Dead People Can Be Our

For God's Sake, Stiff," He Says. "you Don't Have To Follow Me," I Say Staring At The Maze Of Bars Above Me. I Shove My Foot Onto The Place Where Two Bars Cross And Push Myself Up, Grabbing Another Bar In The Process. I Sway For A Second, My Heart Beating So Hard I Can't Feel Anything Else. Every Thought I Have Condenses Into That Heartbeat, Moving At The Same Rhythm. "yes, I Do," He Says.

I Notice, However, That Peter Only Pretends To Inject Himself—when He Presses The Plunger Down, The Fluid Runs Down His Throat, And He Wipes It Casually With A Sleeve. I Wonder What It Feels Like To Volunteer To Forget Everything.

People Talk About The Pain Of Grief, But I Don't Know What They Mean. To Me, Grief Is A Devastating Numbness, Every Sensation Dulled.

Out Of My Peripheral Vision, I See Four Shove The Door Open And Walk Out. Apparently This Fight Isn't Interesting Enough For Him. Or Maybe He's Going To Figure Out Why Everything's Spinning Like A Top, And I Don't Blame Him; I Want To Know The Answer Too.

I Think It's A Human Tendency That's Been Around For A While To Try To Be As Good As Possible To Prove Your Worth.