brain “am I dead?” With as much enthusiasm as death can muster. And the voice that was once his closest and most constant companion replied only that “you are no longer alive”. But he knew that at the start. He knew he had a hollow life. A lifeless life. But he did not, and still does not, know that he was dead.
The next poster. Alzheimer’s and the problems with a fading memory. He already knew, and could even consistently recall, that his memory was dead. Despite his best efforts to exhume his memory with his spade, most of it was buried and lost in haze and mire. But he grasped and dug and swung harder than before with the tip of his spade to clutch at the last of his thoughts of thinking. The lifetime of not living. His role as a spectator. Death’s face where his used to be. Death’s voice where his friend’s used to be. And all that he could remember was that most recent of all of his lost memories, one that he might think again and again and forget an equal number of times before thinking again, was his memory of realising he had no memories. And finally he conceded. “I don’t remember dying”. He said but only to himself, not even to bother his old friend within, and finally concluded that he must, in fact, be dead. Panic told him to panic for the sake of Panic alone. It would do Dave no good. Panic was no longer the intense and close friend that he, or she, used to be. Panic was distant and no longer relatable. So he didn’t listen.
So Dave knows now and finally, that he is, and has been for some time, irrevocably dead.
One more swing of that spade and he might find the answer. He might find out when he died. He might be able to remember how he died. So how did Dave die? Did he die doing what he loved? That would be a pointless line of enquiry because he loved nothing other than the constant reassurance he comforted himself with, that in retirement, many years from this day that he might be happy. Or at least content. Did Dave die thinking about a long distant, ever shifting, and impossibly vague retirement? That being all he loved to do. Of course not. What kind of death might that have been? Perhaps suicide. Dave hated his life. His lifeless life full of nothing. His void. But he, so he was sure, could not and would not have killed himself. That was a coward’s death and Dave was no coward.
Did he die riding his forklift irresponsibly? Or stacking his pallets incorrectly? Or did he buy and then eat some product poorly rotated by a poorly educated and disinterested staff member? Which would have been so horrifically out of date that it would have killed him. The first two were possible. Health and safety was loathsome for Dave and he cared nothing for it. But the last, impossible. Dave was smart enough to not eat mouldy products. That being his entire philosophy. That people, if they were prepared to sue a company for damages either because they had fallen or because they had ingested a horrifically out of date product, they must also be prepared to admit that they were stupid. And that they needed someone to hold their hand as they crossed the street. Or someone to read the newspaper for them. A nanny. Because they had nothing even like intelligence. So how did Dave die?
It doesn’t matter. Not to us. Or even to Dave. It only matters that he was, and remains, dead. The question that we need to ask next, if we are to maintain some kind of logical order to our questions, is what kind of dead was Dave? Was Dave a ghost? Was he a vampire? Was he a simple corpse, honest in death, ready to go? Or was he a zombie?
He came to terms remarkably quickly with the fact that he was dead. That, some might say, is admirable. Some youngsters take years to figure out whether or not they are Gay and then even longer, if their answer is yes, to come to terms with it. He discovered that he was dead and then came to terms with it in a mere night. A good show. But maybe he knew he was dead for much longer. Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he was glad, death was new. Death turned off his auto pilot and forced him into a new life. A life beyond. A new adventure. Death, so he and his friend within assured to themselves, was good. Enviable. So the peace was signed and Death became a friend when only moments before he had been an enemy. But what kind of dead was Dave? That was important. He would ask the Doctor to find out for him.
“Would you like to come in?” Just in time. He tried to say yes but only a growl came out. A throaty gargling and resonate growl that shocked the Doctor. But not enough, just yet, to send her running away. It hurt but he could stand and he could walk. More stagger. Ever since, and this is obviously for Dave a very recent thing, but ever since he had realised he was dead, he was starting to notice all the more evidence for it. He could barely walk under his own weight. And his once manly stride had devolved into a childlike and uncertain stagger. A vampire was graceful. He was probably not a vampire. He left his shoes behind. The ones he had stolen or bought from Denial. He didn’t need them anymore and they no longer fit.
