To all of our dead selves. they lie there. damaged, dismembered, dead. Every lifeless husk in various stages of rot and or preservation. The glassed over charred one, still hanging off the chimney. I don’t even remember which of the husks was me. They don’t stab. It is oddly suspicious but I stopped asking questions long ago. We ran out of bullets after a few months. The early corpses are further away. Back then we were disturbed by the contradiction of our dead selves being burried by our living bodies. We use to go so far out that we lost a few bodies. Hell, we lost a lot of bodies.
We use to bury ourselves, too. Use to call ourselves “them” and “it.” We use to fight about what exactly the corpses should be called. We agreed to disagree a few times but that didn’t last. We would try to trek out to our graveyard in silence but we would get to talking and directing and then the shovels would be dropped as we both pulled swords. The swords lasted longer than the ammunition but those shovels took the cake.
Now you are dead but you will awake soon. In a different body but still the same. You will look the same with your rosy cheeks and straight brown hair. Oops, I forgot that you use to have rosy cheeks. I suspect that we have lost color. I’m telling you the story. Speaking to your corpse. It seems silly. One time I stopped being silly. What with talking to a dead girl. I started to forget things, though. I tell you our story to make sure that I and you both remember why we are here. Sometimes, while I am telling the story of the stupid things we do, of our many deaths, I will say something unfamiliar. I hope that it is memories awakening from the mental exercise of telling the story and the the delusions of an constantly dead man.
Do we rot and not smell? Or, Are we just slowly disappearing. And what about the crystal that forms on some bodies and not others. We are beyond normal love and a relationship but we are not above violence and killing. Are we married? What kind of relationship carries this far after death? Is this our own prison?
This forest that we lost ourselves together in. I coming from the east and you wondering in from the west. We met and in desperation cleaved. Sex was pretty far under needs of food, water, and shelter. The last thing we need is half of us being impaired by a growing infant. We did it anyway. Did it first. As if we could have done anything to survive, might as well comfort each other.
We did survive. Survived long enough to start building a shelter. Just a lean-to. Not anything like the cottage we now call our homey tomb. Then after continuing to survive. We tried barriers. a few poison ones could have done us in. Then, we would have found our dead sleeping selves. It wasn’t until I got ambitious. That I started trying to take down trees for a more permanent living arrangement. A tree feel. You looked and despaired for me for three days before you found the house I was trying to construct for you in secret. I was close to death when you found me. Then I died and you cried as I said my first last words.
Then I woke up.
“It is so cute how you still tell that story. I cannot hear you. I’m over here now.”
So, you have woken up. Let us go for a walk and get lost.