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Never saw much point in complaining when I was alive. Being dead hadn’t changed my mind.
Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t care for taking a bullet from Jack Blackheart’s unholy shooting iron. Wasn’t happy either when he crammed me into a shroud too small for a child, either. I could feel every spade of the ten feet of dirt and rocks his men dumped on me after that, though I admit that was close to being pleasant. A corpse should take comfort from his own grave. It’s supposed to be the last bed he’ll ever need. A place where someone could finally rest.
There was never going to be any rest for me, though. Took me a little while to face that, but one thing about being dead; it gives you lots of time to sit still, and think.