Disclaimer: I do not own In The Flesh, nor any of the characters and concepts used in it. They all belong to the brilliant Dominic Mitchell.

Prologue.

People disappear when they die. Their voice, their laughter, the warmth of their breath. Their flesh. Eventually their bones. This is both dreadful and natural.*

What is less natural, and infinitely more dreadful, is when this process is interrupted by some unseen, unknown force. A force that invades and threatens the natural with the supernatural. A force that stops the decomposing of the dead; stops the seemingly irreversible process-and reverses it. Reverses it to such an extent that those who were thought gone forever, return into the land of the living. Their voices, their laughter; all returned to them. The only thing that remains lost forever to the other side is the warmth they once knew. No warmth shall ever seep again from their bodies, no warm breath shall ever fog up a cold morning. No, that, it seems, is lost forever.

This unnatural process thus described is how I came to be reborn into a word that had been prematurely snatched from me at the age of 21.

'A tragedy', the local newspapers called it, when describing my parting from this earth. When a young person dies, there is always a fuss made. Millions of people die every day, and no one ever says a word, and then my death goes and gets a full double page spread with photos and everything, depicting the tragedy of my death.

A preventable tragedy, by all accounts, if the drunken driver of a Ford Mondeo hasn't ploughed straight through me as I crossed over the pedestrian crossing on a balmy summers evening. I was killed instantly. A young Indian couple discovered my body ten minutes later, and dialled an ambulance in some vague hope, and I am grateful to them, and to the paramedics, for trying to save a life that had clearly been violently extinguished.

I only knew all this from the long, poorly written account of my death in the local newspaper. I did not have the opportunity that some desire, to witness their own death. Nor did I get to see my own funeral, though I'm sure there were lots of tears and plenty of nice things said about me because that's what's done. There was a large turnout, apparently, though I've no idea from where. I had few friends at university, and even fewer left from school. I was not an active member of the community, and had little interaction with anyone, really. My family would have been there, of course, but we are a small group; just me, my younger brother and my parents.

Small, but so, so close.

It was not until six months after my death, in December of 2009, when my body was party decomposed in the earth around it, that I rose once again; defying human law and nature.

All I had known up until that point was nothing. Like a blank darkness, only not even that. It is strange, when you start to become aware of things once more. It is like in the morning when you wake up, and are never able to re-call when exactly you fell asleep, you only know that you have been so, and now your are not. It is like that, only on a more extreme scale.

You awake slowly, as though from a deep sleep; becoming aware of existence and the ability to think once more. All around is darkness, but not the darkness you have known before. It is in some way sharper; you are more aware of it, and this makes you feel panic. It is not natural for humans to be swamped in such blackness, and we instinctively fear the dark. In this panic you try to move; to get out of this heavy darkness, to find some light. As you move, your hands meet solid wood, and the panic increases as you conclude that you have been buried alive. But this panic is short lived, as the solid wood above you seems to give suddenly, and your hands meet thick, damp earth. This is solid too, but moveable. You push through it, not knowing how you are able to do this, but not caring. All that matters is breaking down this barrier between the pitch blackness of below, and whatever lies above, which you know you must reach, though you don't know why.**

That first breath of air, into lungs that have not been used in over six months, is a feeling no words can describe. It is dark up above; the sky is a deep blue. But compared to the ground below, you find yourself squinting in the moonlight. The realisation of what has happened; that feeling of being alive once again, is one I have never had before, nor will ever know again.

What happened next is something I feel I cannot write about; partly because it is too dreadful and too painful, and partly because my memories of the events are blurred into a series of horrific flashbacks, with many blank spaces that I dare not think what happened.

My next series of solid memories; ones that are clear and sterile in my mind, are those of a treatment hospital, where I spent almost two years of my life*** trying to come to terms with what had happened. It is natural, I think, in these times of crisis and confusion, to turn to some greater authority; some divine ruling power. For many, this is God, but I have never had much faith in God, and had even less after what had happened to me, so instead I created my own authority figure, to talk to each night (in my head of course) to ask questions, and, above all, to ask for forgiveness. I named this power Dog, as a sort of anti-God, but I never heard anything back from Dog; not then, not ever.

The only answers I ever received during that time were from Doctor Nurobi, and Nurse Dixon, both of whom answered my questions with clinical clarity, but neither seemed willing to take on my emotional queries.

