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Today I died. I think I saw this coming, but I didn't know it'd be soon. You see, I died because I was on a cocaine bender, which also included copious amounts of J&B's. I accidentally shot a cop car's engine while they were chasing me (it was with a pistol), which then led to me stealing a taxi, I killed the taxi driver too, and I crashed the taxi into a sushi building full of Asian people or whatever. I ran and ran across the streets through ally ways just to avoid the cops. During this, I saw dead bodies sprawled across the street, and a lady with an immensely cut face—she looked mangled.
Paul told me none of that happened, though. I was running through the streets like a madman like I thought, that was reality. Paul wasn't there, though; I know because he wasn't with me that night and sure as hell didn't keep up with me. He tells me that if it was real, then it'd make national news, the sushi place would still be destroyed, and I'd be identified easily. I tell him that this is New York and no one cares about one another, the newspaper couldn't give less of a rats ass about some people getting murdered. We get into arguments about this sometimes, but it doesn't go anywhere. Paul has no idea what he's talking about because he wasn't there. If he was, he'd be dead too.
But Im the one who's dead, and I'm pretty sure it's all my fault. Did I accidentally kill myself? I think I did. I didn't write a suicide note or anything, so I guess Paul and Bryce and everyone else are just going to have to guess why I did it. Though, when I woke up, I hadn't defecated or urinated in the bed (because that's what happens when people die, their bowels relax [everything relaxes], and they often end up defecating themselves and urinating. Sometimes both, sometimes one or the other.) I thought it was strange, but maybe I'm the ghost of myself now, and I've been dead for a few days, and they've cleaned my body out. That would explain the lack of decomp on my bed. They did a good job of maintaining my room, whoever the cleanup crew was.
If I'm a ghost, that means people can't see me. This means Paul can't see me, and neither can Bryce, or David, McDermott, or Jean, or Evelyn, or anyone else. No one, not unless they're psychic. That feels very lonely, especially knowing that Paul can't see me, which means he'll miss me too, which means he can't listen to me talk about music, watch movies with me, or hold me in bed anymore. I don't want to keep thinking about how depressed he'll become knowing I'm never coming back, so I think about how I can haunt him instead. I'll haunt him, so I can see him and touch him when I want, and maybe eventually, he'll know it's me who's there. I heard when a ghost touches you, it feels cold. I'll feel terrible I can't talk to him anymore, or hear him talk to me with his light, gentle voice, but at least he won't have to deal with me running off.
That's been a recent occurrence these past few weeks, I've been running off at night without telling Paul, and he gets worried sick until the police take me to him or I turn up at his house, or I finally answer his call. He tells me he's had it up to here with me running off, and he might as well lock me in my own house, and I tell him to shove it. Usually, it ends up in an argument, where he tells me the homeless here are dangerous, or there could be gangs looking to kill any yanky they see, or I could end up hurting myself. I tell him he's acting like a woman, and that I'm a grown man and I can fend for myself perfectly fine. Usually, it ends with me telling him to just go away. I've actually been taking walks at night longer than I've known Paul; it's just that no one has been worried about what I'm doing when I do. I know where I'm going and what I'm doing, but Paul doesn't, and he gets worried sick. I think I feel bad doing this to him, but he should've heeded my warning when I told him there's a reason no one else is as close as he is.
But now I'm dead, and I didn't even apologize. I didn't even get to say 'I love you' before I passed. I have hardly apologized to him ever since we became serious about going out. I have a hard time with it, and most of the time, I'm not even in the wrong. Maybe this is the part of my story where I have an epiphany about how I shoulda coulda woulda about everything in my life and how I shoulda coulda woulda done something about being a better person, but no. This isn't what's happening, because I'm not going to wake up in my body, in Paul's arms, or in my casket, and I'm not going to cry my eyes out blabbering about how I should've been nicer and how I should've done this and that and how I should've said this and that. That's not going to happen, because my body is already 6 feet underground. Or maybe it's still in the morgue. Actually, I think Im going to test if I really am gone for good. I get dressed in a black button-up by Armani and black pants by Calvin Klein, both collections I'm unsure of. It's casual, but not messy, just in case I really am not a ghost. If I am, then I'm a stylish ghost.
