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than anything else,
seeing as what they’re ogling isn’t the real me. It’s Winter. The real me died
however long ago, and I may never know who she is until I have my Waking Dream,
or Death Dream, or whatever we feel like calling it today.
    They say once
you have your Dream, everything changes. With the memory of your Old Life
suddenly assaulting you, everything is put into vivid and horrifying
perspective. Most people, like Helena said, just toss their Old Life behind
them, say good riddance and move on. Only a few can’t handle it. They seek help
or go insane.
    There’s a wise
older lady named Jasmine who lives across from me. I took many of my difficult
questions to her, ones I couldn’t ask just anyone. She was very kind to attempt
answering the most of them, one of them being: When will I have my Dream thing?
    Another: Is it
true there’s no more Livings, anywhere?
    Livings is
what they call people who are alive, just in case that wasn’t obvious. Some
more derogatory terms include Breathers, or Fleshes, or Rosy Cheeks
(seriously), or ... and I regret to say this last one ... Humans.
    I asked, “But
aren’t we Human?”
    My neighbor
Jasmine, she just smiled endearingly and said, “Oh, poor child ...”
    Undead. Gotta
remember that for my next job résumé. Name: Winter. Gender: Female. Race:
Undead.
    It must be a
month and a half since my Raising, and I lean over the railing to spy on my
favorite neighbor’s book. He pulls it away, grinning. “Get your own copy!”
    “Hi, Grim.” I
smile at him. “You never did get me that drink at the tavern.”
    “I’m never
good at making a first move,” he admits coyly. “Can I call this a date?”
    “Call it what
you want. I’ll be in town browsing Hilda’s new line of dresses. Maybe I’ll pick
something up and meet you at the tavern?”
    And so it’s a
date. Just like that.
    Down at the Singing
Seamstress, which is Hilda’s little dress shop downtown, I find myself a sleek
little red thing that, according to three giggly women, looks simply perfect.
“You’d stop hearts if they weren’t already!” one murmurs, inspiring breathy
chortles from her friends.
    I guess I have
myself a winner. “What do I owe you for the dress?” I ask Hilda at the door.
    “Every detail
about how your date goes, including how he looks at you in that splendid red
thing,” she says, her giggling eyes overjoyed at seeing me in her creation.
    I take a spin
in front of a mirror. I look like someone else, but maybe she’s a little more
familiar to me now. Maybe I hate her a little less than I did on my first day.
    Maybe Winter’s
growing on me.
    When I arrive
at the tavern, it’s already bustling with activity from drunken men and women,
cackling over tabletops and stumbling around the bar spilling drinks
everywhere. I smile and nod at a few familiar faces, all of whom seem to regard
me like some sort of celebrity. This little red dress is really doing the
trick, it seems. I wonder what effect it’ll have on my fetching maybe-poet friend.
    Seated at a
table, I wait for said fetching friend to arrive. Every person that comes into
the tavern isn’t him. I’d check a clock but, you know, there isn’t one. Telling
time in any way is forbidden or whatever. Makes for planning things—like a
date—a little troublesome.
    Honestly, I’d
kill for a watch right now.
    After a while,
I slip into the women’s bathroom—a tight-spaced little box—and poke at my face
in the mirror, deciding I could use a little touchup. I pull out a small Living
Red lipstick that Marigold gave me one day. It’s for your Upkeep , she
told me in secret. I rub a little of it on my lips, air-kiss my reflection like
an actress. I can play this role, this Winter role. A sultry seductress who
wins the unbeating hearts of zombies everywhere. Oh, excuse me, I said the
horrible awful word. I meant Undead.
    I ask my
reflection, my living dead reflection, “Can we do this?—for the rest of
eternity, can we