PDS-Partially Deceased Syndrome. That's the official name given to people like me. An impossible and supernatural occurrence that caused devastation everywhere, compressed down into three letters. I thought to myself; how can such a terrible thing be given such a simple, insignificant label? Our name might have been simple but the condition was anything but. Medication was our saviour. Without a carefully measured dose of a drug named neurotryptaline, our condition would deteriorate into the rabid beasts we once were; what many people still of us as. And, it seemed, what we could still become. Medication was our saviour, but it could also be our downfall. A contrasting drug, named BlueOblivion, was becoming increasingly popular in gangs within the treatment centre. Its users were returned to their rabid state, before being carted off by the medical team, and rarely seen again. However, properly medicated, being PDS did not feel much different to how I had spent most of my life feeling; tired, vaguely confused, and with the constant feel of alienation.

In the treatment centre, there were lots of people like me- lots of others who had performed the impossible and returned from the dead. We were all treated together; herded up in some big warehouse equipped with plenty of medication and a few beds. For a long time I was frightened of the others; of the whites of their eyes and the grey of their skin. I had seen these same features reflected back in my own face, and it was the same fear I felt for myself, whenever I looked into their faces.

This fear decreased after a while, partly due to the truth in the absurd phrase: "time heals all wounds", and partly because of the introduction of a psychotherapy group meeting. This was something that was started after I had been at the treatment centre for a little over a year. The medication was working, and my body was responding well physically to the rehabilitation. I was walking, talking, washing and writing as well as I had ever done when I was alive, and was fit and healthy, according to Doctor Nurobi.

What was responding less well, were the emotional side effects and psychological harm caused by dying, rising from my grave, and becoming a savage beast. I slept rarely; unable to block out the terrible sights that haunted me. I was frequently on edge; jumpy and frightened. I was not alone in my suffering, and the psychotherapy group was set up in order to address and solve some of these issues. We were encouraged to talk about the future, and almost forbidden to discuss the past.

Mark, our non-PDS leader, was of little help. He took us off in small groups and made us all sit around and talk about our feelings and our innermost thoughts until we all felt quite stripped and naked, sat there in a circle of our peers. Mark would then focus on one of us in turn, and hand out the sort of advice you receive from an automated telephone message. It was rarely relevant, and never helpful.

But what I did find helpful, was that, through this group, I met a fellow PDS sufferer, who became the closest thing I had to a friend during those long, lifeless days at the treatment centre. Her name was Olivia, and she was beautiful, even in death. But what was even more attractive about her was her outlook on our situation.

"Eve," she would say to me. "You must look upon this as a blessing; a gift from God. You have been given a second chance at life."

I was not really on speaking terms with God at that point, but I endeavoured to look at things from Olivia's point of view; try to absorb some of her positivity. And, slowly, part by part, I began to beat away my sorrows. My terrible nightmares were replaced by happy memories and optimism.

But then one day, when I had just finished making my bed and was preparing for my daily walk, Olivia came to me in floods of joy. She was going home, it seemed. Her parents were coming at midday, and by 2 o'clock she would be gone forever. Her face was covered in a cover up mousse we had all been given and I was yet to try out, and her eyes sparkled with the help of her new, blue eye contacts. She looked so alive.

Several other people left that day; collected by emotional parents or joyous friends. Lots of us were now wearing the cover up mousse, and, in a way, it was strange to suddenly see ordinary looking faces in the people I knew.

But no tearful mother came to collect me and grasp me in a tight hug, no joyous children jumped for joy around me, pleased to have their brother or sister back, and no stoic father patted me on the back before leading his family back to the car; complete once more.

"You'll get your chance," Nurse Dixon told me, when she saw me looking glumly down at the cars now purring away from the car park.

But she was wrong. No one was coming for me. Not now, not ever. I would never see my family again. And why? Because I killed them.

Never again would I hear the deep chuckle of my father, or the soothing voice of my mother, nor the sweet laughter of my young brother. Never again would I lay eyes upon their handsome, happy faces. And it was all my fault.

