             GHOUL OF A BOY that he is , he finds still in the DEAD + BURIED a desolate wrongness , the open splay of a corpse rendered grotesque to the space between each slow blink ; the looming grandeur of its epitaph (  lies and slander and all he’d come to expect of the dead , really    here lies dean , a son and a brother and a not - boyfriend / not - child , greedy and sour and scoured tragic from the inside out  ) touching a desperate ache to the chary cold of his touch . the dead , he decides , were more often than not liars and whores and thieves , immortalised as virtuous through the callow crow of their dying breaths     the dead should stay dead . forgotten . not remembered – and certainly not so tenderly .Â
       `      okay , i get that , like , you really like feeling cold and wet and , uh , haunted —-  ’ (  irony! he bites on the bitterness of it , the gauzy translucence of his fingers against av’s shoulder a wretched mocking to his ears .  ) `  —- but , like , supernatural starts in an hour .  ’
