Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > Forever March On
"What's her name?" inquired a tall woman, her voice high and clear.
"Rose Victoire." said a younger boy.
"French?" she asked, slightly surprised.
"On her mother's side. Her great grand mother is Natalie Victoire. Fantastic croissants. Best in Brittany, I'd say. Oh and the crêpes! The savoury ones were excellent! Like trying to fit an elephant into a fighter pilot, impossible, unless it's either a miniature elephant or a colossal fighter pilot, which would mean -"
"Loïc! I really do not want to hear about fighter pilots and elephants, or your French childhood from a century ago," she said firmly.
"Hardly a century ago! Seventy three years ago I died!" he protested.
"Forty eight for me," said the older woman.
"I'm almost thirty years deader than you!"
"I didn't know deader was a word," she muttered, "She looks young."
"Sorry? Oh, the girl! She's thirteen. Died of anorexia. She died to the sound of a screaming child, too. Her little brother, George."
"Pity," she remarked. "She would look so pretty with a bit of colour in her cheeks and some flesh on those bones."
"Don't you think she's pretty?" he asked.
"Not particularly," the woman replied stiffly.
"I think she's very pretty. Prettier than the other Starvers. She does looks sick, though," he said.
"What use is beauty when you're dead?" she snapped.
The others in the Death Tent watched as she turned on her heel and stormed out, presumably to wallow in self pity. Since her death, her husband had moved on. He had found another, prettier woman, with a heartbeat, which helped. It's one thing to have a long distance relationship, but having a relationship with a dead person is harder. Necrophilia is frowned upon.
The first thing I was aware of was that there had been a woman and a boy, talking about their deaths, and mine. The second thing I was aware of was that I was conscious. The third, that this was impossible. I wondered if I had the ability to move, as well as think. I decided to test it. I moved my head to the left and wriggled my fingers. The realisation hit me suddenly, that I was dead. Dead as a door nail. Yet here I was, conscious and moving. The shock of it caused me sit bolt upright and cast a wild glance around the tent of the dead.
"So you're awake," said a boy with a friendly grin. "How are you feeling?"
"What's going on?" I demanded.
A short, slightly awkward silence followed my question.
"You're dead..." said the boy with the now non existent grin. "I'm sorry."
I choked back my tears. "I can't be dead. I'm conscious!"
"We all are," he said sadly. "It doesn't make us any less dead." His grin came back.
I couldn't speak. A few tears burst from my eyes and leaked down my face.
His grin faltered, and he took a step closer to the uncomfortable camp bed I was sitting on.
"What's wrong? Does anything hurt? It shouldn't hurt. If something hurts, there's a huge problem."
(Nothing hurt, except my heart. And that was metaphorical, of course. If you are experiencing heart pains please seek immediate medical attention. Unless you're in the Death Tent.)
"My brothers, and my mum! I want my brothers and my mum!" I sniffed, completely humiliating myself.
"Oh. You'll see your mum in around 50 years. Your brothers in 70 or 80. I'm sorry," he said.
I shook my head and wiped the tears away."It's my fault I'm dead. It was slow suicide. God, I'm so stupid. Where am I?"
"You're in London. Dead London," he said with a wry smile.
"What, Dead London? So basically London, but everyone is dead?"
"Basically London, but everything is dead. Come on, let's go, I hate the Death Tent. It reeks of hospitals, this one." He gestured for me to follow him out of the tent, so I did.
"I'm Loïc, by the way. French on my Father's side." he extended his arm.
"Rose. French on my mother's side." I shook his hand.
"You need to sign in," he said.
"Sign in?" I repeated.
"Yeah. Let them know you're dead," he explained.
"So what, do we get tested by a big scary man in a black hooded cloak, waving a scythe in our faces?"
He laughed and shook his head. "No, the Grim Reaper doesn't walk amongst us commoners. He has his own place. You sign your name in that book," he said, pointing to an ordinary looking blue book. "Name, age, cause of death."
I nodded my dead as a doornail head. "Rose Victoire, age thirteen. Cause of death...- anorexia. Or do I write starvation?"
"Write both."
I nodded and signed my name. I finished my signature with a flourish of the fancy quill.
"So what do we do now?" I wanted to ask if I could see my family, but something told me that was a very bad idea indeed.
"Nothing," he replied, shrugging his thin shoulders, "We go to your funeral, come back, and do whatever we want, providing we don't break any laws."
I held up my hand to stop him from talking more. "Wait a second, the dead have laws?" I asked incredulously.
"Of course!" he said with a bemused expression. "We're no different from the living, except we don't have heartbeats and we can't die."
"What about entertainment?" I asked. "If I'm stuck here for all eternity, I don't want to be bored."
He laughed. "Typical 21st century girl. Unfortunately, for you, our entertainment isn't great. This is the world of the dead, the lost, and the failed attempts. We have all the lost and destroyed films. I'd recommend London After Midnight. Lon Chaney is a fantastic actor. I'd like to meet him. It's a pity it takes about a hundred years to get a passport. I applied for one a few weeks after I died, and I'm still passportless."
"When did you.... Die?" I asked, a sudden shyness coming over me.
