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"You're sitting on my grave…"
"Is this you?" The stranger indicates the disturbed ground with a dismissive wave of a hand. "I'm sorry. Didn't realise you were one of us…"
"Passive-aggressive git", Kieren thinks. The stranger sneers at Kieren's epitaph. Kieren responds defensively.
"I didn't choose it."
He hadn't expected to be explaining embarrassingly bad poetry to visitors at his graveside. He had expected oblivion, not rebirth as something other.
The stranger half-smiles. Quotes Yeats, for heaven's sake. Showing off. The Irish accent hits Kieren somewhere at the base of his skull. A tiny electrical spark. His lips quirk. He has to agree this choice would look better on a stone, even if it is taken out of the context of the rest of the poem.
The stranger is something different. Other, like Kieren himself, but more. He wears his naked face proudly. His dead eyes stare into Kieren's, offering challenge. Kieren's breath would catch, if there were breath to catch anymore. His gaze flicks over the sulky mouth. He wonders if it would feel as soft as it looks, if his own lips had feeling.
Kieren hums the stranger's name silently, tries it out on his tongue. Simon, Simon, Simon. He dismisses the claim of Simon-the-disciple, the call to resistance. He has no time for prophets, undead or otherwise. He had not expected life, has already come close to leaving it behind a second time.
The shiver that creeps in slow-motion up his spine promises something.
"You have a life. You can live it here…"
Kieren hears the challenge in Simon's voice. Rises to it.
"I'm not running away."