things, like the way hair falls around a face. Her nose looked the same and her forehead was smooth. It was the same face.
I knew the dress she was wearing was hiding a lot of things I would rather not see, but I took it off anyway. It was her going-away dress, bought by her family specially for the occasion, and it didn’t mean anything to me or to her. I knew what the damage would be and what it meant. As it turned out the patchers and menders had done a good job, not glossing because it wouldn’t be seen. It wasn’t so bad.
When she was sitting up again in her white dress I walked over and turned the light down, and I cried a little then, because she looked so much the same. She could have fallen asleep, warmed by the fire and dozy with wine, as if we’d just come back from the party.
I went and had a bath then. We both used to when we came back in from an evening, to feel clean and fresh for when we slipped between the sheets. It wouldn’t be like that this evening, of course, but I had dirt all over me, and I wanted to feel normal.
For one night at least I just wanted things to be as they had.
I sat in the bath for a while, knowing she was in the living room, and slowly washed myself clean. I really wasn’t thinking much. It felt nice to know I wouldn’t be alone when I walked back in there. That was better than nothing, was part of what had made her alive. I dropped my Someday clothes in the bin and put on the ones from the evening of the accident. They didn’t mean as much as her dress, but at least they were from before.
When I returned to the living room her head had lolled slightly, but it would have done if she’d been asleep. I made us both a cup of coffee. The only time she ever took sugar was in last cup of the day, so I put one in.
Then I sat down next to her on the sofa and I was glad that the cushions had her dent in them, that as always they drew me slightly towards her, didn’t leave me perched there by myself.
The first time I saw Rachel was at a party. I saw her across the room and simply stared at her, but we didn’t speak. We didn’t meet properly for a month or two, and first kissed a few weeks after that. As I sat there on the sofa next to her body I reached out tentatively and took her hand, as I had done on that first night. It was cooler than it should have been, but not too bad because of the fire, and I held it, feeling the lines on her palm, lines I knew better than my own.
I let myself feel calm and I held her hand in the half light, not looking at her, as also on that first night, when I’d been too happy to push my luck. She’s letting you hold her hand, I’d thought, don’t expect to be able to look at her too. Holding her hand is more than enough. Don’t look, you’ll break the spell.
My face creased then, not knowing whether to smile or cry, but it felt all right. It really did.
I sat there for a long time, watching the flames, still not thinking, just holding her hand and letting the minutes run. The longer I sat the more normal it felt, and finally I turned slowly to look at her. She looked tired and asleep, so deeply asleep, but still there with me and still mine.
When her eyelid first moved I thought it was a trick of the light, a flicker cast by the fire. But then it stirred again, and for the smallest of moments I thought I was going to die. The other eyelid moved and my fear just disappeared, and that made the difference, I think. She had a long way to come, and if I’d felt frightened, or rejected her, I think that would have finished it then. I didn’t question it.
A few minutes later both her eyes were open, and it wasn’t long before she was able to slowly turn her head.
I still go to work and put in the occasional appearance at social events, but my tie never looks quite as it did. She can’t move her fingers precisely enough to help me with that any more. She can’t come with me, and nobody can come here, but that doesn’t matter. We always spent a lot of time by ourselves. We wanted to.
I have to do a lot of things for her, but I can live with that. Lots of people have accidents, bad ones. If Rachel had survived she could have been disabled or brain-damaged, so that her movements were as they are now, so slow and clumsy. I wish she could talk, but there’s no air in her lungs, so I’m learning to read her lips. Her mouth moves slowly, but I know she’s trying to speak, and I want to hear what she’s saying.
But she gets round the flat, and she holds my hand, and she smiles as best she can.
If she’d just been injured I would have loved her still. It’s not so very different.
About the Authors
Francesca Lia Block is the author of many acclaimed books, including Dangerous Angels: The Weetzie Bat Bo
oks, as well as the recent titles Pretty Dead and Wood Nymph Seeks Centaur: A Mythological Dating Guide. Visit her on the Web at francescaliablock.com
Stacy Brown teaches writing at a major metropolitan university. She is the author of four nonfiction books. Her erotic romance short story is published in the Merry SeXmas Anthology, and Electro Deluxe is a standalone story at Ravenousromance.com.