I take a taxi downtown to Paul's apartment, I wish I could live with him, but we aren't that far in yet. He did give me the keys, which kind of counts. I make sure I have his keys (which I do), and I brace myself for whatever information I'm about to learn. What if Paul is dead too? What if I am a ghost? Could I kill Paul as a ghost, and we could live together as spirits? I think that'd be nice.
I take the stairs up, so as not to alarm anyone with a haunted elevator and unlock Paul's door once I reach the floor he's on. I slowly open it, slide inside and close the door as quietly as possible. I slide the keys into my pocket and look around. I wonder if he's home right now. His stupid fucking cat sees me and yowls and scampers off, I avoid that fucking thing like it's a bear trap, and it gladly avoids me too. You see, Paul got a cat a while ago and named it, get this, "Camembert". You've gotta be kidding, it's because it's an orange cat. It's a fat fucking lard one, too. I could kill this damn thing and eat it. I'm sure its body fat wouldn't make the meat so bad to eat; some cultures eat cats instead of beef or something, you know. But I don't think ghosts can eat, or if they can even kill. I'll never mind this for a bit, while I look for Paul. I find him in his bedroom, cleaning up. I stand in the doorway and stare at him, waiting for him to notice me. This might be an endless game, he'll never see me. He won't ever know I'm here, he won't know how much I yearn for him, despite him being a few feet away. He feels so far away, my chest hurts. My hands are clenching the sides of my pants, and I creep forward towards Paul. He's facing away from me and hasn't seen me this whole entire time. I usually don't want hugs, but I think I'm going to entirely fade away if I can't do this now, or ever. I hug him from behind as he stands up to check his work, and he nearly jumps out of my arms and kinda screams like a girl.
"Patrick?! What the fuck?! You scared the absolute fucking shit out of me! What is wrong with you?!" He spins himself around and almost pushes me away. My chest aches; I feel like someone cracked my sternum open and left my ribs to stab into all of the intricate muscles of my heart.
He stares at me, looking angry, but then I think concerned as I just stand there dumbly staring back at him.
"You can see me? You know it's me?" I keep a tight hold on Paul's shoulders, my eyes are burning, and I feel disturbed.
"Of course, I can see you. What are you on about?" He furrows his eyebrows at me. "Pat, what's going on? ... Let's go in the living room to talk, come on.." He takes my wrist and basically drags me into his living room, on his L-shaped white couch. I don't like it that much, but the corner of the L shape is very cosy.
We sit in the corner, and he has one arm up on the couch (he thinks he looks cooler like that) and the other hand resting on his lap. He's wearing a long-sleeved plain pullover and some sweatpants, both I assume are from Hermés or Armani. I feel calmer knowing this. We're sitting so we're both facing each other, just slightly sitting off of the couch. I gently grab his free arm and hold his wrist, I like feeling the heartbeat in there, and the occasional muscle movement.
"Alright, start at the beginning. It's currently... 8 PM; so how did you come to the conclusion that I couldn't have possibly seen you today?" He tilts his head at me, with a pretty blank face. He's in one of those "serious discussion" modes.
"Well ... I'm pretty sure .. I died today .. or a few days ago.. and I thought I was a ghost, but.." I look down, trying to figure this out. If I'm not a ghost, then what happened? Because I couldn't possibly still be alive. Maybe... "Maybe my body died, but my brain is still fully functioning, which explains why you can still see me, or touch me.." I finish my thought out loud, mostly on purpose.
Paul snickers at me and playfully slaps my shoulder. "You're kidding, right? Pat.. you aren't dead. That doesn't even make sense!" He chuckles. "Come on, you have to be pulling my leg here, you aren't dead. If you were dead, then how is the blood getting to your brain?" He smiles at me, he's not taking me seriously.
"Im serious, Paul. My body is dead from all of the cocaine I've done, and it gave out. I don't know why my brain still works, because I haven't fucking died before." I scowl at him, making sure he knows I'm really serious.
