"Davidson,.MaryJanice.-.Betsy.1.-.Undead.and.Unwed" - читать интересную книгу автора (Davidson Mary Janice)

hadn't killed me, I'd be in an ICU now with more tubes than a chemistry
classroom. Not dolled up like a?
(dead)
?whore wearing cheap castoffs on my?
(dead)
?feet.
All that aside, I couldn't bear to see anyone looking the way I did.
I walked to the end of the hallway, found the stairwell, and started climbing.
The funeral home was three stories high?and what they needed the other two
stories for I was not going to think about?which should be high enough, since I
planned to go headfirst.
At first I thought the door was locked, but with a good hard shove it obligingly
opened with a shriek of metal on metal. I stepped outside.
It was a beautiful spring night?all traces of snow from the storm had melted.
The air smelled wet and warm, like fertility. I had the oddest feeling that if I
were to scatter seeds on the cement rooftop, they would take hold and grow. A
night had never, ever smelled so sweetly, not even the day I moved into my own
place.
As I stepped onto the ledge, I ignored the not-inconsiderable twinge of
apprehension that raced up my spine. This wasn't my last night on earth. That
had been a couple of days ago. There was nothing to feel sad about. I had been a
good girl in life, and now I was going to my reward, dammit. I was not going to
stumble around like a zombie, scaring the hell out of people and pretending I
still had a place in the world.
"God," I said, teetering for balance, "I'm coming to see you now."
I dove off the roof and hit the street below, headfirst, exactly as I had
planned. What was not in the plan was the smashing, crunching pain in my head
when I hit, how I didn't even lose consciousness, much less see my pal God.
Instead I groaned, clutched my head, then finally stood when the pain abated.
Only to get creamed by an early morning garbage truck. I looked up in time to
see the horror-struck driver mouthing?
(Jesus Christ, lady, look out!)
?something, then my forehead made brisk contact with the truck's front grille. I
slid down it like road kill and hit the street, ass first.
When I stood, brushing dirt from my cheap skirt, the driver slammed the truck in
reverse and got the hell out of Dodge. Not that I could blame him. But who ever
heard of a hit and run garbage truck?
CHAPTER THREE
I am nothing if not persistent. Flinging myself into the Mississippi didn't
work: I no longer needed to breathe. I floundered around on the muddy river
bottom for half an hour before giving up and slogging my way back to shore.
Neither did grounding myself while I held onto a live power line (though it did
awful things to my hair). I drank a bottle of bleach, and the only consequence
was a startling case of dry mouth. I shoplifted a butcher knife from the nearby
Wal-Mart?the place to shop if you're dead, it's three a.m., and you don't have
any credit cards?and stabbed myself in the heart: nothing.
I was walking dispiritedly down Lake Street, trying to figure out how to
decapitate myself, when I heard low voices and what sounded like muffled crying.
I almost moved on?didn't I have problems of my own??when good sense returned and
I walked through the alley and around the corner. I saw three men hulking around