Elizabeth Coldwell is the editor of the UK edition of Forum magazine. Her stories have appeared in anthologies including Best SM Erotica 1 and 2; Yes, Sir; and Naughty Spanking Stories 2. She believes bad boys need to learn to play nice.
S. M. Cross has been writing since the age of twelve, but Sue at last got down to the business of submitting her work somewhere in her forties. With short stories published in Zahir, PEEKS & Valleys, Entropy, Foliate Oaks, Sofa Ink, and the 2008 Contest Winner for Silent Voices, Volume IV, she has decided the writing life is the only one worth living, although for practicality’s sake she keeps her day job as a speech pathologist to pay the rent. And she loves zombies!
R.G. Hart has published short fiction in several anthologies from Pocket Books. His latest sale is a paranormal romance novel to Sapphire Blue Publishing, writing as R.G.
Hart, entitled Bachelorette: Zombie Edition is due out later in 2009. Russ is a graduate of the Oregon Coast Professional Fiction Writers Master Class, and the Oregon Coast Short Story Workshop. His instructors have included Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Katherine Rusch, Gardner Dozois, and Ginjer Buchanan. He is an accomplished public speaker, having achieved The Advanced Toastmaster Silver Award (ATM-S) in his Toastmaster International Club located in his home town of Vancouver, British Columbia. Russ has been president of the Great Vancouver Chapter of RWA for the past two years and is committed to continuous learning and publishing as a career.
Stacey Graham is multitasking wife and mother of five daughters, and resides just outside of Washington, D.C. When not writing about her love life, she can be found sitting in attics conducting paranormal investigations and waiting for the other thing that goes bump in the night.
Lois H. Gresh is the New York Times bestselling author of four novels and sixteen pop science/culture books from John Wiley & Sons, Random House, and St. Martin’s Press.
Her books have been translated into many languages and are in print worldwide: Italy, Japan, Spain, Russia, Germany, Portugal, France, Brazil, Thailand, Korea, China, Estonia, England, Canada/French, Finland, Poland, Czech, et cetera. In addition, they are often featured in the New York Times Book Review, USA Today, Entertainment Weekly, Science News, National Geographic, Physics Today, New Scientist, and U.S. News and World Report, as well as by National Public Radio, the BBC, Fox national news, the History Channel, and many other television and radio programs. Lois’s teen novels have been endorsed by the American Library Association and the Voice of Youth Advocates.
She’s the author of dozens of published mystery/suspense, dark fantasy, and weird science fiction stories. She’s been nominated for national fiction awards six times.
Brian Keene is the author of more than twenty books, including Darkness on the Edge of Town, Urban Gothic, Dark Hollow, Dead Sea and many more. He also writes comic books such as The Last Zombie and Dead of Night: Devil Slayer. His work has been translated into German, Spanish, Polish, French, and Taiwanese. Several of his novels and stories have been optioned for film, one of which, The Ties That Bind, premiered on DVD in 2009 as a critically acclaimed independent short. Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as The New York Times, The History Channel, The Howard Stern Show, CNN.com, Publisher’s Weekly, Fangoria Magazine, and Rue Morgue Magazine.
Keene lives in the backwoods of Central Pennsylvania with his wife, sons, dog, and cats.
You can communicate with him online at www.briankeene.com or on Twitter at twitter.com/BrianKeene
Kilt Kilpatrick is the pen name of an Irish author sometimes called “the Ferris Bueller of San Francisco.” When he’s not writing sexy stories for Ravenous, he is a nonfiction writer, public speaker, Bay Area event organizer, and, somewhat oxymoronically, a biblical historian and atheist activist. He is linguistically promiscuous; he is conversant in Irish Gaelic and bits and pieces of about two dozen other languages, including Welsh, Breton, Hungarian, Japanese, Arabic, American Sign Language, Cherokee, Klingon, and Elvish. He loves reading, movies, dancing, sex, and has been a saber fencer for more than twenty-five years. He lives in San Francisco with his steady girlfriend and number-one fencing partner, Dana; also a writer. And yes, he does wear kilts. If you know anybody like that, it’s probably him.
