You'd Look Better as a Ghost

by Joanna Wallace

Then I remember he’s a sadist and I breathe comfortably again because sadists rarely notice anything outside their own vile orbit.

Twenty minutes. That’s an interesting figure. Must be an ordinary person’s estimation of how long it takes to fathom the unfathomable. Seems a highly unrealistic estimation to me, especially factoring in all the unknowns.

She smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m not a serial killer.” Returning the smile, I get in the car and wonder how many serial killers in the history of serial killing have used that line. I might try it.

“Helen, can I be honest with you?” I ask, as I often do when I’m still trying to decide what to say. “Yes,” she replies as I knew she would. No ordinary person has ever answered that question in the negative.

I’ve always been fascinated by this particular aspect of human nature—the insatiable need to be envied and admired. Every day, millions of ordinary people become locked in a relentless battle to accumulate “likes” on social media, never stopping long enough to question whether they still like the person they’re pretending to be. We have evolved to the point where the truth is no longer an inconvenience, it’s irrelevant.

She really is the most repulsive specimen of ordinariness it has ever been my misfortune to observe.

I’m trying to be nonjudgmental, I really am. I just think consideration is more appropriate than helium balloons when remembering the dead. And I know that’s not a cliché. But maybe it should be.