The examination room felt cramped. And he didn’t like to see himself in a full size mirror. His spindle legs. His thin face. His crack addict complexion and pale colour. His oddly bloodstained clothes and his protruding bones. The Doctor was worried. “You don’t look well Sir” she said with obvious fear. Dave could form words in his frontal cortex but not process them through his mouth. He tried so hard. Only to growl at his frightened, would be helper. The words fought through. “I...Think...I’m...dead” Dave was proud that he made it to the end of the sentence. But he knew he could say no more. This Doctor; cute, long red hair, shapely figure and welcoming rosy smile. For whatever reason on this night, on this shift, she must have been either intrigued or bored. Because she embezzled his impossible slur. Dave could feel his effort to speak paying off. He felt the urge to try again but what to say? He could ask what kind of dead he was. Or he could compliment the living Doctor on her pretty and bubbly cheeks. No need for either just yet.
“Alright, honey...” the young woman smiled, taking pity on this obvious drug addict, and said “let’s take a look at you.” He let his wandering attention wander more as the pretty girl looked into his glazed and dead eyes, and checked for the drumming of his heart, only to find nothing. He had only just realised that he was dead. But he had known for a long time that he wasn’t alive. That he simply existed. That was why there was no need to know how He died, or even when he died. Because, unbeknownst to most, the lines between lack of life and death had blurred. Existing alone is not living. Dying and having no life, though different, melt together from black and white to grey. But, before the kind, sympathetic and unavoidably gorgeous Doctor could answer what kind of dead Dave was, we must ask another question.
Something occurred to Dave. Another rogue thought to wisp through the cloud that used to be his bustling mind. He hadn’t realised he was dead. How many others do not? How many people are, like he, wandering the Earth in a state of lack of life? How many of those had passed through, without knowing, onto the other side and died? How many corpses walked the streets at day and night, going about their lifeless lives, having died at some unknown time by some unknown force? He could feel the Doctor lift his arm and turn his head. Ghosts existed, or so his friend within though replaced by the voice of Death, guessed on his behalf, in another dimension and could likely never be touched. So he was probably not a ghost either.
“Hmm” The beautiful doctor hummed a while and her expression changed from vaguely bored and puzzled to mild terror. She checked Dave’s pulse and found none. She checked Dave’s blood pressure and found none. She even took a sample of his blood and found it black. Clotted and coagulated like the blood of the dead. The Doctor was starting to realise that he was dead. She dropped his arm with a cute, girlish and genuinely adorable squeak. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to use that last inch of effort that he could muster to ask her what he phone number was. Whether or not she was single. He wanted to so much. But even with his dead mind clouded with thoughts of death and death alone, Dave knew there was one more question that must be asked. One that was more important than asking the living to breed with the forever dead.
“What...kind...of...dead...am...I” He didn’t know what kind of dead he was. His voice disappeared into his throat. A gargle. A blood splat
ter upon the polished clean floor. He was hungry. But that could wait. The Doctor covered her frightened, pointy and sexy mouth, with the back of her tender hand. She allowed her fear to consume her and with Dave died more inside. Medical science failed her. All she knew failed her. He. Quite accidentally had swept the pretty thing off her feet.
“What...kind?’ He asked again. A deeper gargle. A rasping splutter. An angered dead. Vampires were sexy. He knew this because he fell asleep trying to watch a lot of films because he was too busy to see the whole thing. He knew that Vampires were sexy and he knew to the same degree that he was not. As the pretty woman backed further and further away from him towards the perceived safety of the wall behind her, he could be certain of one more thing. He could be certain that he was dead. He knew that now. But he could now too be certain that he was not sexy. Vampires took the woman they wanted, wooed them and mated with them as they pleased. Turned them and kept them always. Dave though he knew what kind of dead he was. The hunger growing inside.
“Please... don’t eat me.” What