The Beautiful Dead Read Online Free PDF Page A

full-well that isn’t
possible. On the bright side, I guess that makes one friend I’ve successfully
found. Ann, a teenager who’s been seventeen for at least the last ten years and
who, for fun, pulls off her head and plays soccer with a group of law-breaking
teens. My Second Life is so purposeful and fulfilling now.
    I take a short
glance at the sky, noting it’s still silver-o’clock. I could get used to grey.
    I spend a lot
more time on the curb just watching people go by … Groups of suited men, pairs
of teenagers dismissed from school, young couples in love, a lady with a cart
full of candlesticks, three tall men laughing about something that happened at
the factory … After a while, things start to feel a little normal again. I’m
almost convinced that I’m alive, just sitting on the curb of some town I’m
visiting, people-watching, some nice afternoon.
    Until I remind
myself I can pull off my arm.
    “Dear!” cries an
old lady, clutching her face. “You’ve had an accident!”
    I glance to my
left, as though noticing a fly on my shoulder, only to realize I’ve indeed just
pulled off my left arm with my right.
    “To the
Refinery, you must!” the old lady urges me, throwing a shawl over my back as
though attempting to hide me from the onlookers. “We must fix that at once!”
    Yes, I pulled
off my own arm. No, I don’t care. The old lady hurriedly leading me back to the
Refinery, I’m not even upset about this stupid Second Life anymore. I’m not
angry about my stupid pulse that isn’t there, or the unfunctioning pointless
parts inside me. The fact that I barely felt my arm come off, that something that grotesque has no more an effect than a fly landing on my skin … That’s what
kills me.
    Back on the
work table with the large woman who created me not so long ago, she’s sewing my
arm back on when she whispers, “Death is such a blameless chore!”
    The. Only.
One. Left. To. Blame. Is. You.
    When I’m
ushered out of the squatty pink building, rubbing my arm with the stupid
illusion that it’s sore after a tiring surgery, I honestly debate pulling it
right back off. Here, you can give this to someone else—I don’t need it .
That’s what I’d tell the large refinery lady. I’d mean it too. I’d give
everything back, my legs, my empty lungs, my icy eyes, every useless piece.
Maybe I was an organ donor when I was alive. Maybe I’ll be one in death too.
    “You look
lost.”
    I look up. I
can’t believe it. My eyes are met by the one and only Grimsky, the man who
saved me from the cliff. He leans on a dead tree that hangs over a long stone
bench. Of course I’d run into him, of all the hundreds of people to encounter
in this city. Just seeing his sweet smile warms me instantly, makes me forget
about all those stupid things, makes me forget how I just tore off my own arm.
“Lost as ever,” I admit in many ways.
    He steps away
from the tree. I see his thick brooding eyebrows, his porcelain skin. A few
steps closer, he smiles again and says, “Need help getting home? I realized the
other day that you live really close to me.”
    I find in
staring at his smile that I rather like it, the way the corners of his long
lips create dimples in his smooth pale skin. I almost reflect his smile, unable
to help myself. “I think I already miss eating,” I confess quietly.
    “Hey, we can
still drink,” he points out, cocking his head to the side. “Sometime we could
have one together. There’s a lovely tavern in the strip, just up the road.”
    Looking into
his soft, forever-welcoming eyes, I wonder if I’ve been looking at all of this
wrong. If I have no memory, then there’s nothing to mourn. Nothing to miss … No
family, husband, lover, like Helena said.
    I put on a
smile. “When I’m ready, I’ll be happy to take you up on that drink offer.”
    “We have all
the days of the world for you to get ready, Winter.” He grins. “Welcome to the
End of Time.”
    His voice is
like ... coffee