The beginnings are subtle. You think you’re having an off day. Everyone has them.
It starts around the edges – it’d be better if you’d emptied from the inside. Once you’ve lost your contours, you go shapeless. The essence that makes you, forgotten, bleeds out. But this isn’t the worst. It’s everyone distancing themselves, as if it’s catching – insult added to injury. And just because you’re fading doesn’t mean you’ve gone deaf. But everyone whispers when they think you’re not looking: ‘Poor lamb, she’s nobody left who remembers her. We shall miss her.’
You’d rather there were no afterlife than this.