What are you staring at? I wanted to ask many of the people. Nothing to see here. Some tried to talk to me, say something kind -or angry. One woman kissed me. She wasn't a bad kisser, but I prefer not to be taken so lightly especially as I could not kiss her back. Honestly I do not know the reason for any of this special treatment. I was only dead. Dead people shouldn't be treated like they are alive. A man could get the wrong idea. Also, less tongue next time would be fantastic.
Frankly, I don't know why I'm dead. I don't remember what it was like when I was alive. I can't move. I can't speak. I can only lie here and think my disdainful thoughts of the living. Even though my eyes are closed I can still see them in a way and hear them talk about me. From their descriptions I was a misunderstood saint, though I highly doubt that it was the case.
I apologize for writing so consistently about myself, but when you are dead, there is little else to consider but yourself, as the people around you speak in whispers as if you are merely sleeping, and so sadly as though I am not quite better off without them.
Living people would make me laugh, if I could make noise. I have no memories and no beating heart, and yet I'm still, quite possibly, the wisest, best dressed person in the room. I don't think they realize how meaningless all of this is to me. I don't know them. The sticky sweet things they say about me, sniffling their pathetic tears, only make me want to wipe their eyes and break their necks.
I seem to be a very bad tempered person. Perhaps that is why I am dead. Anyone of these people could have killed me with good reason. I am faintly confused as to why I'm still here though. I don't believe I was supposed to get stuck in my rotting body for eternity, listening to these mewling children weep over my grave. Ah well, maybe every dead man has to endure this. I probably never expected anything better in the afterlife. I don't seem the type.
