The Life of a Corpse

Warning: Contains Death and mentions of murder.

It’s so cold, it feels as if my body was still in the freezer back at the Morge. My whole body, from my rotting scalp to the tips of what’s left of my toes, feels numb as I lay in complete utter darkness. How long has it been now since I was buried? Months? Years? No wait, it has only been a couple of weeks. Weeks stuck in some place between heaven and hell, but it isn't purgatory because I am stuck in my own coffin while worms crawl against my now pale skin and maggots chew through my flesh. I thought that when you die you are supposed to leave this world. So, why is my mind still here trapped in my corpse?

           I remember the day I died, my last day alive. The memory replays over and over again as if I was trapped in some sick sadistic theater unable to leave. It was a Tuesday. The day started like every other day, I woke up took a warm shower and got ready then I drank a cup of hot herbal tea, with two and only two sugar cubes, while reading the newspaper before heading off to my boring job as a waitress at the café only three blocks away from my apartment. Even work was completely normal, the old man sitting in the corner booth talking to himself while eating a slice of apple pie, Tiffany coming in thirty minutes late, and the sounds of plates and silverware being placed into the big metal sink in the kitchen. I can even still smell the faint scent of coffee being brewed hiding behind the smell of wet dirt and rotting flesh. Everything changed as I walked home from work that evening. It was late, I’m not sure the exact time it was but the streets were barren and there were no cars on the road, everyone was most likely asleep. The only light was from the dimming streetlamps and the moon's faint light. The only noise was that of the wind and the clicking of my heels against the sidewalk. I knew something was wrong. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being followed, but of course, I thought it was just because of the exhaustion that ran through my body. At least that was until a figure of a tall man appeared in front of me holding a gun. I couldn’t see his face but for some reason, he seemed so familiar. He mumbled out an apology then a loud sharp bang rang through the streets, and I was dead.

           I can’t help but wonder if our deaths are a planned-out fate, or if there was anything I could have done differently to prevent it. What if I didn’t stay late so Tiffany could go on a date with her new boyfriend Matt? What if I had stayed later? What if I called in that morning and stayed home drinking tea while binge-watching some stupid romance series? Would he have still found me then? Did he plan this or was I just at the wrong place at the wrong time? No, it’s not that at all. If I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, why did the man look so familiar? Why was he at my funeral? Why did he apologize and tell me that this was “the only way” as he pulled the trigger? Why couldn't I have died of old age?

           I guess there is really no point in asking myself these questions because I will never get an answer. All I can do is stay trapped in my corpse waiting and waiting for the smallest chance that I’ll show up to the big pearly gates that my grandmother preached about when I was a child. Grandmother visits me sometimes you know, even while six feet under I can hear her voice and her sobs, even the sounds of the plastic around what I assume to be flowers crinkling as she lays them on my grave. Every time she visits, I wish I could hug her at least one more time and tell her that everything will be okay and that I love her. Dad doesn't visit though and though it hurts, I can't say I'm surprised. My father and I used to be connected at the hip, he was my best friend but that was before my mother died. After that, he became closed off. He never visited my mother's grave either, the pain was just too much for him so that's why I don't hold resentment toward him for not visiting mine.

           My biggest regret is that I never actually lived life. I was so worried about trying to get out of this stupid city, to do more with my life that in the end, I did nothing with it. I wanted to be free, to become a successful actress and live the big life surrounded by adoring fans but now here I am dead, stuck in a grave, my only fans are the maggots and worms that decided to feed off my body and make it their home. I was never afraid to die, but now I see how ignorant that was. Death is terrifying, being dead is even worse. What I would do to change everything, to go back and live my life to the fullest instead of spending every waking hour at that damn café even if our deaths are fate.

This may sound silly, but sometimes I imagine what my life could’ve been. Maybe I could’ve been the next top actress starring in big movies, then meeting a man playing hard to get for a bit before finally getting married and having children of my own. Some people may think that thinking of what could’ve been is torture but it gives me a sense of peace. The thoughts make me feel warm. It is an escape from the memories, an escape from the cold, an escape from death.