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The detective sighed, sliding down the wall and taking their place on the concrete. Blood dark like oil waterfalled from the opening on their chest, ribcage bare to the world.
God, he could really use a cigarette right now.
“Hey detective,” a voice rang beside him, it was not real. He was not real. He was dead. But they decided to humor the hallucination regardless.
“Hello Casey.”
“Why won't you die?” not-casey asked, pointing to the hole in their chest, staring at it with that unblinking brown gaze.
“Can’t,” they responded, coughing up a bit of blood a second later.
“Can’t or won't, detective? Don't you want to pay? Don't you deserve it for what you've done?”
“You think I'd still be alive if I had a choice?” the detective asked back, and when the false ghost did not respond, “I want to die, kid. Trust me, I really do.”
But Casey was not there anymore. He was never there in the first place.
The detective brought their hands to their face. There was blood. Both their own, and that of a man who died too young. A man who just wanted to help.
They brought their knees to their chest, ignoring the agony. “I’m so sorry, Case.” This was the first time The detective had attempted to cry in so long. But no tears flowed.
“We both know that's not true, Al.”
He wasn't wrong.