They say the dead can’t walk, but I’m watching you move right now. I’m watching as the bump on your head spreads from your frontal lobe, down your spinal cord, and through your lymph nodes. I’m watching as ancient wrinkles form and crack your skin. I’m watching as each cell spreads further than time will allow, turning every mighty step into a helpless crawl. I’m watching as you look into the mirror and rub your scalp, light reflecting as it collides with a metallic scar. I’m watching as you smile and say everything will be all right, but flinch when the needles go in. I’m watching when the doctor touches my shoulder and feigns concern, like a bullet apologizing for being fired. I’m watching when they tell me to move, but I can’t walk.