He smiled sadly. " Don't be shy about it. It's not a sensitive subject. I was killed in the London Blitz of 1940. My brother is still alive and my mother is in Dead Glasgow, apparently. My father, lost at sea. I was fifteen at the time."
"So that makes you..." I did the maths in my head, "Eighty eight years old!"
"No, I stopped ageing when I died. I'm fifteen. If I was still living, I'd be eighty eight. But I'm dead. Forever fifteen, like you're forever thirteen."
"Oh. I'm stuck like this forever, then?" I asked.
He nodded. "And you can see yourself for what you are. You won't see yourself as fat anymore. Do you want to see how thin you are?"
I hesitated, then nodded.
"Okay. Come with me," he said.
"Where are we going?" I called after him.
"My house," he called back.
"Wait, you have a house?" I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Age doesn't matter when you're dead," was all he said. "Neither does money."
It turned out that his house was a half dilapidated mansion. The West side of it had collapsed, but the East side was perfectly built, with neat flower pots in the windows.
"Built in the twenties," he explained. "Due to bad engineering, the West Wing collapsed, killing Bob Westcliff. He lives with his Grandmother now. I have the entire place to myself."
"You're fifteen and you have a mansion," I said.
"Yep. Age doesn't matter here. Are you coming inside? It's going to rain, and you don't exactly have the most weather proof clothes."
I followed him inside, shaking my head. "A bloody mansion."
"In ruins," he added.
"Still a mansion, though."
"Yeah. Go look in the mirror," he pointed to the wall beside him, where a huge ornate mirror hung.
I stepped in front of the mirror, and my reflection shocked me.
"Is that - ?"
"Yes, it's you." he said.
"I'm so... Thin! I'm ugly!" I ran a hand through my thin blonde hair, and turned away from my reflection. It was the opposite of what I was used to seeing, but it still disgusted me.
"Are you... Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm dead, what does it matter?" I shook my head. "I'm fine."
"Of course it matters. Feeling horrible for all eternity doesn't sound too pleasant."
"Can I change myself?"
"Emotionally, yes. Physically, no. You don't need to change yourself. It's okay," he said.
"I don't want to stay like this!"
"Trust me, there are people that look much worse. The tortured, the burnt, the natural..."
I forced a slight laugh. "At least I'm not old and wrinkly."
"Some of the other starvers might not like you, by the way. But the other anorexics will understand you. I'll take you to meet them tomorrow. Are you hungry?"
I glanced at my reflection, again, at the bones poking out and my concave stomach.
"Starved."
"Rose Victoire." said a younger boy.
"French?" she asked, slightly surprised.
"On her mother's side. Her great grand mother is Natalie Victoire. Fantastic croissants. Best in Brittany, I'd say. Oh and the crêpes! The savoury ones were excellent! Like trying to fit an elephant into a fighter pilot, impossible, unless it's either a miniature elephant or a colossal fighter pilot, which would mean -"
"Loïc! I really do not want to hear about fighter pilots and elephants, or your French childhood from a century ago," she said firmly.
"Hardly a century ago! Seventy three years ago I died!" he protested.
"Forty eight for me," said the older woman.
"I'm almost thirty years deader than you!"
"I didn't know deader was a word," she muttered, "She looks young."
"Sorry? Oh, the girl! She's thirteen. Died of anorexia. She died to the sound of a screaming child, too. Her little brother, George."
"Pity," she remarked. "She would look so pretty with a bit of colour in her cheeks and some flesh on those bones."
"Don't you think she's pretty?" he asked.
"Not particularly," the woman replied stiffly.
"I think she's very pretty. Prettier than the other Starvers. She does looks sick, though," he said.
"What use is beauty when you're dead?" she snapped.
The others in the Death Tent watched as she turned on her heel and stormed out, presumably to wallow in self pity. Since her death, her husband had moved on. He had found another, prettier woman, with a heartbeat, which helped. It's one thing to have a long distance relationship, but having a relationship with a dead person is harder. Necrophilia is frowned upon.
The first thing I was aware of was that there had been a woman and a boy, talking about their deaths, and mine. The second thing I was aware of was that I was conscious. The third, that this was impossible. I wondered if I had the ability to move, as well as think. I decided to test it. I moved my head to the left and wriggled my fingers. The realisation hit me suddenly, that I was dead. Dead as a door nail. Yet here I was, conscious and moving. The shock of it caused me sit bolt upright and cast a wild glance around the tent of the dead.
"So you're awake," said a boy with a friendly grin. "How are you feeling?"
"What's going on?" I demanded.
A short, slightly awkward silence followed my question.
"You're dead..." said the boy with the now non existent grin. "I'm sorry."
I choked back my tears. "I can't be dead. I'm conscious!"
"We all are," he said sadly. "It doesn't make us any less dead." His grin came back.
I couldn't speak. A few tears burst from my eyes and leaked down my face.
His grin faltered, and he took a step closer to the uncomfortable camp bed I was sitting on.
"What's wrong? Does anything hurt? It shouldn't hurt. If something hurts, there's a huge problem."
