When we first roll out of the earth, as
newborns, some believe we are alive. That we have beating hearts.
Others believe, we are born dead, and need a jump start even in our
infancy. I don't really care to debate that nonsense anymore. I exist
now only by what can be observed, and when I was young I observed
that I had a beating heart. I don't know when it first stopped beating. I
don't know if it was something that I did or something someone did to
me, but one day, in my youth, it stopped. Once it stopped beating, I
became a good deal smellier, and my skin began to peel. I felt so
grotesque. It was during this time that I met the Crew.
The Crew are clean cut Zombies. They
believe in a man that was born alive and stayed alive until he was
murdered, out of vain jealousy, and turned to dust, but it doesn't
end there. This man was more than a man, and he proved it by coming
back from dust. When he came back from dust; it was more true life than
even babies are said to have. Then he left this world telling others
how they too can obtain true life. So they can avoid turning into
dust that does not rise.
I was very curious about this crew. I
wanted to know how they stayed so clean. I learned that they believed
that it was important to live as though you are alive. Just as alive
as their leader was. I decided to join them. I took off my old
clothes and was given new, but before I wore them I was to wash.
This wash was suppose to be the entry way to life. There are so many
stories about what the wash actually does or doesn't do for you. In
fact, there are some members of the crew that do not wash at all. I
wasn't apart of that crowd. I washed, and I felt new. Now I didn't
actually become new, but my figurative heart felt like it did
when I was as a happy child. Every week I'd rejoin with the crew. Together we'd patch up our broken flesh, and renew are blood. I
often felt like a weekly patch up was unnecessary. Especially, since
we didn't even use real flesh and blood to fix ourselves. It was just
symbolic. We'd actually use substitutes. (Although, there are some
members of the Crew that believe differently.)
Oh the different beliefs! There are so
many! So much arguing and bickering! All the while if you don't
believe or practice the right thing you won't receive true life! I
confess, I took quite heatedly to the heart of this debate. Could I
become undead again? Or once I accepted the promise of life would I
keep it no matter what I did? Oh how this used to trouble me! Had I
lost my ticket to true life by eating that squirrel brain? Could I
never be free of the shackles of life, even if I wanted to be? Does
my choice mean nothing? Was I destined to join the Crew? Honestly,
sometimes I just wanted to eat a squirrel brain and not worry about
losing my life. Not only that, but I began to resent the Crew
members. So many of them would close their eyes to others sufferings.
Or to the natural order of this world. After all, it is only natural
for zombies to eat brains! It was at that thought that it struck me;
I was never brought to life. Everything had been symbolism. The
washing didn't make my heart beat again. It just made me imagine it.
The patch-ups, while they do help to keep my rotting body together. It
does not prevent the rot. While I do feel less like a zombie when I
abstain from brains. I still want them. My desire has not been taken
away. This troubled me greatly.
One day, while stomping through my
graveyard, I spotted a tombstone I'd never seen before. It was a stone
skeleton with wings like an angel. I presumed it was meant to be the
angel of death. In its boney hand it held a knife. It was a real
knife made of metal and not stone like that statue. I suppose some
teenage zombies put it there for a laugh. It took time, but I managed
to pry it from the statues grasp. I asked myself if I was ever alive?
When I turn to dust, as all zombies do, will I rise into a living
body? No one has ever seen that happen save once, and he is no longer
here. Was he ever here to start? Or was he just a myth to comfort us
poor walking dead? I took the knife in my hands and cut off all of my
patches. The blood was quite messy. I had spoiled my Crew clothes,
but I didn't care. If I had ever been alive, then I could die, but I
discovered that I was just the same as I ever was. I am and always
was a zombie. I felt a mixture of grief and relief. Sad because I
spent so many years as a trusting idiot. Relieved because now I don't
have to live as something I naturally am not. I'm not alive. I am
undead.
Years went by and I spent less time
eating brains and more time just lying in my grave. Dust was going to
come to everyone. I might as well be ready for it. It was then I
heard a knock at my coffin door. It was a member of the Crew. When
she saw me she gasped.
“I didn't know. I didn't know you
gave up on true life. I am sorry for sounding rude. I was just
surprised to see you without your patches.”
“Yeah, look at me without my patches
and I've never been better!”
She had real tears in her eyes. This
is something not easily done. I had ran into other Crew members
before this, but few had shown the level of grief of this girl. They
were too busy being angry or indifferent. This Crew member ardently
tried to persuade me to return. It was sweet. Pointless, but sweet. I
had studied far more thoroughly than her about Zombie anatomy, about
history, and the natural order of things. She could only offer me
what was in her undead heart. I was kind to her, after all I'm not a
monster. The conversation drew to a close when she offered me one
last thing.
“I'd like to offer you a patch. I
know you don't believe that it'll do you any good, but since you
don't believe it won't do you any harm either.”
I felt very agitated at this request.
A prerequisite for using a patch is believing in
it! I was repelled by the notion of it. I argued with her how it was
fundamentally impossible for me to take a patch! Not only that, but
she only had a patch and not the fake blood that goes with it. She
countered the patch doesn't do anyone any harm, and if I truly didn't
believe in the symbol of it. I wouldn't be afraid of it. I scoffed.
This was a stupid dare, but I had grown tired of her, and I wanted
her to leave. I reached out for the patch only to have her keep it
from me.
“I'd
like to be the one that patches you, please.”
I
rolled my eyes and consented. Moments later, I felt soft little hands
on my neck. I once had a large patch there. When I removed it, all
those years ago, it gushed quite profusely. The patch latched onto my
rotted flesh. I admit that I was moved, but it was a feeling nothing
more. At last the Crew member was ready to leave me, but I had one
last question for her.
“Why
did you pick my neck to patch?”
“Wasn't
it obvious?”
I
shake my head.
“You
were bleeding.”
Dead
people don't bleed.
