It's an odd feeling, to put it simply. Being there yet being dead. Since nobody knows I'm there and I know I'm dead and buried, sometimes it's hard not to doubt that I even exist at all.
It was very strange at my funeral. Watching my family, and the coffin and knowing that I was inside it, and that I was going to stay there forever more, under the dark wet soil that they dropped over the grave. That (if you'll excuse the joke) is my favourite haunt; I always go to visit my grave if I'm feeling depressed, or doubtful, or afraid. Which means I visit it quite frequently, and just sit or stand and gaze at the white stone marker with my name and dates on it. It's so detached from me - even the little square picture covered by plastic doesn't make it mine. It could be another girl decomposing below my feet, a lost twin.
That's where I am now. I'm sat, cross-legged, on the patch of earth that rests on top of my own coffin, contemplating my existence. I've been this way for a while now. Sometimes, I just drift thoughtlessly, and lose track of time. But today is the last day of February, and it's one week until the first anniversary of my death. Somebody has come to visit other than me - someone real, alive, existing - and has left some poppies in a tin pot. I reach out my fingers, but they aren't solid enough. They aren't real. They scythe straight through, as if I'm - well, a ghost.
I'm distracted from my brooding and musing by a dark figure walking the graveyard path some two hundred metres away, but getting closer. With nothing else to do, I watch as he gets closer. I know it's a he, because I can see him now; pale skin, dark thick hair, dark brown eyes that look like black holes in a white skeleton face. What surprises me isn't that he changes course and walks towards this row of graves; it's that, as he walks, he has his gaze fixed on - me.