Josh

JOSH

I slowly open my eyes and blink at the ceiling.

Whoa, there are a lot of Christmas lights in this place , is my first thought. They’re sort of familiar lights, too.

It’s because they’re yours, genius.

Oh. Right.

I frown. It’s slowly coming back to me. I’m in the office. I was putting up the decorations. Gabriel was here. Being his annoying self. The usual. And the lights weren’t working, and I fixed them…

Why am I lying on the table?

My head is spinning like crazy. What the hell happened to me? Did I faint? I’ve never fainted in my life, so am I supposed to feel this weird? And where the hell is Gabriel? What, I just lost consciousness, and he took it as his cue to leave? To be fair, it doesn’t sound like something he’d do. As annoying as he is, he’s never been that big of a jerk. He’s too ethical for that.

“Gabriel?” I rasp.

There’s a sound from somewhere below me, a mix of a groan and a gasp. I push myself up on an elbow and peer over the side of the table.

And then I just stare.

My mouth goes dry, and my heart starts beating so hard I’m afraid I’m going to vomit it out any second. It doesn’t help that my stomach is swirling like crazy. It’s the same nauseated feeling I get when I’m some place very high and glance over the edge, only in this case it makes no sense to feel this way because I’m on a fucking table, so I’m not exactly on top of Mount Everest here.

Still, the on-the-edge-of-vomiting feeling remains.

Because I’m staring at myself.

And there’s only one explanation for how that’s possible.

If I’m up here and also looking at myself down there, it’s because…

I’m dead.

Shit!

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Oh fuck!

I’m dead.

Dead!

I’m so woozy that I can’t hold myself up any longer, so I flop down on my back again and stare at the ceiling, hyperventilating and fighting off nausea.

I try to hold my breath and count to ten, then breathe through the panic, but nothing’s working, so after a few seconds I give up. I mean, what’s gonna happen if I have a full-blown panic attack anyway?

Nothing.

Absolutely shit all is going to happen.

Because I’m dead.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I’m twenty-five, and I’m dead. Killed by freaking Christmas lights. Couldn’t I have just waited until Easter? I hear resurrection is popular then.

This is going to make the news for sure. My grandparents are going to freak out. Not because of the dying thing. I mean, I’d like to think they’ll be at least a little bit sad. Maybe they’ll even take some time off and attend the funeral. One can hope. After they’re done freaking out, that is, because with this kind of death I’m absolutely going to embarrass them. An acceptable death would be croaking while doing something honorable, like saving people from an earthquake or fighting a grizzly bear to give a group of hikers a chance to escape. Being electrocuted while decorating an office does not make for a good story to share at a fundraiser. Oh, yes. ua. Our grandson. He died tragically while fighting a broken bulb. Sad indeed.

I consider it for a second.

Oh well. I’m dead, so it’s not like I can die again in a more dignified way.

I take a deep breath. I’m calmer now. Marginally.

What should I do now? What’s the protocol? Am I supposed to call somebody? Let them know there’s a dead body on the floor?

I should. Then again, I’m dead. This might be my first time doing this, but logic dictates that I can’t phone in my own death. I can’t use a phone at all. Ever again.

Which means I just have to wait until they find me. It’s a workday tomorrow, so at least there’ll be people, which is nice because I’ll still look like a human being and not a bloated, disgusting, decaying corpse. It’s a weird thing to be vain about, but hey, I’m dead. I think I’m allowed to be a bit self-absorbed here. Being a pretty corpse is my silver lining in this situation.

Sadie is usually the first one in the office, so I guess she’s the one who’ll have to report this. I blow out a breath and feel bad. She’s really shy and quiet, so this will be hell for her. Damnit. What if seeing my body gives her nightmares or anxiety attacks or effing PTSD? I don’t want to screw her over like this!

At the same time, I can’t deny that I’m glad I died in a place where there are people who’ll eventually find me. If I’d died at home it could have been a while before anybody figured out I was missing. My friends—the few real ones I have—will be with their families for the holidays, so it could take a while before they really started to worry…

Beth would probably keep calling and eventually alert somebody. We’ve been friends for a long time, and sure, she’s in New Zealand right now meeting her boyfriend’s family, but I’m sure she’ll figure out something is up once enough of her messages go unanswered. That might take a bit of time, though. I mean, there’s the time difference. And she’s on the other side of the world with Tim, so I can’t exactly blame her if she doesn’t notice at once.

