The Living Dead

I spoke with the dead last night, like I do when I have a fever, or the electric blanket is set too high.

I found myself in a place I’ve been before, pursued by the animated corpses of animals in various stages of putrescence. One in particular cried out to me as if for help, a blind kitten with golden eyes that had no pupils, its abdomen, a weeping puss filled sore. I shrank from the horror of its condition, but everywhere I turned it was there.

I rounded a corner in this ancient structure of stone and memories that I wished to escape and there was my Aunt Freda, long dead but the picture of vigorous health as she had been in life.  She took me aside, and showed me my life as though I were watching a movie.  I saw myself as a child, watched myself grow, watched my relatives and playmates grow and mature around me as the details of their lives yet unknown played out before me, superimposed over those of my own, even my death.

“The stages of life are but a mirror for all we cannot see,”  she said.  She took my hand, looked at me with love and disappeared.

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~ by loretta8 on February 2, 2011.

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