The Boy in the City of the Dead

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My memories of death were indistinct and muddy. I had spent most of my days in a dim room. I had screwed up. Somewhere, I had screwed something up. It had become almost impossible for me to leave the house.

My family’s interactions with me were tepid. They did not scold, nor did they lament. They simply gave me vague smiles and troubled looks. They offered me platitudes, and treated me as if everything were normal. It may have been kindness, or perhaps that was all they knew how to do. But whatever it was, to me, it was poison.

Before long, a sense of restlessness burned me from the inside. Just when it had risen to the point that I wanted to tear myself open and rip it out… My home and my room, which provided me just slightly more comfort than discomfort; the fear and distress the outside world inspired in me; and my tolerant family, who remained forever kind—together, they made me hesitate to take that single step forward.

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