I stare at the ceiling. Huh. Apparently you can still feel lonely when you’re dead. That’s a bummer. Shouldn’t I be enjoying heaven, all my worries swept away? Talk about false advertising.

Unless… If I’m dead, then why am I still here? Shouldn’t I be somewhere with all my loved ones? My chest jolts. If that were the case, it might compensate for not being alive a bit. I even take a look around to see if there’s anybody here.

Nope. Still alone. Minus the body on the floor.

Am I a ghost, then? Is this some kind of unfinished-business deal? The Christmas lights are still off, so I swear to God, if it turns out those damn killer lights are my unfinished business, I will haunt this whole office so hard!

Or maybe I’m supposed to go into the light? Only… where’s the light, in that case? Do I need to find it first? I thought it was supposed to be right there. Just… in front of me. I look to my left and right. Over my head. Nothing. Where’s the fucking light? It’s supposed to be here, so, what, I’m just really bad at dying? Did I do it wrong somehow? This dying thing is much more complicated than I ever thought it would be.

And much more devastating when it fully hits.

I swallow hard.

I’m not ready.

I haven’t even started living yet. I’m twenty-five. Twenty-five! I was supposed to get to eighty, at the very least, then die peacefully in my bed, surrounded by… kids. Or friends. Or, like, young people I’ve mentored during my life and who now consider me their idol. Something like that.

Yeah, fine, I just made that up on the spot, but in my defense, what twenty-five-year-old plans those things out? I’m sure there are some who do, but I haven’t. I haven’t really accomplished anything at all. I haven’t even started living yet. I haven’t got my degree. I don’t have my dream job. Hell, I haven’t even figured out what my dream job might be. I’ve never been in love. I haven’t traveled to any cool places. I’ve done nothing.

And now I never will.

A lump rises into my throat, and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

This is just unfair. Why did I have to die? I didn’t even get a say! Because believe you me, if that were the case, I would’ve campaigned against it like my life depended on it. Pun intended.

Why me? Why not somebody else? I squeeze my eyes shut. Idiot. Am I really just lying here, casually pondering death sentences? It’s not like there’s anybody I’d put in my place anyway.

So… I guess this is it.

I’m dead.

Something wet slides down my temple. I frown and swipe at it before I hold my fingers up in front of my face and study them. They’re wet. From tears. My tears.

Huh.

That doesn’t seem very ghostly. Or spiritly. I’m still not sure what I am, but if I’m dead… I don’t think I should be able to cry.

Okay, deep breaths, . What are the other possible options? What if I hit my head, and this whole thing is a hallucination? Maybe I’m not dead? Maybe I imagined seeing my dead body? It’s entirely possible. People sometimes see all sorts of crazy shit. Maybe I just have a concussion. Maybe I’m in a coma? Not to say that’s a great option, but it’s better than dead.

The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced it’s one of those other options. It’s fine. I draw in a deep, calming breath. I’m alive. I was just seeing things. I take another slow, reassuring breath before I brave another look over the edge of the table.

Fuck me sideways, my body is still there.

Still dead, then.

Fantastic.

I nearly pee my pants when the me on the floor suddenly opens his eyes and gasps.

His eyes are wide open and they only get wider as he stares at me. As I stare at me.

Wait, wait, wait. If I really am dead, my body shouldn’t be awake. He also shouldn’t be able to see me…

His arms and legs flail as the me on the floor scrambles into a sitting position and scuttles backward like a crab until his back hits the wall.

“What the fuck?” he barks. He looks around wildly, eyes still huge in his face, mouth opening and closing with no more sounds coming out.

I should be more freaked out, I think, but I actually feel pretty detached from the situation as I observe the whole thing. Floor- grabs an extension cord from the open suitcase next to him and holds it out in front of him like a miniature baseball bat. I’ve never been great at thinking on my feet, but this is just embarrassing. What’s he going to do with it? Whack me over the head? Strangle me with the cord? Yeah, okay, he’s got options, I guess. The hostility is a bit surprising, though. I’ve always considered myself a nice person. A peaceful one. Make love, not war type of person.

