After Life
By Laura Jean Snyder
Well, shit. There it is, right at my feet. A dead body. My first dead body. It’s not quite what I expected if I am being honest. Not that I had any expectations for dead bodies. Never gave them any thought. Alas, here I am. Standing in the brush, corpse at my feet. And the icing on the shit cake being the corpse is in fact my own.
Not exactly how my day was supposed to go. I am sure most murder victims do not expect to wind up deceased. Okay, I am sure there is a subset of people who do believe they are going to be murdered once they leave the house, you know, the paranoid types. There are of course the others who are threatened and whatnot, but I wonder how many of them wake up in the morning thinking “Today will be my last day, best go about normal business”. I am spiraling. My brain is doing whatever it can to not accept the fact that I am dead, as evident by the fact that I am looking down at my own body. Also, the fact that my head was smashed in with a rock. That was a major clue as to my current situation.
The path along the river has been bare all morning. If it is still morning. I have no idea how long I have been standing here. The canopy is too thick to be able to judge where the Sun is, not that I could discern time using the Sun, but either way, it is moot. What am I supposed to do now? Linger with my body? Wander about? Go home? Is there supposed to be some sort of light or something to walk toward? That’s what I’ve heard anyway. All that nonsense about going toward the light. Perhaps I have some unfinished business. I’m doing it again, aren’t I? My thoughts tend to run away with me when stressed.
Maybe I am not dead at all, and this is one of those weird dreams which feel real. I hate those. You wake up thinking you are late for work, or you have done something rather unpleasing during the night. But it’s not. I can’t tell you how I knew I was dead, but I did. It felt more like waking up from one of those dreams. Like my life had been a dream.
I nudge my body with the tip of my toe. It feels as odd as it sounds. Both are squishy. An involuntary shiver glides down my spine. I give my body another nudge. It is solid, yet not. I can feel the pressure in my toes as I press them against my body. It’s like my new form is some kind of malleable material. Am I a ghost now? Or is there something a bit freakier going on? I didn’t know and still don’t. What I did know was that I was utterly pissed. And not in the British way.
My morning had been completely normal. Got up, had my morning coffee, got into my favorite yoga pants, did some yoga, caught up on any events I could have missed during my slumber, and then came out to meet Cami for a “hike”. The hike hadn’t even been Cami’s idea. I just knew she would also have the day off work and that it was going to be perfect hiking weather. I keep using the word hike, but really, it’s a mostly flat path that curves along the river in a giant loop. A perfect mild spring day. You know, not too hot, but not cold either. Plus, it had rained early in the evening yesterday and the smell would linger in the trees and the dust from the path would be minimal. I hate dust.
I knelt expecting a pain in my knee from an old injury but felt nothing. A perk I suppose. No more pain, not the physical kind. Speaking of emotions. Should I be sad? Yes. And I was sad. Still am sad. It never goes away. The sadness I feel isn’t over my death, but everyone I left behind. The poor soul who eventually found my body and has this image forever burned into them. Bad enough the memory is burned into my own brain. Poor guy was just minding his own business. They always are, aren’t they? The people who find bodies. Of course, my cat. My sweet, fat, stupid, gray tabby. His name is Allen. I can’t tell you why I named him Allen. He just felt like an Allen when I found him as a stray. Poor thing. I hope my sister will take good care of him. Sigh. My sister.
A whole wave of grief washed through me, knocking me onto my ass. Right there in the mud next to my corpse. It doesn’t hurt, at least not physically, because not feeling pain takes a lot of getting used to, but the sadness I was feeling hurt every part of me. I thought of my mom and dad and how much this would destroy them. Of my little sister, who has always been my true best friend, I try to cry, but no tears come. Just excruciating pain.
I pulled my knees to my chest. Something I have not done since my early teen years. Now, here I am, a dead 30-year-old woman, hugging my knees and wishing this was all a bad dream. And it is all the fault of that dumb bitch Cami. I would use worse words, but just because I am dead doesn’t mean I have to be completely crass.
The pool of blood beneath my head was turning a darker red. Not going to lie, I hadn’t expected the blood to be as bright as it was. That was a bit jarring. Now, it was turning that darker, thick blood you expect because of years of TV shows and movies. The rock Cami had used to smash my skull was nowhere near, she had hurled the thing as far as she could into the woods. I was mildly impressed at her throwing skills. Not something I will ever admit out loud as she is my sworn enemy for obvious reasons.
