Until Death

How do you write about romance when you’re dead was what I thought as I stood before the full-length mirror peeling skin from my elbow. I don’t mean skin from scab but skin from me. I’d been dead a while, in fact so long I’d lost track or so I thought. There’s only so much you can do with it, romance – I mean there were so many good men around the corner in a romance novel it began to get annoying and really unbelievable. I’d finally stopped reading and gave one friend a stack she’d given me of her favorite author.

Can I remember anything from when I was alive. The fingers still work if that makes sense at all. Wasn’t rigor mortis supposed to set in so I couldn’t type. How can I be dead and type? There’s color. It’s not like I’m in a grey room and outside looks cloudy. Today was beautiful, a sun shower and rainbow that broke into two with the colors opposite of each other, then extra stripes, is that what they are, extra layers, yes, extra streams of color formed. It was awesome. No one ever comes in the house though, not even daring people who risk entering haunted houses. I’d heard two kids standing in the yard, my hearing is extremely acute now, saying that I’m still in here for real and no one should come in not even on a dare.

Well whatever.

Let’s see…

“He held her close. They’d been dating for a while that involved his or her car, sometimes a back seat – why was sex always part of it like it was a ritual – and doing something else too. They liked to do things together. This was a day it was sex first. They tumbled onto the bed and kissed , sloppy, wet, trying to swallow each other whole. He rolled her over, she rolled him over, if they’d wound up on the floor neither would have felt it. He surprised the hell out of her by penetrating now. He’d slid his sweats down and found his way over her waistband and between but wasn’t at the right spot. He caused her to moan from the pressure, the pain, and desire from being so close. He was a rod, a wide bar that needed insertion. She slid her hand but he stopped her. Maneuvering his lack of hips around he pushed hard still in the wrong place but had moved himself up a little so his head was close. Head, ha… what most men think with. He pushed hard again and she moaned from the pain. he was so close but not enough as his dryness stuck to her. she though he might break her, break her skin and make a new canal to where he wanted to be, where he could swim. She tried to speak but he covered her mouth with his, pushed down hard on her hand to ensure it wouldn’t move and pushed so hard he entered but not without causing her pain as he broke the dryness away. She felt like she could bleed, that she should be bleeding. As soon as he hit the spot she forgot about everything, what he’d done, the pain and was lost to absolute pleasure making soft sounds until he slammed her hard. He covered his mouth with hers again so she couldn’t speak.”


“I’ll need to read this over”, I thought as I stood in front of the mirror again. A piece of skin flapped over from my knee. It wasn’t gross and bleedy, it was dry underneath with tendons and muscles looking about the same as if it didn’t matter whether or not I had skin. I decided to take a longer break and go for a walk. I opened the front door and the sun was dazzling although I couldn’t feel if it were hot or cold. I’d have to see how people were dressed today. I brought my grocery bag to pick up a few things. I ate. Food tasted good. I wonder what others see. Is there a bag floating along on its own or is it invisible like I seem to be. Is it no one is looking? How could they not react to my appearance? They mustn’t be able to see me. That’s all I can figure.



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