"Patrick! Seriously, quit! Jokes over, it wasn't even that funny; come on. You aren't dead, you didn't die, and your body certainly didn't give out" He pokes my stomach, and I squeeze his wrist. Why isn't he taking me seriously?
I lean in closer. "Im fucking serious, okay? Will you listen to me for fucking once, Paul? I. Am. Dead. I. Have. Died. Got it? I don't know why I can still talk to you, I don't know how, okay? You got it?" I huff, staring him straight in the eyes.
"Jesus, okay, Patrick, okay! Quit grabbing so hard. You really are serious. Why do you really think this?" He pulls away from me and sits up straight. I let go of his wrist and place my hands in my lap. I realise I didn't style my hair before I came here, so it looks a bit ratty.
"I told you, I did a bunch of cocaine and.. I think it was an overdose. Must have been. Or alcohol poisoning. It could've been anything, Paul."
"Patrick.. you couldn't have possibly died from just coke. I mean, that just never happens. How much alcohol did you have the night before, though?" He tilts his head at me, still smirking, but I think in a concerned way.
"About, I think 8 glasses of a J&B. I think, I don't know." I genuinely don't remember, I don't remember how many grams I wasted, I don't know how long I've been dead.
"Oh, come on.. okay, let's make sense of this. You think you could've died on 8 glasses of a J&B, I assume straight; am I right? You really think that?" Paul smirks at me like he's about to lay down the facts. "You know how ridiculous that sounds? Come on.. you didn't die. You're fine."
I'm silent for a moment, he won't believe me. He won't believe me that my body is slowly starting to rot from the inside out. "I can't deal with this, I'm out of here." I stand up, and head for the door.
"Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going now ? Patrick, you just got here, and this is the first time you're telling me what's wrong, and you're just walking off?" He stands up, too, quickly catching up to me before I'm even remotely close to the front door.
"You won't believe a thing I say. I can't cope with this. I need some air."
"So get some air on the balcony! I swear, Pat.. where are you going anyway? Back to the office?"
"Maybe I will. What do you care anyway? Just leave me alone; you aren't believing me, so just go away."
"Pat, I don't believe you because that's a completely ridiculous belief! You aren't leaving here, I'm serious when I say you could hurt yourself." He pauses. "Let's just.. work this out, okay? Logically. That's what you like, right? Working things out rationally?"
"Why would I?" I move towards the door.
"I swear to.. If you take one step out of here, I'm calling the cops on you." He tries to get in my way while I'm walking.
"For what? That I'm a grown man talking a walk? Good case, Paul."
"No, that you're going to be a danger to yourself and others! Do you know how close I've gotten to calling the cops on you before for the same shit? I've had it more than up to here, Bateman." That last word stings. He never uses my last name, I think he's pissed now. I think my stomach just started rotting.
I stay quiet, and just stand and look at him. He's standing in front of me now, in a somewhat attempt to stop me physically. Now, in a real fight, I could take Paul- because I'm much more muscular than him; we're both around the same height, so I don't have very much advantage there.
"Please just listen to me, Pat.. let's just talk this out, okay?" His voice softens, and he looks like he's pleading with me. I seem to be unable to resist this.
There's a long pause while I think, where we stare, almost challenging each other. I roll my eyes and sulk back to the couch, staring away from Paul. "... On one condition, you listen to me. You at least pretend to believe me."
"S'alright, Pat." We both sit down, this time on the straight part of the couch. "Is it okay to hug you?" He asks me.
I shake my head. That's a thing we've established lately because we both learned I get very irritated by sudden hugs and things. Sometimes Im okay with them, but right now, Im not.
"Okay, start from the beginning.. you uhh.. woke up dead, and you think it's because of an overdose. Okay.. so.. how do we prove that you aren't dead? Other than you know, you being here right now.." He stares at me as he recounts my story; staring usually makes me feel strange, but Paul likes to do it, so I'm used to it with him by now.