I rested my cheek on my knee, wishing the tears would just come. It would feel better to purge it out of me. But alas. Just a sad, pathetic dead woman sitting in the mud waiting for something. Anything.
Thoughts were bombarding my brain. Is there a light or something that I am supposed to walk toward? Am I stuck here? So many questions coming in one after the other. I leaned back, let my legs fall to the ground, sat in the lotus position, and closed my eyes, thinking it would somehow open me up to some kind of spiritual knowledge.
“What in the land of the dead are you doing?” came a snarky voice from the edge of the path.
My eyes popped open and saw a tall, thin man with a dark complexion, which was further pronounced by his beige linen suit, looming over me. It is the type of suit one would expect to see during the Roaring Twenties or worn by some hipster with money to spare.
I looked around, just out of reflex. A glance over one shoulder, then the other with nothing more than thin trees with green leaves rustling in a breeze my skin could no longer feel. For a moment there was a thought that I was just having some kind of crazy coma dream, but his words sank in and dashed any of that.
“Yes, you my little dead girl,” he said with the widest smile I have ever seen. It was not a condescending smile, but one that brought a feeling of comfort. Which for some reason I found grotesquely irritating. I guess cynicism does not die when your body does. Go figure.
“Who are you?” I muttered sharply.
“Banji,” he says, “think of me as your guide to the afterlife.”
“Uh… okay.”
He reached out a large hand to me. His fingers are long and slender, his nails perfectly manicured. A twinge of envy when considering the state of my own bitten nails. I couldn’t bring myself to move though, despite the kind gesture of yanking me from the mud. I mean, yeah, obviously he can see me and is likely dead like I am, but I cannot help but feel suspicious of this dude. Maybe it was the whole being murdered by my friend just has me a bit on edge. Trust may have fallen off the edge as well.
“Why are you sitting in the mud?” He scowled a little as he emphasized the word “mud”.
I looked down at my legs and suddenly felt ridiculous. How would yoga tell me what to do? Meditation… yeah… I don’t either. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Stop judging me. Not like you would know what to do if you found yourself murdered on the side of a jogging trail in an urban park. It’s just awesome. I cannot recommend it enough. Sigh.
“Get yourself out of there,” he said, pulling his hand away and placing it on his hip. “Just sitting in the mud, it’s undignified.”
I gesture toward my corpse. “Because dignity is my biggest problem at the moment.”
He looks over my corpse, unimpressed, and shrugs, “meh.”
“Meh? I was murdered by my ‘best friend’ and you just say ‘meh’?” Yes, I made the quotation motions with my fingers. But that’s not relevant to the story, but sometimes emphasis is needed in a situation to convey the utter shit that you have been through.
“Death is like a birthday,” says Banji, annoyed, “everyone has a birthday, and everyone dies. So, I am afraid my little dead girl, your death on the scale of interesting is rather boring.”
That was a gut punch. “Not to me. I’m dead. I didn’t want to be dead, so I would say it is the exact opposite of boring.”
He gives my comment a think and nods in agreement, “fair.”
“I’m sorry, but what did you say you were doing here?” My irritation has reached the point of replacing the intense sadness.
I scrambled to my feet, without the helpful hand of this Banji dude. The hand seemed to be a one-time offer. I slapped my legs to remove muck and such, but alas, none has clung to my clothes. Another perk of being a ghost I suppose. I am in the same condition as I was when the rock slammed into my head.
“Michelle,” I spit out, realizing I am rather behind on the introduction front.
“Yes,” he says smiling, “Michelle Katherine Morrison. A 30-year-old woman. Single, though often pretends to have a boyfriend to impress friends, daughter of Edward and Cheryl, sister to Anna, and owner of a withholding cat who does not care much for his owner.”
“Uh, yeah,” I say, confused. I crossed my arms over my stomach, feeling exposed. How long has this guy been stalking me? Or is it some magical knowledge given to him from some other means? “Wait, what was that bit about my cat?”
“Never mind that. You must be positively rife with questions,” says Banji as he motions for me to move back to the path.
“You might say that” I stumble a little. Apparently, in my ghostly form, I am not immune to shrubs and twigs. I misstep a few times while Banji annoyingly finds himself on the path unfussed by nature.
“The newly dead always are,” he says as watches me stumble about, “I was once a newly dead like yourself. But that was a long time ago.”
