Dead Inside

by Chandler Morrison

It also stands to be said that fucking a corpse in a coffin provides for a morbid eroticism that is absolutely to die for. Yes, that pun was wholly intended, and yes, I do find myself amusing. The audience doesn’t get it, but that’s what laugh tracks are for.

You have to pass Villa Vida going to Millhaven from here, and she knows that. If I decline, she’ll know I’m just being a dick. Normally that wouldn’t bother me, but for whatever reason, I am somewhat invested in her opinion of me. Yuck.

I realize—sort of for the first time, since I don’t usually pay attention to shit like this—that I don’t have a single article of clothing in my wardrobe that isn’t black. I don’t think she’ll mind. I mean, she eats babies.

I’m relating to another human being. Hold the phone and shoot me in the fucking face.

I think of her warm, living flesh, the hot blood coursing through her veins, heart thudding beneath her breasts, and my first thought is . . . eww.

Sitting there smoking, my flaccid dick hanging out from the open zipper of my jeans, I think to myself, I could really be in a lot of fucking trouble.

And I’m thinking that I wish she were here. And that’s just fucking gross.

The Wild Rose is a strip club down the street. I’ve never been to a strip club. They don’t have any dead girls there.

Blah, blah, blah, go fuck yourself. If you’re looking for that kind of shit, go read a LaVyrle Spencer novel. That kind of shit doesn’t happen in my world. Nope. I just silently watch her die.