Anymore

And then it hit me.

In the chest.

It's funny, though, because I don't feel it.  But it's not funny, either.  Nothing is funny anymore.  Nothing is happy.  Nothing is sad.  Everything just is.  Or rather was.

I watch to see if my body will move, which is somewhat ridiculous considering I'm clearly not in it anymore.  I'm not sure who or what I am at this point without my body to identify me.  The whole concept is so surreal.  But then that should be obvious, given that I am dead and do not believe in ghosts--and yet I'm still around to dither over the details of my own death.

Sam looks panicked.  I've never seen him so manic and anxious before.  He knew he was going to kill me.  He had just finished telling me how brilliant his plan was to kill us both as a dramatic murder-suicide.  So I'll wait.  I didn't get much of a view of my own death.  Should be interesting to see his.  This time I probably won't be able to blink, not having eyelids or eyes anymore.  I wonder how I can still seem to see?

I should be angry.  Why am I not angry?  I really did not want to die yet.  My family will be furious.  They wanted us to have children.  We kept telling them we were trying, but truly, I don't think it was ever going to happen.  We weren't ready to move to Bolivia, and I doubt that ever would have changed.  Well, it sure won't change now.

Sam is fidgeting.  The way he made it sound, this was a pretty simple process.  Step 1:  Tell your wife you want to kill both her and yourself.  Step 2:  Kill your wife.  Step 3:  Kill yourself.  I'm waiting for Step 3 to be completed.  I wonder if I can make popcorn in the afterlife or whatever this is....

Now Sam is doing something I've not seen in ages.  He's--wow, he's actually cleaning the kitchen!  My husband who swears he is allergic to cleaning kitchens is clearly demonstrating a lack of anaphylaxis at the moment.  Maybe it's a seasonal allergy.

Why would he clean up?  Is he afraid the police are going to have too much mess to clean after two bodies, so he wants to sort out the first one?  So weird.  Even weirder is that I'm feeling a tad impatient.  When is he going to get on with it?  I wonder if we can talk to one another when he gets here.

Then it strikes me that I haven't tried to move or make noise.  I try to speak, but nothing happens.  I have no more vocal chords than I do eyelids.  But maybe I can move things with my mind?

I concentrate hard on the toaster.  It was a wedding gift from Sam's sister.  I've always been annoyed that it was such a lousy toaster.  It only holds 2 slices at a time, can't fit bagels, and burns one side while the other side almost seems to get wet somehow.  So, right, the toaster.  What can I do with it?  Hmm.  I will try to see if I can make it work.  It's still plugged in...and...with...a...little...focus...I...can...do absolutely nothing.

Okay, one more try.  I didn't spend years doing Sudoku and crossword puzzles every day to wuss out on afterlife Jedi mind tricks!  Okay, maybe the two aren't quite the same, but if I can do this it will totally make up for my never actually getting around to taking the Mensa test.  Here goes.

I focus on the idea of depressing the lever for the toaster.  I can...do...it...UGH!  This is really hard, but I swear I saw the lever twitch that time.  Maybe if I can't push it down all the way I can try to make it play Another One Bites the Dust by Queen and give Sam The Bastard the hint that it's time to get down to business.

So, here goes.  The first two tries were just warm ups.  Haha, get it?  Hmm.  I guess jokes are just for myself now, too.  I better not analyze this too much just yet.  So.  Toaster.  Let's move it!  Now...I...can...push...it...DOWN!  HAHAHA!  I DID it!  I pushed the lever down on the toaster!  I'm not impotent after all!

Even if I do sound pathetic.

Sam's eyes seem to be darting everywhere at once.  He keeps eyeballing his cell phone.  Is he planning to call in our deaths to the authorities?  That seems highly considerate, really, rather than letting our neighbors discover our situation by the smell of decaying bodies.

All at once, Sam's phone starts to jingle and vibrate.  The noise spooks Sam and he runs over to silence it.  I watch as he nervously fumbles to answer the call.