I go quiet to think for a moment. "Maybe... Dead people can't feel hurt, right? Or hunger? Right? That's how.." I nod to myself; despite not knowing anything about how dead people really work, other than their bodies feel very good, I sure can think of a convincing solution.
"Right! I kinda.. don't wanna hurt you, or have you hurt yourself, but waiting for you to get hungry is gonna take foreverrrr...." He drags out the last word and groans. He leans back and thinks. "You think dead people can get drunk? Oh! What if they can't puke?" He perks up and smiles at me. "Well.. it's probably not good for you to get drunk or to puke all over... jeeeesus.. this is hard." He groans again and flops back into the cushion.
I nod. I haven't felt hungry for a while because of the cocaine, unless my high ends, but most of the time, it's like a neverending high. "... We'll just have to lightly hurt me, then. Nothing crazy, just.. light." I look over at Paul.
"That's a good idea! How about a pinch?" Paul looks excited and sits forward. I think he's a little too excited to pinch me.
".. Whatever. Don't do it too much. It's okay to touch, just.. you know. Nothing crazy."
Paul then pounces on me, pinching and tickling all over my torso, to which I squirm and try and shove him off. Surprisingly, Paul is hard to push off, and I end up underneath him, falling victim to his little trick. He jabs and pinches at my sides, which makes me squirm and writhe even more under him, letting out giggles and snickers, until we end up half wrestling on his couch for a few minutes until he stops and sits up on top of me, beaming.
"So, are you alive now? You ain't a walking corpse now?" He chuckles.
I try and catch my breath while I recompose. "We could've broken your damn couch, you moron." I scowl at him, though I'm not actually mad at him. "That probably wouldn't have been that bad.." I mumble to myself. "Anyway, I told you just a pinch! But.. yes. I think that settles it.." I'm still unsure, in actuality, but my body heat increased, and I don't think dead people can do that.
"Hey! My couch is just fine, thank you! Anyway.. I'm glad. You know, Patrick, I really do get worried that you believe stuff like that.." His smile fades away, going back into his serious mode. I really don't know what he's talking about, though.
"What do you mean?" I raise my eyebrow at him.
"I mean, you don't tell me things.. But you sometimes talk about hearing flies or seeing someone who clearly isn't there at a table when we go out.. I mean, that sounds weird, right?" He leans down, cupping the side of my face.
"What? You just never pay attention long enough to hear it, or you're just looking in the wrong area. That's all, Paul.. Really. I'm not, like, a crazy person or something; you don't need to lock me up or anything." I offer a smile at him, hopefully, he'll stop pressing about this.
"Hmm.. Alright. If you say so.. I can't tell you what you don't and do see.." There's a pause. We're both staring at each other. "Anyway. I hope you really do feel better, because that was a little bit of a scare, you know." He lightly chuckles, smiling small.
I don't say anything. I just nod and slightly sit up, using my arms to prop myself up. I don't really feel better, but Paul is happy he was able to make me smile, so I can't really tell him I don't really feel better. My body is dying, or perhaps it already has died, and there's nothing that could prove otherwise. I'll have to upkeep it, for him, but I don't know if I have any motivation to care if it gets hurt. Though, my body doesn't hurt, no, it doesn't feel like anything- but sometimes, so far, I can only describe it as my body running on full, like a star using up all of its energy before it completely gives out. Maybe that's what's happening. At least now, before my body gives out and before my brain completely gives up, I can tell Paul that I love him. I can write a letter addressing why I've died. But, if I can keep that from happening as long as possible, just so I won't have to bare seeing Paul heartbroken while I'm gone, then maybe it's worth it.
Paul gets off of me, and I sit upright on the couch normally, while he gets up to do whatever with Camembert, playing or whatever the hell. Eventually, after a few minutes, I get up to put a Whitney Houston CD in the music player, where Paul keeps all of his tapes and things. His collection isn't as impressive as mine, and his music taste isn't as complex, but as long as he has some taste, I can bare it. I sit back down on the couch and relax. Eventually, Paul comes and sits back down next to me, with cat hair covering his outfit, of course. He takes his hand in mine, and I close my eyes. I guess this is what being dead is about.