An Undead Boy

School isn't as lonely as it used to be. Just under two months have come and passed since I rejoined the student congregation and it is exactly a month since Danielle and I first met each other in the deserted library. We quickly realised its potential as a safe rendezvous point for our unlikely friendship and, if a little warily, I agreed to regularly see her at that hidden corner of the library where I had examined the novels for a decent copy of Frankenstein. Danielle told me that it would be as good a place as any to meet up; even if other students came in, they never ventured as far as the first book shelf.

Despite choosing the perfect place for no interruptions, we decided that it was too risky for her to meet me every break or lunch time in case somebody notices. We alternate between days: Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays we see each other at lunch and Tuesday and Thursdays we meet at break time. That way, we have as much time as we can to hang out like normal teenagers without facing the consequences of befriending each other.

Danielle. I realise I've not given much away about her. My attempts at describing her have been a little lacking, apart from the fact that she wears her hair in a ponytail and her eyes are wide. It's not easy to paint an accurate picture of someone you hardly know; this is true for everyone, not just zombies. I'll give it a try though, even if I think she deserves more than a weak imitation of her endearing personality. My description is like seeing the reflection of a rainbow through a muddy puddle.

In looks, she is small. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder and her features all fit to match her petite frame. A button nose, rose bud lips - these probably attribute to the appearance of her large, owlish eyes. Out of everything, I think I like her eyes the most. They're a rich sort of hazel in colour and always seem to be swimming with emotion and depth. We haven't known each other long but already, I can read her like a book. Her eyes are her best and worst asset in this respect.

Her sense of humour is playful; this is something I am growing to love each day. My condition hardly deters or censors her jokes, in fact, it fuels them. She knows when to draw the line, fearful of upsetting me, but I don't mind. I think back to that day in my bedroom, when I thought death was a subject that comedy couldn't touch. I was wrong and I'm glad of it. Well, I was half wrong. I'm the exception to that rule because I have Danielle. She isn't insensitive to other people's misfortune and would never dream of laughing at another person; I'm just a singularity so it's acceptable. I'm happy I finally found out how to feel light-hearted about being dead.

From what I have found out about her personal life, she lives just on the outskirts of town, away from the city centre and the main roads. Her mother had inherited the house from a favourite aunt who had no children of her own and, even though it was big and old and creaky, her family loved it very much. She has two older brothers, both of them are at university studying degrees on music and childcare, her mother is a stay-at-home wife and her father works in the local newspaper as a journalist. I remember seeing an article that had been written by him about me; it wasn't very long and had only stated that I had died and woken up again. I think he didn't really want to write it but his boss had made him so he only put in the essential facts. Danielle said he kept muttering 'that poor kid' whilst he typed away on his keyboard. Though I know nothing about him except his occupation, I think Danielle has inherited his good nature.

Right now, it is lunch time and we can hear the other pupils laughing and shouting in the playground through the open windows. Danielle is curled up against the wall, balancing a book on the top of her knees to read. I'm sat at a desk, folding a piece of paper into triangles over and over again. Having company after all that time being on my own has made me relax. School work has once again taken a back seat.

"You don't talk much, do you? Is that a zombie thing?" she asks, grinning at me from over her book. It is Frankenstein. I want to smile.

"No; it's a Charlie thing."

"Well then, Charlie. I stand corrected."

Danielle carefully marks her page with the clean handkerchief that she always carries in her pocket (she never folds up the corner of a page, I've learnt that she hates ruining books) and chews on her lip. This seems to be a natural thing for her, I notice it the more time I spend with her. I kind of like the fact that I'm beginning to pick up on her traits after a month of about half an hour meetings every day. I can see that she's fighting with herself on the inside, clearly wondering about saying the right thing. After a long pause, she takes the plunge and looks me straight in the eye.

"I heard a lot of things about you while you were away, mostly from my mum." she admits quietly. "About being experimented on."

I nod. I think she is still uncertain about the subject because we have yet to address it and she does not know how I will react. However, I felt no physical pain during that time at the hospital and hurry to dispel her discomfort. After all, we are friends now and that's what friends do.

"It's true. I think they're not happy about me being the only known case of this. I think they're kind of jealous that I hold this hidden key for a second chance at life." I say bitterly. "They kept giving me this look the whole time, as if I could tell them how I did it but I was being selfish or something by keeping it from them."

She gasps. "But that's horrible! How could you know what's happened to you? You probably want answers as much as they do."

"I wish I could tell them. Then maybe they could cure me or if they can't cure me, at least find a way to - "

I break off. I was going to say that if they couldn't cure me, then they could at least find a way to kill me. During my time alone, I thought a lot about living - or not living - forever.

Danielle shot me a look. "To what, Charlie?"

I breathe in the dry, dusty air, relishing the scent of the aging books for a moment.

"To kill me."

She doesn't talk, which is not good. I wonder if I have said something that troubles her. The subject of life and death is never an easy one.

"Don't say that, Charlie. How can you think that way?" she whispers, her eyes shining. Her arms are wrapped around her legs and she looks tinier than usual.

"I don't want to remain like this, a fifteen year old boy, for the rest of my - my time here." I explain, begging her to understand. "Everyone around me is getting older and I'm going to be like this always. My mum will die, my old friends will die...you'll die."

Danielle unfolds herself and crawls over to me. I can barely look at her in the eyes so I focus on the triangular paper in my hands instead. I pinch it between my fingers, squeezing the fattened edges down.

"Charlie?"

I don't want to look up but I know I should. She isn't put off by my silence and places her hands on my shoulders. The warmth floods through my jumper and seeps into my flesh and bones. I'm unable to stop myself from glancing at her face.

"We don't have to worry about any of that right now. You're my friend and I'm yours and we are in the present. The future doesn't matter."

She speaks passionately, her face ablaze with a ferocious intensity I have never seen in anyone ever before.

And I believe her.