Creepypasta: The Living Corpse

Creepypasta: The Living Corpse

I can't stand to see you down
Strung out, off the wagon, and unwound
But steady, steady, Oh God, Jenny, Jenny
I can't bear to hear the sound
Of your body, body hitting the ground
- Jenny, By Nothing More
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Cold skin. It shouldn’t be this cold; you remember when you first held her in your arms, when she was born. She was warm, and healthy, and even though she knew nothing of this world there was life in those eyes.

She holds your hand for the bare minimum quantity of time required to qualify as reassuring; a measured dose of love. A measured dosage, just like the IV drip in your arm or that goddamned hellspawned white powder your daughter consumes like bread or water.

Your daughter thinks she is visiting you on your deathbed. What she doesn’t realize is that in a way, your life will just be beginning as your soul escapes your withered husk. And in a manner of speaking, your daughter is already more dead than you will be in a few minutes. There are different types of death; some survive it as a temporary occurrence and live forever as a bodiless, shapeless form unfettered by the disgusting limits of flesh.

Others are little more than walking cadavers even while their hearts are still beating. Pleasantries exchanged, cigarettes smoked, shows and movies attended alone or with friends. But in the end they are rotting corpses; they just haven’t been buried yet.

As your eyes close, and the ability to sense the stimuli of your own body begins to escape you, you know that your daughter is slowly digging her own grave. It is such for many of her generation; raised by the cathode ray and dying for pointless ideals. Soldiers in a grand army of nothing and no one. Is she just a victim of circumstance? Perhaps. But this is the first time you’ve never been able to feel your own faltering heartbeat, whereas as a result of your daughter’s heroin usage, her nerve endings have been shot to hell for years.

You want to scream. You want to scream an eternal note of perfect rage at the society that turned good kids into hollowed mannequins. Instead, you settle for speaking your last.

“Walking corpse…a generation of living corpses.”
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Oh, Jenny, Jenny, Jenny

She stuck around for you (She stuck around for you)
She stuck around for you

Maybe you should just fall
Leave the world and lose it all
If that's what you need
To finally see, she loved you through it all
- Jenny, By Nothing More