Dead People

DEAD PEOPLE

Tom could see dead people.

He wasn't sure how long he'd had this ability.  For all he knew, he'd always been able to see them and it was only recently that he'd begun to notice them.

The dead looked pretty much like everyone else, so they blended in pretty well. They did not present themselves covered in blood, the remains of nooses hanging from their necks, nor with knives sticking out of their backs. They did not carry vials of poison, they did not wear badges.

It was something in the eyes, something in the way they moved. As if seeing, and walking was an effort. Something in their posture, a certain bend to the spine, a looseness of the hands. Mostly though, it was the eyes. They all shared the same sort of eyes, vacant, without interest.

Once he realised he could see them, he began to look for them.

He saw a  woman in the supermarket, studying the same two oranges for almost five minutes. One cradled in each hand, she simply stared at them. As if one of them would suddenly grow into an orange tree or something. Finally she dropped both back onto the display and walked away.

Or the young boy in the park, sitting all by himself on the swing. Not swinging, just sitting. His fingers entwined in the steel ropes, his dirty trainers dug slightly into the floor. He wore a school uniform but no coat, though the day was cold. He seemed impervious, his small body as still as any sculpture.

He saw old men on benches, young women staring into shop windows, mature ladies at bus shelters.

He tried to speak to them. Often they looked at him but through him, as if they could not see the man before them. As if they could not comprehend him talking to them. As if speech was beyond them.

Sometimes they grunted at him.

But mostly, they sighed. Silently.

Tom wondered how lonely their lives must be. To live within society and yet not be a part of it. To be forever an observer, standing on the sidelines, silently watching.

That's if they were watching, sometimes he wasn't sure. Their vacant stares gave no indication that they actually realised where they were, or what they were looking at. He'd seen them sit oblivious to the roar of an estactic crowd, to walk past snarling dogs and to have their eyes on the floor as fireworks went off overhead.

He once saw one be run over. A young guy. He just walked off the pavement and under a truck. He'd not even slowed in his laborious trudging, had not turned to meet his demise. It was if he hadn't seen it. At first Tom thought the guy had been wearing headphones and not heard it. But no, there were no headphones, no music. Just oblivious leading to oblivion.

Since then he'd seen several others narrowly miss the same fate. Each and every one had stood afterwards, as the brakes squealed and the people shouted, had just stood. Dazed, disorientated. Almost catatonic.

Tom was afraid that one day he would join them.

He'd been studying the process. It was not quick, but insidious, creeping. They hadn't died suddenly, but gradually fading to grey.  It began with vacances and spread. The shoulders slumped, their words slurred and finally silenced. They could talk, but... they didn't. A slow but sure shutting down of the mind and body.

Some days Tom was sure he was dying.  He would open his mouth to talk, but find the words dead on his lips. He'd find himself slumped on the sofa, unaware of the last few hours.

He became louder to compensate. Jollier, more social. It staved it off for a bit but these nights left him exhausted. He stopped trying. Stopped talking. Stopped going out. Stopped washing. Stopped caring.

It seemed that Tom had become one of them.

Some weeks later he found himself walking around the supermarket. He wasn't sure why he was there. He knew there had been a reason, a few hours back, but now it eluded him. He trudged up and down the aisles. Staring at the bright labels, unable to comprehend the names on the tins. He picked up a packet and studied it. The label had round green things on it. He didn't know whether he wanted it, it didn't even matter what was inside.

And then he heard it.

Laughter.

It was the woman with the oranges. She was standing at the corner of the aisle with someone else. She was laughing, her eyes ablaze with mirth, tears running down her face.

And he saw hope.

That he could live again.