By Melissa Mead

Stop whimpering.

Whaddaya mean, you’re scared? Of what? Me? Dead people aren’t scary. I know; I’ve been dead for a long time.

Live people, now they’re scary. They’ve got no sense, that’s why. I remember what being alive is like. Aches, pains, hunger, cold. The littlest thing hurts, stops you in your tracks. Now, when you’re dead, pain’s no problem. See? This bone’s been sticking out like that for weeks now, and it doesn’t slow me down. I liberate a dozen people a month, rain or shine, or snow . . . something comes off, I stick it back on or do without. No big deal.

Sit still!

There’s another thing. When you’re dead, there’s no fear. You live people, now, you’re always scared. You don’t realize how much easier you’ll have it. I’m experienced, it’s quick-if you’ll just stop squirming! I keep my tools sharp.

:Sigh:

This always happens. I tell them the last pain is the worst, then they’re free. But they always scream.

Ingrates.


The End