Diary of a Dead Man (Re-Write) 6

6. What Not to Do

     Highest on the list of things ghosts shouldn’t do is terminally interacting with the living (it is in bold, large print, and listed twice). It’s somewhere between setting a blimp ablaze with supernatural fire because a long lost wife was on it with her new husband (that’s right, the dead ruined the zeppelin industry for everyone) and popping out of a jack in the box as a gruesome, but personable severed head at a child’s birthday party (not as bad, but equally terrifying). When Brian watched J.P. swing from the rope he had two emotions: 1. Jaw-dropping, pants-shitting fear regarding the omnipotent repercussions that were no doubt on their way, and 2. Profound sadness at the thankless nature of his childhood hero’s life. It was the second that held his attention.

     “You killed him,” said Megan, providing a realistic backdrop for what had become insanity.

     “You act like it’s a terrible thing. You’re dead; I’m dead; what’s another to the pile?”

     “You killed him!”

     “Not on purpose.” Again he tried to minimalize the situation. The truth was still bobbing on the surface of his mind, failing to sink in. The standard protocol for breaches like the one he had just committed was swift and brutal. He would be called in for questioning, taken by requisition agents (a rather pompous group of imbeciles who do the work of Death), judged by a group of unsatisfied ex-despots, and subsequently thrown onto an express train to the underworld. Things couldn’t have been much worse for him.

     “Do you even understand what you’ve just done?” Megan was speaking in a terse whisper.

     Brian still stood remarkably still under the swinging corpse, lost in thought. He had it all, the dream, the talent, everything. He had it in his palm and he threw it away. Brian’s thoughts drifted to what might have been had he heeded traffic on that warm summer afternoon. Maybe his book would have been published, and maybe he could have been as great as J.P. The scenario played like an old film clip in his head: first there was the money, then the drugs, the fame, and finally the end of a rope, where he too swung, awaiting a man in a grey suit to ferry him along to the next place. “It wouldn’t have mattered at all.”

     “Of course it did. You just killed a man Brian. They’re going to come for you any minute now. In fact, I’m surprised they’re not already here.” Brian’s arms and legs began to tingle with an unfamiliar sensation. He no longer wanted to return to the land of living, and his life was but a distant memory. The realization of how it could have ended made the thought of living an instant longer nauseating. He looked down at his hands as they began to fade from existence.

     “Megan.”

     “Do something. Run. Anything.”

     “It doesn’t matter anymore.” He held up his hands to explain. The world lost focus around him. The drab walls of the hotel peeled and gave way to pillars of silver and gold. Megan still stood before him, but soon she faded as well. “It’s better than you could have ever imagined.” In reality it felt a bit like being stuffed in an oversized pillow, but Brian wanted to leave the end shrouded in a positive mystery for when Megan finally crossed over.

     Megan mouthed words at him, but they fell on deaf ears. Brian was being dragged upward with vicious force. Clouds flew by on both sides, and in the swirling anarchy he thought that he glimpsed other souls, passing too quickly to be seen in detail. This continued for twenty seconds, and then reality slammed into him with alarming force. He was standing in the middle of an old hotel room, arms outstretched to imaginary heavens, and an idiotic look of rapturous content spread across his face.

     “You’re going to be dragged to hell Brian.”

     “Oh shit.”

     “Yes oh shit. Run!” On deadened legs he half ran, half glided through the hotel walls, passing secret moments and furtive glances hidden begins locked doors. Failing marriages and family vacations flew by at a blinding pace. He had just passed through a room where a principle sat cross-legged on the floor contemplating his life choices when he came to the end of a long hallway.

     “Don’t move.” The voice resonated through the air, cold as ice, and fast as a bullet. A man in a bloody black suit stood at the end with a veritable hand cannon raised and pointed at Brian’s head. “Times up, let’s not make a mess.” In a moment of panic and unfathomable stupidity, Brian turned and ran. Behind him there was a loud bang, and his leg dropped out from under him. Ethereal dust blew away from the wound and into the air conditioning vents. He fell to his remaining knee, and watched helplessly as the man sidled up to him.

     “You’re lucky. That’ll grow back.” The recently dead had an easier time regenerating than those who had been decomposing for some time. The man extended his hand, and with great reluctance, Brian took it.

     “So this is it then? Headed on to the express train down.”

     “That’s not for me to decide.” The room disappeared in a flash of white.