My pulse stopped ten minutes after the car hit mine, head on. No, I didn’t feel it. I was driving. Then I was everywhere. My insides crumpled and my soul spilled out.

No one greeted me. No family. No spirit. I waited until the coroner took me. I followed her. I watched my funeral.

No light shone down, showing me the way. No magical, haunted street markers popped up. Death is a different kind of lonely.

You can’t, not see. You have no eyes to close, no sleep to escape to. It was everything, always until I found it.

Death’s doorstep isn’t hidden; it’s always on the edge of your vision. Mine was the bookstore right beside my coffee shop. Being dead, I went in when they weren’t open and found myself somewhere else.

No, Death isn’t a person. It’s a place. You die. You find it. You stay, move in, get comfy. You control everything, except you can’t leave or sleep or forget.

Staring at the same painting of Edgar Allan Poe is the closest I get to sleep. Not that I need sleep, but it’s something to do. We spend so much time in bed that it’s hard to function without it. Sleep and food.

Is this purgatory?

God, is this about being gay? I kissed a girl once before I died. This punishment hardly seems fair.

God? I acknowledge you. Now will you invite me to your place?

I’m afraid that this is all there is.

God, please don’t let this be all there is.

Fiction

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