Prologue

It’s been 538 days since I killed myself.

Now, you’re probably thinking, "Wait… what?! He killed himself? Then how the hell is he telling a story?"

Well, let me assure you, dear living people—writers never truly die. We go somewhere else. Not heaven, not hell. Somewhere... different. Somewhere the dead whisper in ink, and our words breathe long after our lungs stop.

Yes, my darlings, our words live.

Unfortunately, I’m not here to talk about the immortality of writers, although I wish I were. I'd much rather sit down and have a spectral coffee with Jane Austen or swap horror tips with R.L. Stine. But no, I’m here to talk about something far less pleasant.

My death.

The police called it a suicide. Case closed. Tragic, yes, but nothing extraordinary.

I’m telling you it wasn’t.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

The truth is, do you really trust a dead man’s words?

Chapter 1

It all started 752 days ago.

I had been drinking since 10 p.m. I stumbled into my apartment around 2 a.m. Now, I could lie and say I was just buzzed. Maybe give you the illusion that I was still in control.

But no, I was absolutely, utterly, and completely wasted. The kind of drunk where you’re not just seeing double—you’re seeing an entire ensemble cast of yourself, all doing slightly different things. One of me was crying, another was laughing, and a third was staring blankly into the void.

And why was I drinking myself into oblivion? Oh, just another failed book submission. Another rejection letter telling me my work lacked “market appeal.” It was pathetic, really. A man in his late thirties, getting blackout drunk because he couldn’t handle failure.

I wish I could tell you I handled my emotions like a grown-ass man—stoic, collected. But no. I never handled emotions well. I drowned them, suffocated them, choked them with whiskey and self-loathing.

I’m sure you’re wondering, "Well, wasn’t your wife there to support you?"

Ah, my wife. Yes. She was very supportive.

She also didn’t exist.

Before you applaud me for focusing solely on my career, let’s be clear: that wasn’t the reason. I was an arrogant, self-absorbed prick in my younger years. I didn’t see the point in a wife. What could a woman possibly do for me? Cook? Clean? That’s it, right?

Yes, I was that kind of asshole. A young, rich, sought-after bachelor who thought love was just an accessory.

By the time I realized I was wrong, I was a good fifteen years too late.