The Whole Being Dead Thing
---
Ah, The Sweet Sound of Brakes Screeching
The car is coming.
I see it. I hear it. I even feel it in the way the air shifts around me.
I could move.
I don’t.
It’s a funny thing, knowing you’re about to die. Most people think it’s dramatic—flashbacks, regret, maybe some emotional monologue. But in reality? It’s mostly just fast.
One second, I’m standing there.
The next, there’s a loud, gut-punching impact, and—
Well.
Let’s just say I’m suddenly getting a very unique perspective of my own body flying through the air.
---
On a Scale of 1 to ‘Oh Shit’, This is a Solid 12
So. I’m dead.
…Probably.
Technically, I haven’t checked yet, but the fact that I’m standing outside my body and staring at the crumpled mess on the ground feels like a pretty big clue.
I tilt my head, observing the scene.
Blood. A lot of blood.
Which, honestly? I don’t hate. There’s something… artistic about the way it’s spreading across the pavement. A deep, rich crimson, soaking into the cracks of the road like the city itself is drinking me in.
I kind of wish I had a camera.
Then I remember the guy.
He’s standing there, one hand raking through his already-messy hair, the other gripping the steering wheel like it personally offended him. His expression is unreadable, like he’s calculating whether this is more of a problem or an inconvenience.
> "Great. Just great."
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I squint at him.
That… was not the reaction I was expecting.
No panic. No guilt. Just mild irritation.
Like he just spilled coffee on his suit.
Speaking of which—expensive. The kind of tailored suit that normal people don’t just own.
He’s tall, sharp-featured, with that whole brooding billionaire thing going on, but his face isn’t conventionally pretty. It’s intense. Unnerving, even.
The kind of guy who looks like he’s seen some shit.
He crouches next to my body and presses two fingers against my throat.
I watch, arms crossed.
> "Spoiler alert: nothing there."
His brows furrow slightly, but his face doesn’t change much. Just a small exhale before—
He picks me up.
Like, casually.
Like this isn’t the first time he’s carried a dead body before.
I narrow my eyes.
> "Okay, that’s suspicious."
---
Ghost Rules Are Bullshit
Hospitals are boring.
I was expecting chaos. Doctors rushing, dramatic defibrillators, someone screaming “We’re losing her!” like in the movies.
Instead, I get bright lights, hushed voices, and my own body being wheeled into the emergency room while he—Mr. Mysterious—just stands there, watching through the glass.
No emotion.
Like he’s waiting.
Eventually, the doctor sighs.
> Time of death: official and everything.
And that’s that.
I hover nearby, mostly for entertainment. It’s not every day you get to watch your own autopsy prep.
> "That’s a clean cut on my forehead."
No response.
> "Seriously. Almost symmetrical. Kinda pretty, if you ignore the brain damage."
Still nothing.
> "Wow. Tough crowd."
Then—
> "Will you shut up?"
I freeze.
Slowly—slowly—I turn to look at him.
He’s staring directly at me.
My mouth opens. Closes.
> "Oh."
A beat of silence. Then:
> "OH."
And just like that, my whole unholy afterlife shifts into something way more interesting.
---
Congratulations, You’re Haunted
We’re in his car now.
Well, he’s in his car. I’m floating, because physics is apparently a loose concept when you’re dead.
I watch him drive, noting the way his grip tightens slightly on the wheel.
> "Sooo… how long have you been seeing dead people?"
No answer.
> "Is it just me, or do you get the whole Sixth Sense package?"
Silence.
> "Do they haunt you? Follow you home? Whisper spooky shit in your ear while you’re sleeping?"
Still nothing.
> "…Are you ignoring me, or are you just naturally this fun at parties?"
Finally, a reaction. A small, exasperated sigh, like I’m the world’s most annoying telemarketer.
I grin.
> "Okay. I’ll take that as ‘undecided’."
We drive through the city, neon lights flashing past. It’s late, and the roads are mostly empty, but I notice how he takes very specific turns.
Not the main roads. The quiet ones.
The ones with fewer cameras.
Huh.
Interesting.
---
Let’s Talk About the Knives
His house is obnoxiously big.
Not just rich big—power move big. The kind of place designed to remind everyone else that they’re poor.
Inside, it’s sleek. Dark wood, low lighting, expensive furniture that looks like it’s never been sat on.
And then there’s the knives.
A lot of knives.
Too many for someone who isn’t a professional chef, and given the distinct lack of a spice rack, I’m gonna assume he’s not big on cooking.
I drift closer, eyeing the collection.
They’re… interesting. Not just decorative. Well-maintained, well-balanced. Some are clean, others… less so.
I tap my chin.
> "Y’know, most rich guys collect cars or watches. You? You’re out here hoarding murder weapons like a serial killer starter pack."
He ignores me. Again.
> "Seriously. I feel like this should concern me more."
Pause.
> "Then again, considering my history, maybe we’re not so different after all."
I let that slip out casually. Maybe too casually.
Because he does react.
Not much—just a flicker of something in his expression. A slight tension in his jaw.
A normal person wouldn’t have noticed.
But I do.
And that?
That’s very interesting.
---
The Beginning of a Beautifully Fucked Up Friendship
I flop onto his expensive leather couch, making myself at home.
He stares at me.
> "You can’t stay here."
I stretch out dramatically.
> "I disagree."
> "I’ll exorcise you."
I smirk.
> "You’re assuming I want to leave."
Silence.
He exhales sharply, running a hand down his face like he’s already exhausted.
> "I hate this."
> "You’ll get used to it."
And just like that, my afterlife gets a whole lot more fun.