Part of the attraction and interest in the dead, and in zombies, is in seeing things we weren’t meant to see, or at least things we don’t usually see. We tend to fetishize the dead and the dyeing in particular the injured.
When we see zombies in the movies we are often attracted to the odd bits, the piece of cheekbone sticking out of the face, the sight of ribs sticking out, a skull or guts spilling forth. And this is why I’m endlessly fascinated by this image, of my right hand.
Yup, that’s me, waving hello in all my glory. It is so rare that we get to see ourselves like this, to peer beneath the skin and see what’s going on within us. Those bones are there right now typing these words. They are a part of me, something I use and touch at every moment. Those bones clasp my son’s hand and lift him up. They help me when I exercise and when I do the simplest of tasks. They are there, at all times, always, shrouded in flesh.
Until one day the shroud drops away in death. And so we have the stinking rotted hand reaching forth from the grave. The thing that can not be. The thing that should not be. The most private thing exposed in horror.