Eez good? Eez, uh, be okay? No trooble, no trooble.
Her hand shook, not in the usual way. This was no Parkinson’s.
Eez, uh, how you say, no living?
As her designer shoes ascended the stairs, the footwear of a true aristocrat, I saw what was following her. You could watch an entire life pass by on those stairs, ever spiraling from womb to grave. But it wasn’t life that was following her.
Yes, Ma’am. It’s dead. We say dead.
The sterile indifference it showed her, tagging along behind, left me frozen in my own fear.
Eez be okay?
* Author’s note: This is part of a 100-word writing challenge called Friday Fictioneers. Photo copyright– Jennifer Pedergast.