you step out onto the roof, where the bodies are laid to rest. the sun beats mercilessly down upon you. the butterflies cycle idly overhead. you readjust the flowers in your grip, and make your way through the rows of bodies, all in various stages of decay. a butterfly flits down towards you. it is almost as big as your head. you focus on your breathing, and your heartbeat. you are not dead yet. the sacred thing knows this, it lands on someone who's bones have almost been picked clean and nibbles on the last remaining bits of skin and meat. you know that in other places, they don't have these butterflies. in cooler places, there are four-legged beasts, or great birds that circle around the fields of the dead. there is a place down by the coast where the deceased are laid out on big flat rocks. amphibious things crawl out of the ocean and clean the bodies, and the ocean carries the bones away. that one kind of scares you, honestly. you couldn't imagine just having no evidence the dead person was ever there. you arrive at the resting place of your brother. he died of a sickness, from an injury, from a fight. it was eleven days ago. you unwrap your flowers and lie them around his body, carefully. red and purple. he liked those colours. his face isn't recognisable as him anymore, but he hasn't lost the gangly height and big hands. you stand up and look out over the other bodies, and the flowers brought for them by their loved ones. there is no one on this roof without flowers, except for you, because you are not dead. the sweet, heady smell of decay leaves you lightheaded. this always happens when you're up here. two butterflies flit down and land on the flowers you brought. the sun makes their wings shimmer in the haze. it's beautiful. your ears ring, slightly. you make your way to the exit. the stairs down are mercifully protected from the sun, and you take the moment to breathe the cooler air. your arms are empty. the walk back is quiet, except for the sounds of the bugs.
