Happily Ever Afterwards

Spin the bottle was a bad idea.

You could blame this all on Matty Edwards, because he was the one who suggested it.

But there's no way out now. I'm dead. I can't just click my fingers and live again.

But the worst thing about being dead, is that you just keep on living, but the living can't see you. It really hurts, watching people carry on without you. But there's a catch. The dead can see other dead. I suppose it makes sense. But there's one other thing. I'm 17, and I have a girlfriend. Or had. She's still alive, and she's moving on. I guess this is Afterlife, and let me tell you, it sucks.


3. 2

I feel sick.

I steady myself against a rock, eyes staying focused on  my body.

My body.

It's limp and pale, with rolled back eyelids showing off wide glassy white eyeballs. What the hell?

"Oh my god," Sarah whispers, drawing her hands to her mouth. Tommy pushes tangled curls away from my face, and places the back of his hand on the body's forehead. His reaction gives me the imperssion it's pretty cold.

"There might still be time," He starts. "CPR..does anyone know CPR? It's not too late, is it?"

"I've seen it on TV once," Matty offers. "On this sci-fi thing or something."

Tommy glares at him through heavy lashes. He's never liked that boy much.

"It's my fault," Ellie says, voice quivering. Her eyes are all distant.

"No," Tommy says, turning his head to her slightly, eyes still focused on where my body seems to lie. "It was Matty's."

His fist tightens, and Matty stabs his messy chestnut hair with his fingers. He doesn't look up, but his face is set in away that sends dark chills around the campfire.

There's a long silence that stretches on a bit too long.

"Will someone please tell me what in god's name is actually going on?" I growl, feeling slightly nauseous. Whether it's because I'm drunk, or just overwhelmed, I'm not sure. I rub my eyebrow, a headache itching in my temples.

No one even makes an attempt to notice me.

"He's dead, let's face it."



I drop to my knees, going all cold inside. My skin glitters, pure white, shimmering under the light of the spitting campfire. The empty vodka bottle reflects a face I wish I never saw. Translucent skin glistens over my skull. Dull blonde curls, like sand on a dark night, flumps over my forehead. And wide, mirror-like eyes stare back. Huge, silvery eyes. I grab for the bottle, but my fingers slice right through the glass. I stare in awe.

This can't be real.

I can't be dead.

I can't be.


Just do it, I tell myself. Inhaling a sharp stabbing breath, I kneel down beside my body. Those Australian-surfer curls are bright blonde, covering huge, pearly eyes. Shivers run through my wrists as I stare into my own eyes. This isn't right. I look away for a minute, before drawing my gaze back to my own body. Navy blue hoodie sleeves are rolled up just past my pinkish elbows that look greyer than usual. Tentatively, I reach my fingers towards the body. Just when I expect to feel the touch of cold, lifeless flesh, my fingertips slice right through towards the sand. I bite back a scream, watching the world around me flicker in and out of reality, my arm hanging solidly where the body is buzzing. It's like a computer screen that's losing it's focus. Rapidly blinking, I try to restrain the deep diziness creeping through my head. A high pitch noise winds through my ears, making my fists clench tight. Punching the ground, I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, everything's normal again. Well, when I say normal, I'm still staring at my own body.

That isn't exactly normal, is it?

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