Being buried alive is bad enough. Not being alone in your own grave is worse.
William Blakely-Cooper stared at his hands and wondered how much time he had before he’d be dead, these very hands rotting on his chest six feet below. Knowing where you’d like to be buried and discussing it with your family is one thing, but standing on the very grass that’s going to be laid over you soon is another.
I leaned in to kiss him for the first time, and when our lips touched I felt the sensation of cold marble against my skin. I woke up with my lips against his headstone, realizing I had been sleepwalking again.
I wonder how many miles I am from my future grave.
Is it here in Australia or on the other side of the world?