Life According to the Dead

Jim

Better play it safe, I thought. Right? I hadn't had Munchy Bits in a while because frankly I think they're gross and flavorless – but then again, they were also cheap as hell, and as I'd just gotten fired from my latest job I figured splurging might not be the best idea. I wavered for a second before throwing all financial caution to the wind and grabbing the most expensive cereal on the shelf. Totally worth the extra money, I expected.

I turned around to drop the cereal in my cart, and pretty much jumped out of my skin.

The girl standing in front of me was college-age. Blonde hair, brown eyes, and full, cherry-red lips. And the front of her sweatshirt was soaked with blood.

I cursed, loudly and then more loudly. Then I composed myself and said, "That's messy."

She blinked. "What?"

"Blood." I pointed. "All over your shirt. How did you not notice?"

She looked down, and all the color drained from her face in an instant. "How did that get there?" she demanded, her voice rising to a screech of panic.

I turned and began walking quickly away. I knew blood was bad – especially like that. "Don't know, don't care," I snapped over my shoulder. She started to follow, and I picked up the pace, gritting my teeth.

I don't do murders. That has always been my number one rule, and it's the first thing you need to know about me. No matter how safe, no matter how important. Never, period. I'd tried once already, and it hadn't ended well.

She was practically tripping over her own feet to keep up with me. "You are him, aren't you?"

"Nope."

"You are. I know you are. I mean, I'm not sure how I know," she stammered. "You're just...you're so..."

I jerked my head back, flipping a lock of thick, sand-colored hair out of my face. "Attractive?"

"Eh."

"Go away." I realized as I reached the front of the store that I had left my cart back in the cereal aisle, but I decided to leave it. I shoved open the glass door and stormed out into the sun-drenched street. Imagine – I had been having a fine day, perfectly normal, minding my own business, and now this. A bombshell. A dead girl with blood all over her shirt.

"This is important," she protested.

"Of course it is. It always is. That's why I'm not getting involved."

Peter appeared next to me. "Now you're not getting involved?"

I sighed. "And my day was going so well," I muttered, voicing my thoughts.

The girl spoke up. "Sorry. Who's this?"

Peter had been one of the first ones. He'd died in his mid-twenties, a little younger than I am now. But in the past, he had come to me in the form of a teenager, a little kid, you name it. Same memories, same personality, but always a different age. And no matter how old, he was consistently unbearable.

That was partly my fault. Mostly because he was the murder victim whose afterlife I had completely screwed up.

"He doesn't matter," I told the girl. "Now, do I even want to ask what's so terribly important?"

She lowered her voice, as if anyone besides Peter and myself could hear her in the first place. "I think there's been a murder!" she whispered.

"No kidding."

"I just..." She squinted, her eyes clouding over with confusion. "I just can't remember..."

"Let me stop you right there," I interrupted, marching toward my car. "You can't remember who the murderer is, who was killed, or precisely where or when or why it happened."

Well, that helped. I puffed up my cheeks and blew out a long sigh. "What's your name?"

Her eyebrows furrowed together. "Amanda Easter."

"Amanda Easter," I said, "I have no idea what happened to you, and I really don't want to know. I think it's best if you just–"

"Me?" she . "Nothing's happened to me. I just – I just know there's been a murder, and I know you can help. I swear, I had nothing to do with it."

"What's that stain on your shirt there, Mandy?"

She frowned. "That's totally irrelevant. And it's Amanda," she corrected me.

"Doesn't seem irrelevant to me," I said, yanking open the door to my pickup truck and sliding into the driver's seat. I slammed the door fast as anything, and she jumped back in surprise.

"Hey! You almost hit me!"

"Oh, good. I mean, yeah," I agreed, rolling up the window and shoving the key into the ignition.

She'd died recently, then. I knew this partly because she couldn't remember anything besides a parking lot – fat lot of good that did me – and partly because the whole death thing hadn't really settled in with her yet. Clearly she still thought she was tangible, if she assumed she could be hurt by a slamming car door.

Don't get me wrong. I can touch dead people, just like I can see and hear and speak to them. But that's me. Not my car, and certainly not anything else.

Peter chuckled as the old truck rumbled into motion. He was sitting placidly in the passenger's seat, looking as laid-back as if he'd been invited. "Wait until she figures out she can walk through walls and stuff."

"Yeah, great, whatever."

"No. I mean you won't have a moment to yourself anymore."

"Gee," I replied stiffly, "I wonder what that'll be like."

He pursed his lips and twisted around as I pulled onto the main road, glancing back once more to get a last glimpse of the girl standing alone in front of the grocery store, helpless and lonely and confused. "That was cold of you."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"No?"

"No. You're never sorry."

Biting my lip to the point that it hurt, I reached for the dials on the radio and turned it up to full volume, letting the blaring music drown out all thoughts of Peter.

He was wrong, of course. I was sorry. Always. I was sorry for how I'd gotten after so many tireless years of communicating with the deceased against my own will. I was sorry for pretty much shunning every dead guy who came looking for me. I was more than sorry for what I had done to Peter all those years ago, and I was sorry for leaving the murdered girl by herself at the store.

I just wasn't sorry enough.