Oh sure, at the treatment centre we are told several times a day that we must forget what we did in our untreated state. Told that we cannot be blamed for what we have done. But this is impossible for me. I will never forgive myself as long as I live which, considering my new immortality, could be an awfully long time. Sometimes, if I let my mind think too much about what has happened, it I allow it to start properly processing and digesting the events, then the grief becomes too much. The guilt physically suffocates me.

x-x-x

I got out of the treatment centre eventually, of course. They were not going to keep me there, taking up valuable space, simply because I had no family to come and collect me. I was assigned a guide, a middle-aged woman called Julie, who was to assist me in 'getting me back on my feet' as she called it. She was very efficient, but her enthusiasm bordered on nauseating, and so I was keen to keep our time together brief.

"Evie Matthews, right?" she asked at our first meeting, clipboard in one hand, fountain pen in the other.

"It's just Eve," I said, hurriedly. My dad was the only one to call me Evie, and it was painful to hear.

Julie smiled widely. "Eve," she corrected.

We spoke for a few minutes about the treatment and medication, and how that was working out for me. I told her it was fine. She asked if there were any problems, and I said no.

"Now we come on to the subject of your rehoming," said Julie, speaking as though I were a dog up for adoption. "We like PDS sufferers to go back to their families ideally, where they can be looked after in a comfortable, familiar setting for them."

I said nothing. Julie looked down at her clipboard and continued. "Now, your immediate family are, as I understand, now deceased."

Her words hit me like knives, but Julie seemed unaware. She just kept looking from me to her clipboard of notes as she kept up her chatter.

"But is there any extended family? I see you have a second cousin living in your hometown. Perhaps you could stay with them?"

She was talking about Simon. He and his wife Kira lived about ten minutes from where I had lived with my family. It would be too painful to return there, even if I was accepted by them after what had happened.

"No," I said, shortly. "No, that won't do at all. I-

I didn't want to tell Julie that I could not go back to my hometown, that I could not bear that grief and guilt. It went against the 'integrating the PDS' scheme that was now underway at the treatment centre.

"I want a fresh start," I said instead. "I'm 21 now, I want to move forward."

Julie smiled. "You sound like my Jessie," she said. "Only sixteen and already wanting to move out! Now, I understand you young people wanting your independence, but now probably isn't a good time for you. You need a safe and secure setting for your rehabilitation, surrounded by people who know and trust you. Now, how's about we get you set up your cousin, just for a couple of months, and then you can have time to think about moving?"

Julie was already starting to write down the details of Simon's address, taking my silence as a yes.

"No!" I said, reaching across and snatching the pen in her hand. I saw her flinch at my cold touch, saw a flash of fear in her eyes and I knew, then, that deep down, she was still afraid of us.

"Sorry," I muttered, retracting my hand. "It's just-please. I want to live somewhere else. Anywhere. Somewhere I can really, uh…throw myself into the community, you know?"

This was a lie, but I could tell my words had had the desired effect on Julie. The fear left her face and her eyes brightened.

"Eve, it's so nice you're so keen to become a member of the community again. If you think a fresh start, a new town, will help you do this, then don't worry. I can help you. I will look into it for you."

I thanked Julie at the end of this first meeting, and by the following week, she sought me out, telling me she had news that she was obviously pleased about.

"Eve, I've found you the perfect rehabilitation home. Obviously you can say no, but I do think this is the best option for you. It's in the town of Roarton, north of here, and there are lots of other PDS sufferers returning there, so you wouldn't be alone."

I didn't like the sound of being near lots of other PDS people; I was hoping to largely forget the whole ordeal after I left the treatment centre. But Roarton sounded far away from my home in Hertfordshire, and so I said yes.

I was to live with an elderly woman by the name of Mrs Gibbs, who had agreed to house me and look after the administration of my neurotryptaline, in return for a few manual jobs that she was unable to do anymore due to a hip replacement. According to Julie, she was not bothered at all by the fact that I was PDS, her only concern was whether I liked cats and would I be strong enough to carry her shopping for her. As I ticked both of these boxes, it was off to Roarton with me, in Julie's little smart car, in November of 2012.****

Notes:

*Prose taken from Diane Setterfield's The Thirteenth Tale.

**Concept and description taken from Kieran's account of his rising in Series 2, Episode 4.

***Not sure how long the PDS actually stayed in the treatment centre for, so I just made it 2 years.

****I'm not sure of the actual dates used in the series.