turned away.
'What's the matter, Stanley? Is it disturbing to see yourself dead and refrigerated?'
'They're fake.'
'Right,' said Brant. 'While you were unconscious we put some makeup on you and took some photographs just for an elaborate practical joke to convince you that you'd been deceased.'
'And that's supposed to be a less plausible explanation than that I'm a re-animated zombie?'
'Here, watch yourself rot.' Brant flipped through the next few pictures, which showed Stanley on the same table, his body decomposing more and more with each photo.
'Having fun, you sick fuck?' asked Stanley, feeling like he was about to vomit.
Could he still vomit?
'This isn't about having fun. I'm proving a point.'
'This isn't proving a damn thing. And how come you won't give me a mirror, but you'll shove these nasty pictures in my face?'
'Fair enough,' said Brant, straightening the stack of photographs. He knelt back down, dug through the briefcase, and stood up with a small mirror in his hand. 'Just to warn you, though you'll be on every magazine cover in the country, it won't be as the Sexiest Person Alive.'
Brant held the mirror in front of Stanley's face.
Stanley stared at his reflection in stunned silence.
'Oh, Christ…'
This wasn't him. It couldn't be.
His face wasn't a face at all. It was a skull with grey skin tightly stretched over the surface. He barely even had a nose, just a pair of nostrils.
He tried to touch his face, momentarily forgetting that his hands were still bound.
What disease could possibly have done this to him?
He knew he couldn't be dead, because he could see a tear trickling down his cheek, and dead people didn't cry.
'It's upsetting now, but you'll get used to it,' said Brant.
'I'm a freak.'
'Oh, no, you're a scientific phenomenon. Freaks stay locked in basements, or are gaped at in carnivals, or are hidden away in padded cells. You, my friend, are destined for much better things.'
Stanley kept staring into the mirror and said nothing.
'I think you've seen enough for now,' said Brant, lowering the mirror. 'And I think it's safe to undo the straps. How does that sound?'
Stanley didn't respond.
Brant stepped over to the foot of the bed and began to unfasten the straps that bound Stanley's feet. 'I don't know if this will make you feel better or not, but if you look at the pink blanket, you'll notice that there's no residue from your body on it. We really did stop the decomposition. I'm just pointing that out in case you were worried about it.'
'Thanks,' Stanley said without enthusiasm.
Brant finished undoing the foot straps and then moved over to unfasten the ones binding Stanley's hands. 'I think we've made a connection, Stanley, and I'm confident that you won't try to do anything foolish. So please don't take offense when I mention that your parents and your friend Martin Vines are here, and I would hate to see you do anything that might force me to restrict visiting hours. Do you understand?'
Stanley nodded.
'Out loud, please.'
'Yes, I understand.'
'Good.' Brant finished undoing the straps. 'You're free now. This room is yours, and before too long we'll give you a chance to redecorate it to your personal taste.'
Stanley sat up, but a wave of dizziness struck him and he nearly fell back onto the bed. He braced himself upright and rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to see his rotted palms.
'You shouldn't have any problems walking on that cast,' Brant assured him. 'Your foot was completely crushed, but you'll be surprised how much it has healed since your death.'
'How could somebody's foot heal after they're dead?'
Brant winked at him. 'That's my little secret.'
'Don't wink at me.'
'You'll find that you heal remarkably well. The holes in your side where we put the tubes are already starting to fade. I can't say for sure, but I suspect that your foot will be back to normal within a couple of days. Just the crushed part; the rest will still be rotted.'
'Dandy.'
'Well, I have things to take care of,' said Brant. 'If you need anything at all, there's a call button on the headboard of your bed. Do you have any questions before I go get your first visitor?'
Stanley shook his head.
'Remember, Stanley, this is a blessing.'
'Yeah, right.'
'It is. And you'll understand that before too long. I'll talk to you soon.'
Brant picked up his briefcase and left the room.
Stanley just sat on his bed for several minutes, staring at the wall. This was no blessing. This was a nightmare. This was hell.
There was a timid knock at the door. 'Sir?'
'Martin?'
'Can I come in?'
'No, not yet.' Stanley hurriedly lay back down on the bed and pulled the pink blanket completely over him. 'All right, come on in.'
The door opened, somebody walked in, and the door closed again. 'Sir?'
'Hi.'
Stanley heard Martin approach the bed. 'Sir, I've already seen how you look. You don't have to hide yourself.'
'I'm not hiding. This blanket is very comfy.'
'Sir, really. I've seen far more disgusting things in our videos.'
Stanley pulled the blanket away from his face. Martin flinched and recoiled a bit, but then composed himself. He was wearing green slacks and a green sweater, and held a large glass of water. 'Good to see you, sir.'
'Martin, what the hell is going on?' Stanley quickly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 'What did they do to me?'
'They brought you back.'
'Oh, c'mon, don't you give me that horseshit too.'
'It's the truth. You were dead. I saw you out on the road. I was with you in the ambulance. You drowned.'
'I did not drown. People don't die and come back to life!'
Martin placed a reassuring hand on Stanley's shoulder, although Stanley noticed that he hesitated before actually touching him. 'I've never lied to you. I've had plenty of opportunities to, and I know that you've lied to me many, many times, but I swear that I have never lied to you in all the time we've worked together.'
'I know.'
'You were dead, sir. I saw you. I saw you after it happened, and I saw you in the morgue, and I saw you right before they brought you back to life on television.'
'So I'm a zombie?'
Martin shrugged. 'I guess that's what you'd call it.'
'I can't be a zombie, Martin. I just can't. I can't do the whole hungering for human flesh thing.'
'I don't think that's a requirement.'
'I mean, look at me.' Stanley tossed the blanket aside, stood up and turned around in a circle. 'I'm grotesque.
