Image Credit: Mary Shelley
The prospect of death didn’t frighten him. He knew his family would grieve, but he’d be dead so he wouldn’t know or, by that time, care. Dead was dead. Period. None of that idiotic coming back as a bug if you hadn’t lived your life right; thought what was meant by ‘right’ was a question in itself. No angels blowing the trumpets with Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates, pointing either up or down.
How could he? There was no heaven and no hell. No monster wreaking havoc upon a fellow for the rest of eternity.
Dead. Was. Dead. Period.
His mother was dead. His father. Aunts and uncles, maybe some nieces or nephews. Come to think of it, there wouldn’t be anyone to grieve him anyway.
Good. He despised moaning and wailing…
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