26 julio 2018

It's fucked up to be dead.

The first impression was frightening, because Paco did not want to die and death came to him, suddenly, without knowing how or why. But the truth is, he was deader than a dried squid.
Without knowing very well why, he could see all that was happening on that fateful day.
His body was there, in the Funeral Home El Último Camino, which had more than three thousand square meters with all the best and latest advances for the living because the dead did not care so much about paraphernalia, the day when worms eat you.
Without thinking about it, he decided to take a stroll around the estancia and was surprised to find himself dead, of course, he had never seen himself like this, lying in a coffin made of Finnish pine, perfectly finished and in his best suit, the black one, with grey stripes that always gave him such a formal look, the matching tie and the black shoes. He approached to see himself up close, and how handsome he was! The morticians had done a good job because he, he had to admit, wasn't so handsome, rather throwing away almost attractive.
He continued his round of reconnaissance, and approached his wife, crying in a corner, stopped for a moment to try and kiss her, but he could not, wanted to touch her, but could not either.
It was fucked up about being dead.
He stood in the center of the room, raised his head to see who had come to see him off. But there were so many people, there was little I could do. But this thing of being dead has its advantages, and just thinking about it, it was seen levitating over the heads of all those who were in the room. He recognized his brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins and cousins, friends and girlfriends. In an isolated chair, he saw Renata who had come so far to say goodbye. Ugh, Renata. Could the dead get horny? No, they couldn't.
It sucked to be dead.
Renata, that female, brunette, with a sensual mouth, with a captivating body, tender kisses and a better lover. She had met her five months ago, by sheer coincidence, while fighting with an ill-mannered taxi driver on a rainy day, which left her stranded in the city of a thousand skyscrapers, while the rain and tears made mascara run. And he went out to the rescue, to the best rescue of his life.
He sat in front of her, looking at her for the last time and remembering her kisses, hugs, caresses and purring cat in heat, but her memories were already a nebula that was dissipating. The murmurs and cries interrupted his dreaming. He got up and saw that everything was over because his precious coffin, his best suit, his best shoes, his best memories and even his best memories were going to burn until they were reduced to the finest ashes.
He sat in the front row, beside his wife and brothers, watching as the fire devoured him like a hungry beast, taking away for ever all that had been before. Now, of him, there was nothing left but a few memories in the living. He tried to remember the words of his writer friend, who was still writing against all odds, that life is a fire and begins with the first breath of life. Yeah, his fire was already out. Now another one started, although I didn't know what it would be like.
Image source: Pixabay

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