I clear my throat. Seems I need to talk myself off the ledge to stop myself from… killing myself. Or hitting myself with an extension cord, at least.

I’m starting to think this might be a fever dream. Just in case, I pinch myself as hard as I can. Fucking ow! Nothing happens. I’m still here, on the table. And also on the floor.

A hysterical snort of laughter escapes. Awesome. So, to sum it up, I’m not dead (great). I’ve just gone crazy (less great).

Welp. I guess I’ve got nothing to lose here. Might as well lean into the insanity.

“Hi,” I say. My voice sounds weird. Lower than I’m used to. Did I fry my vocal cords?

“Oh shit,” Floor- says weakly. “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”

I sit up and throw my legs over the side of the table, tilting my head to the side when I look down at myself. Wasn’t I wearing sweats? Because I’m not anymore. Floor- is, but I’m—I check myself once more, just to be sure—wearing slacks and a baby blue shirt.

“Do not come any closer,” says, drawing my attention away from my clothes.

“Okay, easy there,” I say. “You and I are in the same boat. This is weird for me, too.”

“Weird?” says. “Weird?!” He’s starting to sound like the hysterical voice in my head earlier. “Weird, he says,” mutters. “I’m talking to myself. My actual, physical self, but sure, let’s call it weird, why don’t we? Yeah. Weird. That’s not underselling it at all.”

“You’re not dead,” I say.

He snaps his gaze toward me, and I can’t even describe what a bonkers experience it is to see myself staring at me like I’m crazy.

“What?” he says and just keeps staring at me like I’m the weird one.

I shrug. “I just figured you should know. See, I thought I was dead when I looked down and saw myself lying on the floor. But you can see me, too. If I’m dead, you shouldn’t be able to, right?”

“Right,” the other says slowly. He stares at me for a second. “Right. That’s good to know. I didn’t think I was dead, but I suppose it’s good to have it confirmed lest I get the idea later on, which is—” He stops and frowns.

“What?”

“I’m not dead.” He frowns again. “I’m not dead,” he repeats. “Dead. Dead, dead, dead.” He keeps going, changing the pitch and the volume of his voice, and looking more and more nervous as he goes on and on and on. I’ve gotta be honest, if this is what I’m like in real life, I’m not very impressed.

“Isn’t that a good thin—” I start to say.

And he’s up and moving, rushing out the door. I blink before I jump off the table and follow him. He storms into the bathroom and I stutter to a stop. Is he going to be sick? Okay, well, I guess I should help him. Because I’m a nice person. And he’s me. Or at least he looks like an identical copy of me. Maybe he is! What if he’s a clone? Created from my… saliva? For what? No clue. If I wanted to flatter myself, I’d say I’m such an awesome person that somebody noticed and just really wants more of me. Then again, I don’t really think that’s it. This has the potential to get very confusing and very disturbing.

“What the fuck?!”

I jump at the loud shout from the bathroom, then yank the door open and rush inside.

“What?” I look around wildly. Are there more clones? Do I have to start killing them so there won’t be any confusion about who the original is? Because I’ve seen this movie before, and if I don’t nip this in the bud, it’s going to get real overwhelming real fast.

“What?” I say again.

The other is standing in front of the sink, staring into the mirror. He’s very pale, and he’s clutching at the sides of the sink so hard that it looks like he’s about to pry the thing off the wall.

“What?” I shout when he still hasn’t said anything.

He turns to me and waves his hand up and down in front of himself. “What do you mean what? Look at me!”

“I am! Why are you freaking out?”

He gestures toward me. “You don’t… You haven’t… You… Oh, well. That should be fun.” He laughs and marches over to me. In a second, he’s behind me, pushing me forward until I’m in front of the mirror.

“What the hell are you?—”

That’s when I get a look at myself. My mouth drops open. I’m standing in front of a mirror. There’s a man in the mirror. That man isn’t me.

It’s Gabriel.