I know some of you may be wondering how a desecrated plot of land containing the bones of furry companions can possibly act as a check on one’s health, and to be honest, I was skeptical too. But after our cat was tragically killed by a speeding car, leaving only a cold sack of fur and shattered bone, my daughter buried the remains of the creature in the corrupted ground behind our home. Three days later he rose from his resting place, fit as a fiddle. Well, he still had some bumps and bruises, and he smelled like a spoiled ham sandwich and was definitely more ill-tempered, but to be fair he was always kind of a jerk.
Before you ask, I wouldn’t technically be buried within the pet cemetery itself. The expired husks of myself and loved ones would likely be briefly interred toward the back of the cemetery, where the grounds meet the woods, presumably haunted by a gigantic night creature that the locals once worshipped as a god. Our elderly neighbor has informed me that the “sour ground” in that part of the forest is the result of ancient eldritch horrors and ethnically-motivated atrocities which results in the dead being returned to life, but in these days of economic uncertainty, you have to play the cards you’re dealt.
Listen, I get it. I was unsettled by the graveyard when I first entered. The rusted rod-iron fence surrounding the area is unpleasant to look at and the toys and wicker animal masks marking the graves are nightmarish, but not half as nightmarish as watching a loved one turned down for health insurance because of a pre-existing condition. Then having to see them struggle against a treatable illness, while you have to call in sick to care for them, possibly losing your job and winding up in dire financial straights.
Some of you are probably horrified by this “alternate insurance plan”. And truth be told, I was uneasy about it as well. The thought of my wife or daughter climbing out of an early grave and scrabbling toward our home, stained in blood and earth is unthinkable. Their milky eyes, staring at me, unblinking for some answer as to “why?” Both of their faces stretched into rictus death-masks forever changed from breaching that dark veil that separates life and death. It keeps me up at night but so does paying $300 dollars for weekly asthma medication, after insurance.
I suppose we could do a GoFundMe, but I hate asking people for money since my wife and I both work full time. I mean, we should be able to afford to pay for any medical bills. We’re middle-class, right? Although, I have to admit that even with dual incomes, it can sometimes be difficult to make ends meet. Most Americans are one paycheck away from ruin and not every citizen has the advantage of having a cursed necropolis located so close to their home. So while the idea of coming back from the great beyond filled with malice and decay is unfortunate, having to listen to yet another millionaire politician on TV honk off about how affordable healthcare is socialism, while my daughter is having an asthma attack is too much to bear.
So until this country decides how it’s going to make healthcare more affordable for working Americans, I suppose I’ll just have to rely on the terrifying burial ground behind my house, haunted by the sobs of grieving children and the persistent wailing of the damned. Or maybe I can try to pick up some more shifts at Staples.
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