My body, as previously mentioned, was not much off the path. Cami had really done a piss poor job of concealing it. I hoped someone would come along soon to find me. I don’t much care for the idea of animals having their way with it. I know I wasn’t using it anymore, but still. No one wants to end up in the bowel of a coyote. Then they will start using words like “remains” when they talk about my body. Not cool. Ugh.
The leaves on the thin trees rustled in the breeze that I could not feel. Bummer. I like a soft breeze. I looked down at my ghostly body. Blue yoga pants, a heather gray sports bra, and my Rolling Stones tank top. Not my ideal outfit. Sure, it’s my favorite t-shirt, and there could be worse outfits to die in, but not one I would have planned to have died in.
“So,” I say awkwardly as we glide our way along the path, me at a somewhat of a light jog as Banji’s stride is quite a bit longer than my own, “am I like stuck in this outfit or…”
“Afraid so,” he says, smirking. “At least they have the decency to be in the same state as the time of our deaths though. That would be too depressing to even contemplate.”
I can’t tell if he is joking or not.
“See,” he continues eagerly, “this beautiful suit would have been a monstrosity to be seen in. Such beautiful linen. And they had the nerve to gun me down, it absolutely destroyed it. Full of holes, and the blood would never have come out of the fabric. But at least I am fortunate enough to wander the afterlife in my best one.”
Sure, rub it in. You win the best dressed dead person. Congratulations.
I looked down at my outfit again, feeling a bit more judged than I did a moment ago and very much regretting asking the question. So, I did what anyone would do, I changed the subject.
“So… like… what do we do now?”
He shrugs, “Whatever you wish my little dead girl.”
I really wish he wouldn’t call me that.
“We could peek in on your family, annoy that irritating feline of yours, sulk around your apartment until your funeral.” I feel my own face scrunching as he speaks. None of that felt very appetizing. “The dead love going to their own funerals. Something about all the drama of who came, who cried, how many adoring fans they have left behind. Sad really. The truth is, one hardly remembers half the people who show up, and the ones who do most of the talking thought the deceased was a right ass. Rather pathetic when you think about it.”
“So, you didn’t go to your funeral?”
“Of course, I did,” he said, his smile faltering, “it was humbling, to say the least. But one must not bother with the opinions of others.”
“So, what you were really doing was describing your own funeral?”
Banji shifts a little, he manages to play it off like he needs to adjust his tie, but I am already on to him. Okay, perhaps not onto him all that much as I am still utterly confused as to why I am following around a dead guy in a nice suit who seems to know everything about me. If I were alive, I would very much be getting as far away from his as I could.
Banji stops in his tracks, puts his hands up to stop me and his wide smile changes. It’s still there, but it has shifted. Devious. “If I were you, I might pay a little visit to the person who ended me and perhaps drive her into a manic frenzy,”
“I quite like that idea,” I say, giving the idea dutiful consideration.
“Then perhaps we will pay a visit to that ex-boyfriend of yours. He was a real knob.” With that, Banji is off down the path again.
“Yeah,” I say. “Wait, what?” I scramble to catch up with him.
“Don’t know why you put up with his bullshit for as long as you did. The number of flags with that man.”
My mind is running wild at this point. How is it that I had a ghost stalker? Even if he is some kind of guardian angel this is just creepy.
We walk in silence for a minute. Well near silence. Banji tends to hum as he strides along, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. There is something majestic about the way he moves. Not something I will ever tell him; he doesn’t need more of an ego.
It isn’t terribly long before we find ourselves emerging from the trail entrance into the parking lot. My car is rather lonely looking, as it is the only car in the lot. It’s a red Ford Fiesta, and I feel a bout of shame knowing it’s filled with candy wrappers, empty coffee cups, and various sweaters, and it will likely be rummaged around in by police. I had been meaning to clean it out. At least I know my apartment is in relatively clean order. But I can hear my mother’s voice making comments about the way I kept my car. She is all about cleanliness. It’s one of the reasons my apartment was always tidy. Mom was always a big fan of the drop by, and to avoid a stern glare and talking to, I always kept it mom ready.
Besides my complicated relationship with my mother, there was always my absent father lurking in the background of my life. I wonder if he will feel anything once he learns of my fate. A part of me wants to say, “screw him and how he feels”, but there is a strong part that still longs for his approval, even after death. I hope he feels tremendous pain over my death and that he will reach out to my sister and attempt to become a solid part of her life. But knowing my dad. I haven’t bothered with him since my funeral. But we will have plenty of time to get into that whole mess later.
“I didn’t expect it to be like this,” I muttered as we ventured away from the park.
