James was dead to begin with. Or, at least, I think he was. I remember my brother's funeral.
The dull, dull black.
The dull, dull condolences.
The dull, dull memorial service.
Everything was... dull.
My brother was always unique... He turned to me when he was 15 and I was 13, 2 years ago, and said when he died he'd want his funeral to be exciting. He wanted to die exciting.
But he had no idea.
I was left alone by the gravestone. Mum and Dad were waiting for me in the car, but they understood. James was my only light in the dark life I live in. I stare at the grave, tears streaking, making their tracks down my face.
"Why did you have to die, James?"
"What about me?"
"How could you leave me?"
"You promised, James."
as these thought echo in and out of my mind, the earth shifts slightly underneath my feet. A slight crack appears in the ground of the grave. Grass and mud shifting aside, as something tries to break through...
A bloody, bony, white hand rises through the ground.