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The city was left for the dead. Contrary to popular rumors, the living don’t mind. It made things more interesting. Living is easy for the dead—there were lobster hour bar crawls at nine am and so much gossip flowed like fountains. What was the point of holding onto a buried past? It isn’t going to get anyone killed anymore.
We let the living girls and boys sneak in under a hole in the fence. They think it’s a secret, despite all of the neon lights. Humans are funny creatures, with their fickle gods and their little secrets. Wouldn’t it be funny if they knew the truth?
The dead even have their own currency—always silver paper—the ATM has a $7.99 transaction fee (I’m not kidding). No, it didn’t repel agile werewolves or handsome vampires, but both of these mythical creatures wear the finest black leather gloves when traveling. Maybe it was just sartorial gratuity, after all trends still happen here. You know how vain vampires can be—and werewolves, they’re still cool but just always playing catch up.
It doesn’t take you long to want to move to this part of town. It has a certain charm and ample square footage. Think lilac-colored brownstones surrounded by gargoyles, smog, and warehouses. I think this is what residents in downtown Los Angeles must feel like before all of the young people took over. One day if I feel like traveling again, I’ll ask them. And, I’ll remember to write it down. My memory fades in and out sometimes. It’ll happen to you, too.
The living always joke that the lawyers and tax collectors live on the outskirts of Dead City because they’re not really living humans. Truth is, we like them and we give them cheap rent. It’s nice to have a barrier for the living—they’re entirely too hyper, too concerned, too dry, and yet not thirsty enough. It’s like living with a bunch of kittens. All dumb paws and needle teeth.
You can buy regret at the bodega here. It’s cheaper than a red slushy, and really are you surprised? The poets and the philosophers argue over their own manifestoes and previous lives with the most regret. They try to make the most of their degrees, even after life. In Dead City, listening is always the easy part. We have all the time. We outlast young lovers, pious saints, and absent queens. Even God. The living can’t admit to as much.
As for me, I feel like I’ve always been here. Always a quarter-century, nothing more and nothing less. The living here has always been smooth until her.
It’s cliche to fall in love with a breathing girl, right? The breathing girl has Medusa hair and skips under the fence with her smudged green eyes and black scarf. We talk and talk and talk until I have to drink water again. I try to remember my real name. She’s just misunderstood. I tell her to shed the pain. I tell her that there’s a way she could live forever. If she’d only listen to my song. It sounds like summer rain, and it’s warm.