Jan Kozlowski fell in love with the horror genre in 1975 when the single drop of ruby blood on the engraved black cover of Stephen King’s Salem’s Lot transfixed her into purchasing it. She became obsessed with zombies the first time she saw Romero’s masterpiece, Night of the Living Dead, in all it’s black-and-white majesty at the local drive-in. She began writing horror for her own amusement almost immediately, but didn’t begin publishing until she sold her first story, Psychological Bacchanal, to the EWG E-zine in 1997. Her short story, Parts is Parts, won awards in both the International Writing Competition sponsored by DarkEcho’s E-zine and Quoth the Raven’s Bad Stephen King contest. Another short story, Stuff It, was sold to an independent film producer and went into production as a movie short called Sweet Goodbyes. She has also sold fiction to Erotinomicon and Sage Vivant’s CES.
Dana Fredsti is a San Francisco mystery writer and former B-movie actress who has lived many of the experiences she writes about in her sensuous fiction. She has traveled throughout Europe, and worked in the uncharted wilds of Hollywood as a screenwriter, a script doctor, an award-winning documentary producer, a stunt woman (her background is in theatrical swordfighting), and actress in more than one cult classic. Along with her best friend, she created a mystery-oriented theatrical troupe in San Diego, which formed the basis for her Murder for Hire mysteries. She’s written numerous published articles, essays and shorts, and is active in the Northern California chapter of Sisters in Crime.
She has a deep passion for all things feline, and for many years has worked with her beloved tigers, leopards, jaguars, and other exotic cats at an exotic feline conservation center. Another love is the sea; she adores living by the beach, surfing, strolling the strand, and beachcombing. Her many friends know she can always be tempted by bad movies or good wine, preferably combined. When she is not hard at work writing or preparing for the coming zombie apocalypse, she can be found doting on her cats or swordfighting with her Irish lover.
Mercy Loomis graduated from college one class short of an accidental certificate in folklore. She has a bachelor’s degree in psychology, but don’t hold that against her. Her favorite pastimes include hobby gaming, road trips, and studying ancient history. See what she’s up to and find links to her other work at mercyloomis.blogspot.com.
Jeanine McAdam has published more than twenty-five short stories with the Dorchester Media “true confession” line of magazines during the past two years. Working as a reference librarian for seven years, Jeanine has helped patrons find great fiction. In her profession as a technology trainer, she wrote instructional materials and contributed to technology newsletters. When she began inserting romance, intrigue, and a touch of horror into the manuals, she knew it was time to start her career as a short story writer.
Gina McQueen is the author of Opposite Sex, which she describes as ” Freaky Friday with fucking.” She is also rumored to be horror legend and literary zombie hero John Skipp in drag. Ya never know.
Lori Perkins is the editorial director of Ravenous Romance and one of its founders. She has been a literary agent specializing in horror and erotica for two decades. She is the author of four nonfiction guidebooks and eight erotica anthologies. She just broke up with her zombie boyfriend.
Regina Riley writes everything from paranormal fables to steampunk chronicles. She prefers to pen complex plots, often with hilarious consequences. When
not wasting time goofing around on the Internet, she writes from the heart about life, love, and the merriment of happiness. Her novels and novellas can be found online at Sugar and Spice Press, Phaze, and Lyrical Press. Aside from her wicked imagination, Regina believes her life is pretty pedestrian. She resides in North Carolina, although her roots spread a bit deeper thanks to a military upbringing. She is an identical twin, and has been happily married for thirteen years to a wonderful and giving husband. She also shares her home with a brood of moody cats. To learn more about Regina, visit http://www.thebackseatwriter.com. And feel free to e-mail her at [email protected]
Isabel Roman has been writing for four years and loves just about every second of it!
Historical paranormals caught her eye (and ear) when she realized the vast conflicts inherent in historicals, and her deep and abiding love for all things paranormal. Nurturing a love of all time periods, she plans to explore as many as she can with as many couples as she can. Isabel is the author of Ravenous Romance’s The Dark Desires of the Druids series, which features a Ravenous Rendezvous, The Tryst, as well as a full-length novel, Murder & Magick.
Jaime Saare is a wife and mom of four rambunctious children, who turned to writing as a way to escape the fulfilling yet oftentimes overwhelming world around her. What began as a hobby became something more after her first story was completed. Currently she resides in the wonderful state of Alabama, where she was also born. When not kid wrangling, catering to the hubs, or writing something horrifying or erotic, she enjoys the simple things in life, including shooting a game of straight eight, listening to her favorite band (NIN), reading an excellent story, or partaking in a good (and she does mean good) horror movie.