“What did you expect?” says Banji, almost sarcastically.
I shrug, “I don’t know, but something, anything. Just seems like everything is the same.”
Banji lets out a sigh, “one of the hardest things we must learn, is that once we die, the world continues to move on. As if we were never there. In one hundred years, the only ones who will remember you will also be dead.”
“Oh…” that is a bit of gut punch. “Wait, what about Shakespeare? He died hundreds of years ago; everyone knows about Shakespeare.”
If Banji had been facing me, I would have seen him roll his eyes. I only know this occurred because at the present point of our relationship I have come to learn he rolls his eyes at just about everything. So, it is fair to state there were many eyerolls given during our conversation.
“You, my dear little dead girl, are not William Shakespeare.”
“Yeah but, you get what I mean.”
He sighs, “but no one alive knew the real William Shakespeare died long ago. Knowing his life achievements is not the same as knowing him. He is not the nicest chap by the way.”
“I’ve left no mark on the world,” I say. Wow, if I wasn’t depressed enough.
“Most of us don’t, but that does not make one any less important.”
He twists his torso just enough so I can see a soft smile.
“Were you as insignificant as me?”
“How dare you,” he says, “I will have you now little dead girl, that I caused quite a stir back in my day. I was in all the newspapers.”
I nodded. It would not have been possible to deflate me any more than I was in that moment.
We return to our “silent” walking. Cami’s apartment is only a few blocks from the park. One of those beige complexes that just look kind of drab and sad. Nothing like my building downtown. I know what you’re thinking, heh, no wonder she killed me. I don’t judge her for living there, we get what we can as housing is not easy to come by. I managed to get my place with pure luck, and I never tried to be a snob about it, that was until she would make her snide little comments. “Oh, must be nice living is such a posh part of town.” You know, crap like that with that edge of mocking to her voice.
We are strolling along a decently busy street. There are a few shops and eateries on this edge of the city. People are wandering along the sidewalks, driving by in their cars. There is a rush of air as the cars pass, but I feel no chill or sensation of any kind. Just like with the breeze, there is no chill, no rush from the air, no wafting of my hair which stays perfectly still. This will take some getting used to. Well, being dead will take some getting used to if I am being honest.
None of the people notice us. One person who got a bit close to Banji shivered and made a comment about the sudden rush of cold. Hmm, go figure. I suppose some of my previous dismissals about ghosts were incorrect. All of them actually. Because until now, I thought they were nothing but a load of bull. Touche universe. Touche.
I looked in the direction of my apartment which was quite a bit off. I try not to think about it, but I cannot help but look. Soon my family will be boxing my things, deciding what to keep and what to get rid of. How much will they keep? I hope they donate my clothes. Please, don’t let Allen end up in the shelter. He may be a withholding jerk who doesn’t like me, but I still love him.
I shake it off. There was a task at hand, and I needed to focus. Revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge. I am going to haunt the living daylights out of the bitch. Perhaps she will go mad. No, no. I don’t want her to go crazy. Don’t want her to have fuel for the legal defense when she is inevitably caught.
She was sloppy. First of all, she left the rock behind that she used to smash my skull. Yeah, she chucked it, but they’ll scour the area and find it eventually. That initial blow hurt like a mother. The pain may have disappeared, but the memory of it still lingers. Things went black and next thing I knew I was standing over my corpse and watching her panic, shoving my body off the trail. If I had been the one committing the murder, I would have taken the rock with me and disposed of it in the woods out of town. But that’s just me. But I digress.
Second, there are a vast array of text messages about our plans to meet for a walk along the trail. Even a confirmation of arrival to the park. So, clearly, she was the last person to see me alive. I’d give it maybe a week before the cops come pounding on her door. If that. Amateur. And how many of those true crime podcasts and TV shows does she watch? All of them. And I do mean all of them. I would have expected more from her. At least a bit more creative than a rock.
The complex is coming into view. My stomach starts to flutter. My nerves are on fire and for some reason my dead body is mimicking a panic attack. No pain, but apparently my panic disorder came along with me. Again, touché universe, touché.
Banji stops walking. I discovered this the only way one lost in their own world does, I walked right into his back.
“Here we are,” Banji says with a swish of his hand. “Now, my little dead girl, let’s go pay your murderous friend a visit, shall we?”
I sighed. Alright, I thought, let’s do this. If nothing else, at least my afterlife is turning out a bit more interesting than my life.