The Battle of Life and Death

Pain

～Evelyn Thatcher～

Agony. Blinding, electrifying, world-shattering pure pain. Pain is too dull of a word—it's more like torture. Even that is a mediocre word for what I feel. First, that is what I feel. Next, I hear the air escaping through my punctured lungs. And then, finally, the feel of the knife squelching through my once-beating heart. Eerie gargles are the last sounds I hear from my mutilated body as I struggle to breathe through the blood flooding my lungs.

Suddenly, I feel weightless and free from the pain. I feel my body, or lack thereof, floating aimlessly up toward the ceiling: Nay, not my human body, but my soul. My vision is black, and that's when I realize I had my eyes clenched shut throughout the entire ordeal. Even now, my eyes were closed.

Before I can completely pass through the roof, I tether my spirit to the human world without realizing I was doing it. I pry my eyes open and look down at where my body should be with a frown. What I see causes my frown to morph into a grimace. I see the back of Jason's head as he continues to drive the knife into my already deceased body. Over and over again. When will he stop? When will it be enough? When will he realize that I have long stopped breathing and screaming?

Screaming—I hadn't even realized I was screaming. Still, as a spirit, I am screaming. I snap my jaw shut when I don't feel the agonizing pain anymore, and stare at the back of Jason's head. Am I really dead? What do I do now? I ask myself in confusion and disbelief.

I snap out of my staring contest with the back of his head. I was winning after all. I plant my feet on the ground, not feeling the coldness or hardness of the wood on my soles. I couldn't feel anything. It must be because I'm dead. I walk around Jason as he's still straddling me and continue to watch him impale my lifeless body with the blade. Now, though, he's starting to slow down and grow tired.

After who knows how much time passes, he eventually stops and starts panting while trying to catch his breath. He can catch his breath, at least, I realize, growing irritable that he has the right to do so, and I can't because he decided to take that right away from me. I observe the seemingly never-ending pool of blood tainting the floor--my blood.

All I can do is just stand around and stalk Jason like an owl does its prey while he looks down at my carcass with pure unbridled hatred in his eyes. Not once have I seen this much rage in someone's eyes directed at another person. Even when he used to hurt me before this. Not an ounce of pity or remorse is present. By lacking these emotions, I know he's beyond the point of getting professional help and will rot for the rest of his life behind bars.

I guess I should've known he didn't love or care for me anymore when the first wound was inflicted. And I'm not referencing the physical murder of me. I'm referring to when he put his hands on me for the first time years ago. I could stand here and feel sorry for and blame myself for staying with him, but I absolutely adored him and thought it was just a one-time mishap. How wrong was I.

I could sit here, mope around, and ponder why his attitude and mental degradation forced him to kill me, or I could use my newfound spiritual form to get revenge and answers. However, I don't want to make myself known to him too soon because I want him to gradually lose his mind with the regret and knowledge that I'm still here and always will be.

Why haven't I gone to heaven yet? What about hell? How did I tether myself to the human world? How did I tether myself to the human world? All of these questions rush through my thoughts, but I don't have the answers right now. Hopefully soon, however, I can get the answers that I'm searching for.

**

Three days. Three days is how long it took for people to notice I've gone missing. On the fourth day, the police knocked on Jason's door to inquire about my disappearance. He told them to return with a warrant—of course; he did.

So, that same day, the police promptly showed up with a search warrant.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the judge has granted us a search warrant. So, you can either kindly step back and let us search the house, or, we force our way inside, and you're going to jail anyway," firmly, and a little aggressively, states the lead detective, Joshua Benson, after Jason tries to block his path into the house.

I knew the search for my remains would be fruitless because of the way Jason went about disposing of my body. The gruesome, traumatic way he disposed of my corpse. It would send shivers of pure terror down my spine if I were still capable of such feelings. But as I've unfortunately learned, being dead doesn't pair with feelings. That's strange, I remember feeling angry at the revelation that he's still breathing. My lack of feelings must be because I've been dead for a while.

"Fine," Jason finally snarls out, with a hideous and malevolent expression on his once-handsome face, "I'll play your games, Detective. But you shouldn't expect to find anything because I don't know what happened to her."

His declaration of innocence didn't completely dampen my hope that they would find other evidence. And find other evidence, they did. In fact, they found the spot where I was slaughtered and the weapon, my very own kitchen knife purchased by my loving grandmother after I moved out of my mom's house, which Jason tried to clean up by using bleach. Rookie mistake. Everyone knows bleach doesn't get rid of the evidence.

I couldn't help wondering about my mother and grandmother. How would they react to the disheartening news? Obviously not great. I can see it now: "The Gruesome Murder of Beloved Granddaughter Results in Grandmother's Fatal Heart Attack!" What a fitting headline. Now there would be two of us gone. At least then I could talk to my grandmother in the afterlife. That is if she's not forced to stay here. And if I even can talk to other spirits.

After sitting on that thought for a while, I come to the conclusion that I don't want my grandmother forced to stay on this earth any longer. She's lived a long, loving life and it's time for her to pass on to our loved ones. And hopefully, that passing wouldn't be for another couple of years or so.

"Why am I still here!?" Is what I want to scream over and over again. It's futile, as I've been asking the same question for days now, but no response has come.

After the jarring discovery, Detective Benson had to break the news to my killer. He's been at the jail being interviewed for hours now. And by the grace of God, or lack thereof a god, he decides to cooperate with the officers and confesses and describes every horrifying, sick, and twisted detail of the crime he has committed. I almost feel sorry for him having to relive it over again and feign regret over murdering me.

I have to live with it for the rest of my undead life, so fuck him. I can still feel some of the pain from the wounds, as I rub my chest where my heart was once beating.

At last, I will get the justice I deserve and have been anticipating for.

Or so I thought.