An Undead Boy

The holidays are a distant memory and we have been at school again for nearly a month now. Today is one of my favourite days; Danielle is meeting me in the library, at our spot, for a whole lunch time.

I notice that she is becoming more confident when asking me about my circumstance. I hardly realised that there were so many questions one person can ask when talking to a zombie but then again, I guess anyone would if they were given the chance.

Danielle seems to be running through categories concerning her questions. I wonder if she has just pages and pages of them at her house, filed away in some sort of system? I don't mind answering them though. I think it helps me, too.

In fact, it's like she chooses what sort of things to ask depending on the day, or how she feels, or how I feel. On this particular occasion, the weather is crisp and bright, she is in a good mood because she received an A on a recent essay she has written and I managed to successfully ask another student if I could borrow a pencil without them screaming, so she is focusing on what it means to be a zombie.

I can see why she has waited for a day like today to breach the topic of being a stereotypical zombie and what it may mean for the rest of my existence. The manner of this conversation demands an optimistic outlook from the outset; I doubted that we would have attempted to even talk about it if she had been given a C for her essay or if it was raining outside.

However, it is not raining and we are both as cheerful as we can be so as she chews on her cheese sandwich in our library spot, she contemplates the overall zombie demographic.

"Those films - how did they even get that image of the undead? Can anyone become a zombie? Did they get the idea from a book, a poem, an ancient myth? But then if they did, how did the person who wrote the book, or the poem, or the storyteller come up with it? Did they use pure imagination?"

I shake my head. "I used to think so but now, I'm not so sure. I wonder if they've seen something like this before? I just think that anything is possible now."

Danielle picks some fluff from the apple in her lunchbox. "Well, if that's true then aren't you worried? Aren't you afraid of becoming like those zombies? All snarling and decaying and evil?"

"I'm not saying it's wholly accurate. Perhaps there's a grain of truth behind all those horror stories? That one day, a person just woke up again after dying and carried on with their normal life? Maybe they used it as a basis for their films, to give their audiences something to really fear?"

She mulls this over, catches my eye and grins. She is tossing the apple back and forth between her hands and I watch it, almost transfixed by the movement.

"I suppose you're right. It wouldn't surprise me. But you did say that you're the only known case of a body reanimating itself, Charlie." she reminds me lightly.

I keep watching the apple as I reply. "They hushed it up? They didn't have the technology like we have now to even try to form a logical reason. It worried the government or the army or whoever it was, so they covered it up by destroying them all? But they kept the idea of the zombies and used it in a way to remind the public to be afraid of the things they know nothing about?"

Danielle laughs and I wrench my eyes from the apple at the sound.

"Charlie, I think this hardly calls for a conspiracy theory. We're reading too much into it."

I laugh my wheezy laugh. I am blowing this out of proportion. It wouldn't be possible to hide something as big as people coming back to life, especially from their friends or family, or their colleagues and employers, even the local shopkeeper would notice.

But the hospital managed to conceal the truth about me from my mother, who was in the midst of arranging a funeral. This thought strikes me.

"I think I miss the sense of finality about life." I say.

Danielle stops mid-bite of her apple. I don't think she anticipated this turn of events because if she had, she wouldn't have chosen to discuss zombie demographics today. She would have wanted to talk about something a little less heavier; could I run a marathon without stopping? Could I run without breaking into a sweat? Would I even want to run? Did I miss sweating?

"You do?" she asks cautiously.

"Of course. Why, wouldn't you?"

She shakes her head, her face momentarily vulnerable.

"No. A life without dying? Or pain? Or loss? Can you imagine never having to attend a funeral again, to see someone you love just stop existing? There wouldn't be the worry of turning to talk to someone and realising that they're no longer there, of having to stop yourself before their name leaves your lips. To be able to avoid that crushing feeling every single time you do forget and having to relive that agony of knowing all over again. No, Charlie. I wouldn't miss the finality of life."

Her speech is saturated with a sadness that implies she has felt the pain of losing somebody. I would have said the same myself back when I was alive but now, I have to make her understand. I take the apple from her loose grip and hold it up. There is a bite missing from it.

"Life is like this apple - "

Her face nearly breaks into a smile at my choice of analogy but she contains it for my sake. She sees that I am desperate to explain.

" - it has a purpose, doesn't it? This apple? You saw it, you wanted it, you ate it. Then it's gone. It's done its job. If you hadn't eaten it, then it would have rotted away on the tree, or in the shop, but it still would have gone through some sort of action to take it to that position, to reach its own ending. Are you following me so far?"

Danielle nods, her attention fixed on me. She waves a hand for me to continue.

"But what if the apple never rotted, or never got picked from the tree? It would just hang there eternally, never changing and never being useful because it can't do anything. That's me. I am the apple that never rots. Or, I guess I do rot - just not in a way that leads to an end." I finish, a little confused at my own explanation.

I become lost in my own words. What will happen to me? Danielle will get old with grey hair and wrinkles, and she'll wither and die whilst I remain a scrawny fifteen year old boy. She'll find someone to marry, to have children with, to become old with. Will I still be around? Exactly the same as I am now?

"Do you believe in God, Charlie?" Danielle pipes up, breaking my reverie.

"I - I didn't." I confess, grateful to turn my thoughts to something other than the future.

"But you do now?"

"I'm kind of torn about the whole thing, really. In a way, I'd like to believe - that this powerful being managed to create life and us, and everything that makes us, well...us. But then I think, why would he make me suffer like this? Why would he bring me back from the dead? Because he's the guy in charge, isn't he? He's the one who deals with everything. He's in control."

I realise I am still holding the apple and hand it back to her sheepishly. The bite mark is beginning to turn brown.

"Do you believe in God?" I ask curiously. Our conversation rarely turns to Danielle anymore - I hardly know her beliefs or values, except that she's open minded enough to be a zombies best friend.

She places the apple back into her lunchbox and looks straight at me.

"I think I do. Like you said, everything has a purpose - even something as simple as an apple. There's a reason you're back, Charlie, and I don't think it's a coincidence. I think maybe he wanted you to come back, like there's something you need to do first."

I wish I could think the way she thinks. There's something endearingly innocent in the way she continuously hopes, like there's only good in the world and I am a part of it.

"I don't know. I want to believe that but I can't. I can't see any reason for me to come back like this. I've brought nothing but grief and misery to everyone I know."

Danielle looks affronted. "Not to me, you haven't!"

I do not reply. Instead, I glance away from her and out of the window. It has started to rain.