Rattlebones (bxbxb)

Decomposition

A wind whips through the windows, alone and desolate. My Acura doesn't have air conditioning or heat, so I'm either burning to death in the Summer or prying my frozen digits off the steering wheel in the Winter.

I drive us out of town, far from the prying eyes of the general public.

"Do you think Eugene's going to be the same, McCreepy?" Iggy asks me, and finally peels himself away from the window.

"What do you mean? He might smell after the first couple of days, but he'll still have his skin and hair." I reply. "After that, I'm not sure what we're going to do about potential decomposition. He might have to sleep in a freezer overnight--"

"No." Iggy cuts me off sharply. "I mean, is he going to be able to play football and crack jokes like he used to? Or is he going to be a walking vegetable? Cause if that's the case, we might as well bury him right now. I don't want to see him walking around school like that. It's sick, man."

I bite down on my lip and consider my experiment going potentially wrong. If there was a chance of bringing Eugene Wilder back at all, what if his brain didn't come back with him? What if the essence that made Eugene who he was, died with his body? Death was complicated. There was so much that we didn't know. Like why people drowned and came back after an absurd amount of time. Or why someone could feel a phantom limb when it had long since been gone.

"Look, Iggy. I don't have all the answers." I exhale, blowing bits of choppy black hair away from my eyes. "I'm going to try bringing Eugene back, but there's always a chance of something going wrong."

"This is all wrong, McCreepy," Iggy replies and turns back to the window. The thing is, I know that he's right, and I have my regrets. But it's too late to take Eugene back to his funeral.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that," I tell him after a long pause

"What? McCreepy?' He smiles and then chuckles to himself.

"It's Darcy."

Iggy furrows his eyebrows. "Why is your name Darcy Brown if you're Asian?"

"Wow, really? Do you want me to wave a pair of chopsticks around too? I was adopted. I was born in Japan."

That seems to startle him for a moment and then he nods a little before shutting up.

I listen to Good Charlotte and other emotionally disturbing bands for the next hour, and Iggy falls asleep, giving me a chance to sneak a few glances at him. He's pretty in that mama's boy, butter-pecan type of way. The type of guy that might take me home to his ranch and feed me chili while we sit on hay bales under the stars. But he's not my type, I'm allergic to hay.

Besides, Eugene Wilder already had a place near my gothic heart.

When we get to where we're going, I park the car outside the building and lean over to shake Iggy's shoulder. "Hey, we're here."

Iggy brushes away my hand and sits up, rubbing his eyes. "Where is here exactly?" He questions and looks around as I open my door to get out.

"My uncle was a plastic surgeon," I explain and survey the deserted property. "They threw him in jail for botching someone's boob job. This is used to be his house."

"You're fucking kidding me," Iggy says, and gets out and stares up at the mansion. My Uncle had been an eccentric man, and filthy rich. All of his money had gone into his behemoth of a house, which loomed over us like a castle. Beautiful grey brick made up the walls, and ivy clung to the front section, crawling up the towers.

"Do you know how many sick parties you can have in here?!" Iggy shrills. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

"Because I hate people? Maybe?" I reply and scoff a little at the thought of hosting anything remotely interesting to the general school population. "Anyway. Come help me pull Eugene out of the trunk. He weighs like two-hundred pounds."

Iggy reluctantly follows me to the car and I open up the trunk.

There's a moment where my heart does a nervous flutter at the sight of his dead corpse.

"This is so creepy." Iggy groans. "Do I have to touch him? It's gross as hell."

"Just lift him up by one arm and we'll pull him out together," I tell him, and reach down to take Eugene's dead hand. It's ice-cold, his fingers stiff. His skin feels like an unyielding canvas, void of the colors that made him who he was.

"Oh, Christ...he feels like a frozen pork chop." Iggy mumbles, and dry heaves a couple of times as we pull Eugene out of the trunk.

"No, wait! Don't lift him like that!"

"How the hell do you want me to pick him up? Bridal style?"

"Well, if you're offering..."

"Shut up, Brown."

We haul Eugene across the yard his shiny black shoes scraping across the gravel. He really is dead weight at this point, but there's no turning back.

Tonight is the night that we bring Eugene Wilder back from the dead.