(Nothing hurt, except my heart. And that was metaphorical, of course. If you are experiencing heart pains please seek immediate medical attention. Unless you're in the Death Tent.)
"My brothers, and my mum! I want my brothers and my mum!" I sniffed, completely humiliating myself.
"Oh. You'll see your mum in around 50 years. Your brothers in 70 or 80. I'm sorry," he said.
I shook my head and wiped the tears away."It's my fault I'm dead. It was slow suicide. God, I'm so stupid. Where am I?"
"You're in London. Dead London," he said with a wry smile.
"What, Dead London? So basically London, but everyone is dead?"
"Basically London, but everything is dead. Come on, let's go, I hate the Death Tent. It reeks of hospitals, this one." He gestured for me to follow him out of the tent, so I did.
"I'm Loïc, by the way. French on my Father's side." he extended his arm.
"Rose. French on my mother's side." I shook his hand.
"You need to sign in," he said.
"Sign in?" I repeated.
"Yeah. Let them know you're dead," he explained.
"So what, do we get tested by a big scary man in a black hooded cloak, waving a scythe in our faces?"
He laughed and shook his head. "No, the Grim Reaper doesn't walk amongst us commoners. He has his own place. You sign your name in that book," he said, pointing to an ordinary looking blue book. "Name, age, cause of death."
I nodded my dead as a doornail head. "Rose Victoire, age thirteen. Cause of death...- anorexia. Or do I write starvation?"
"Write both."
I nodded and signed my name. I finished my signature with a flourish of the fancy quill.
"So what do we do now?" I wanted to ask if I could see my family, but something told me that was a very bad idea indeed.
"Nothing," he replied, shrugging his thin shoulders, "We go to your funeral, come back, and do whatever we want, providing we don't break any laws."
I held up my hand to stop him from talking more. "Wait a second, the dead have laws?" I asked incredulously.
"Of course!" he said with a bemused expression. "We're no different from the living, except we don't have heartbeats and we can't die."
"What about entertainment?" I asked. "If I'm stuck here for all eternity, I don't want to be bored."
He laughed. "Typical 21st century girl. Unfortunately, for you, our entertainment isn't great. This is the world of the dead, the lost, and the failed attempts. We have all the lost and destroyed films. I'd recommend London After Midnight. Lon Chaney is a fantastic actor. I'd like to meet him. It's a pity it takes about a hundred years to get a passport. I applied for one a few weeks after I died, and I'm still passportless."
"When did you.... Die?" I asked, a sudden shyness coming over me.
He smiled sadly. " Don't be shy about it. It's not a sensitive subject. I was killed in the London Blitz of 1940. My brother is still alive and my mother is in Dead Glasgow, apparently. My father, lost at sea. I was fifteen at the time."
"So that makes you..." I did the maths in my head, "Eighty eight years old!"
"No, I stopped ageing when I died. I'm fifteen. If I was still living, I'd be eighty eight. But I'm dead. Forever fifteen, like you're forever thirteen."
"Oh. I'm stuck like this forever, then?" I asked.
He nodded. "And you can see yourself for what you are. You won't see yourself as fat anymore. Do you want to see how thin you are?"
I hesitated, then nodded.
"Okay. Come with me," he said.
"Where are we going?" I called after him.
"My house," he called back.
"Wait, you have a house?" I stopped dead in my tracks.
"Age doesn't matter when you're dead," was all he said. "Neither does money."
It turned out that his house was a half dilapidated mansion. The West side of it had collapsed, but the East side was perfectly built, with neat flower pots in the windows.
"Built in the twenties," he explained. "Due to bad engineering, the West Wing collapsed, killing Bob Westcliff. He lives with his Grandmother now. I have the entire place to myself."
"You're fifteen and you have a mansion," I said.
"Yep. Age doesn't matter here. Are you coming inside? It's going to rain, and you don't exactly have the most weather proof clothes."
I followed him inside, shaking my head. "A bloody mansion."
"In ruins," he added.
"Still a mansion, though."
"Yeah. Go look in the mirror," he pointed to the wall beside him, where a huge ornate mirror hung.
I stepped in front of the mirror, and my reflection shocked me.
"Is that - ?"
"Yes, it's you." he said.
"I'm so... Thin! I'm ugly!" I ran a hand through my thin blonde hair, and turned away from my reflection. It was the opposite of what I was used to seeing, but it still disgusted me.
"Are you... Are you okay?" he asked.
"I'm dead, what does it matter?" I shook my head. "I'm fine."
"Of course it matters. Feeling horrible for all eternity doesn't sound too pleasant."
"Can I change myself?"
"Emotionally, yes. Physically, no. You don't need to change yourself. It's okay," he said.
"I don't want to stay like this!"
"Trust me, there are people that look much worse. The tortured, the burnt, the natural..."
I forced a slight laugh. "At least I'm not old and wrinkly."
"Some of the other starvers might not like you, by the way. But the other anorexics will understand you. I'll take you to meet them tomorrow. Are you hungry?"
I glanced at my reflection, again, at the bones poking out and my concave stomach.
"Starved."
Sign up to rate and review this story