Chapter 16:
Horrid 12. A Funeral for a Person Still Standing
HG's horrid shorts
The invitation arrived in my own handwriting, smelling of damp earth and lilies. I followed the coordinates to a clearing in the woods where a polished mahogany casket sat open, surrounded by people I hadn’t seen in years. They weren't crying; they were checking their watches. When I approached, the priest didn't look up from his black book. "You’re late," he droned, "the dirt is getting cold."
I tried to tell them I was alive, but the words came out as puffs of grey ash. My friends began to step forward, one by one, dropping handfuls of soil onto my shoes. With every clump of dirt that hit my feet, a part of my body went numb—first my toes, then my knees, then my heart. I wasn't dying; I was being replaced by the memory of myself. By the time they forced me into the silk-lined box, I could see my "successor" standing at the edge of the crowd, wearing my favorite jacket and holding my car keys. They closed the lid, and as the first shovel of earth hit the wood, I heard my own voice from above say, "He was a good man, but he stayed too long
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