Jealous of the Dead

A short story.

The man approached the church doors. To his surprise, they were unlocked. He approached the empty altar and sat down at the front pew, not knowing what to do. He had half a mind to pray, but didn’t know what to say. So he stood up, turned around and headed back outside. On his way out, he saw a pad of paper and some tiny pencils near the entrance. He impulsively grabbed a sheet and a tiny pencil, thinking he could collect his thoughts by writing instead of orison.

The man walked outside toward the cemetery and approached a tiny grave with the name of his son and only one date which marked both the birth and death date, a technicality since his son had died two days prior to the induced stillbirth, the tragic result of E. Coli poisoning from a bad can of corn beef which was cooked during the storm. Turns out millions of pounds of food had been contaminated that year. The man seethed thinking about how those bastards would never be held accountable for destroying so many lives. 

His mind had not found peace since that day. They say time heals all wounds, but these wounds and this grief had only grown deeper with time. In vulnerable moments like these, he found himself going to dark places, thinking he could only find peace through some extreme measure. Like ending it all. Maybe taking the whole world with him. He fantasized about putting a silver bullet in the temple of every vampire and parasite who had wronged him. Everyone who had let him down. Everyone who he could blame for what he could no longer change: the past. 

He thought of holding his son today, one year later. He could no longer bear to see the happiness in others, the joy in parents raising their children as normal people do. Sometimes he could only focus on the rage and the grief and the horror. In the burning fury of his worst moments, he felt he could genocide the entire world, only to stop himself short as he realized what a prohibitively expensive proposition that would be. Nothing would bring back his son. 

The man could hardly bear to be at the gravesite. But as he turned around, he saw a chintzy sign that said “gratitude.” That was an emotion he had not felt in a long time. So he sat down with his paper and tiny pencil and decided to write a letter for his son, a letter his son could never read but one that needed to be expressed nonetheless, at least for his own mental clarity. 

“Dear son, I’m supposed to be grateful. And I would be if I had you in my arms. My pain is only a reflection of the gratitude I once had knowing you were coming into my life. But this life is no joy. This society is no fun. And if I can truly be selfless, I can tell you honestly that you are lucky not to be here. And I am grateful for that. 

You will never have to wait in line at the DMV. You will never have to pay taxes. You will never have to go to the mental prison system we call school and be indoctrinated for the most precious years of your life, leaving only early mornings and evenings to spend time with your parents. 

You will never have to worry about mommy and daddy. You won’t have to lament the sorrows that plague them both. Mental health will not be a problem for you because you never got a chance to become fully embodied. You will not have to deal with lies and treachery. You will never need to repent for any sins because you have none. You are forever pure and innocent and remain so today in whichever realm you live in. 

You will never have to deal with QR codes, CAPTCHA tests and 2-factor authentications; apps, social media, emails and passwords; endless advertisements, memberships, subscriptions and free trials; junk mail, spam and robo-calls; robots, “smart” devices, AI, Neuralink and face recognition technology; propaganda and mind-control; TSA, cops and patdowns; bureaucracy and politics; zealots who kill infants and the brainwashed demons who celebrate them; cowards, sycophants, hypocrites and fanatics; entertainers, bloviators, ignoramuses and deceivers; recycled actors, fake celebrities and braindead influencers; genderless Bolsheviks and puppet masters from the cult of Saturn; censorship and Big Brother; rent, mortgage and inflation; banks, cryptos and debts; scams, credit cards and interest rates; vaccinations, compliance, middle management and shitty jobs. You have been spared all the bullshit we deal with every day just to exist in society. For that, I am grateful.

It’s just that I’m selfish. And I wanted you here in my arms. Instead, I have to roam the earth, jealous of the dead, spiritually broken and lamenting what could have been. But maybe I can find gratitude in the little things you don’t have to deal with. Every time I’m stuck in traffic, every time somebody is cruel, every time I have to make a payment to some evil corporation, I will be grateful that you don’t have to. Once the third world war starts and the bombs start falling—and they will—I will be most grateful that you don’t have to endure that pain. 

Most of all, I can find gratitude that I got to hold you in your mother’s belly. And although I only got to see you for one brief day—and you were already gone—I guess I’m grateful for that moment, too. I’m grateful for this grave stone, so I can come visit you, no matter how much it pains me. So thank you for coming into my life. That’s all I really have to say.”

He grabbed his lighter and burned the letter above his son’s grave, watching it smolder into ashes. The wind blew and the birds chirped on that cool autumn morning. The father enjoyed the crisp silence for a moment. All those feelings were still inside him. He thought, once again, about blowing up the entire world if it might bring him an ounce of comfort. But nothing could bring back his son.

What he did have was a cat—black as his soul—waiting for him back home. And he would soon go hold him in his lap, drink a cup of tea and watch Night Court. And that small joy would get him through another day.