Really Sam?  You're going to have a chat?  Helloooo!  You just murdered your wife, dude.  Someone may have heard that gunshot.  Police may already be on the way!  Oh, or maybe it is one of the neighbors calling to make sure we're okay.  Safer to call than to knock, I imagine.

Sam answers, "H-h-hello?  Ginnie?"

Apparently it is this Ginnie, though I've no idea who Ginnie or any Virginia could be.  He's never mentioned her before.  Interesting.

I can't hear her end of the conversation, but Sam responds, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I-I-I did it.  I d-did it.  Are you al-almost h-here?"

He's dancing nervously around the kitchen, and I notice that he's smeared some of my blood on the tile with his shoe.  Whoever this Ginnie person is, she clearly had known that Sam was preparing something less than ideal for me.  And I still see no sign of Sam preparing to off himself, but he's finished his conversation with "Ginnie".

Now he's...what is he doing?  Wow, he was prepared!  He's got a tarp and some bungee cords!  When did he hide those in the kitchen cabinets?  Curious.  Why would he need that if he's going to kill himself, too?

The doorbell rings.

Sam jumps about as high as the counter and runs wildly toward the front door.  I hear him stage whisper angrily, "Are you mad?!?"  I assume this is directed at the mysterious Ginnie.

"Where is she?" The voice is sultry, its speaker clearly smiling, calm.

"Th-through here."  Sam's voice becomes louder as they approach.  I wonder if I could have "followed" him somehow to the front door or if I'm tethered to my body.  Maybe I can move throughout the house or places I know.  I'm sure I've heard similar notions from ghost films.

Sam and Ginnie enter the kitchen, and he gesticulates randomly at my cold, pale body with the blood no longer gushing out my chest wound.  I want to say it's a "gaping" wound, but really, I can't even see a hole, just blood.  Hollywood has made my own death a letdown.

Just as Sam's right arm extends toward me in a curt gesture, his left hugging his midsection tightly, the toaster finally dings cheerfully.  Ginnie raises her eyebrows at Sam, who has just acted as though he's been shot.

"Got hungry after killing your wife, Sam?"  A graceful eyebrow arches on Ginnie's equally graceful countenance.

"I-I-I d-d-didn't do that.  Sh-she...someh...I don't...."  Sam faints on the floor.

I'm entertained, but I'm still very annoyed.  Why hasn't Sam shot himself yet?  Is that why Ginnie is here?  Is she a hired gun to kill him?  Seems kind of pathetic, really.  The man can kill his own wife in cold blood but he can't off himself?

Ginnie, wearing a business suit with a knee-length skirt and spiked heels, clicks her way over to my corpse and scrutinizes me with her eyes.  I can't help but notice how pinched her toes look in those shoes and the way her blouse is cut so low that she looks so very desperate for a mate.

And then it hits me, rather late I suppose.  Haha, get it?  Late?  Oh, that's right.  It's only me here in this place still.

Sam isn't going to kill himself.  He never was.  He's moved on to this...creepy, corpse-poking neon-green thong-wearing, over-hairsprayed news anchor of a woman, and I'm worm fodder.  At least I'm not the one who has to sort out what to do with the body.

I should be angry.  I should care.  My feelings, such as they used to be, should be hurt by this betrayal.  After all, if his plan was to kill me, he could have just told the truth.  I might have said, "Fine, I'll move out next weekend.  She can take my place."

Well, I might have.  Still, I think maybe I got the better end of the non-deal.  I didn't exactly agree to this death.  But--hey, wait, that's not cool!

Though everything is starting to get a bit fuzzy around the edges, I can just make out this Ginnie woman stealing my wedding ring from my now-rigid fingers.  And Sam is starting to rouse himself from the floor.

Hazier yet, but...what is she doing?  Ginnie is...oh, she's picking up the gun!

As though hearing her speak through a wall, I'm aware of Ginnie's voice directed at Sam saying, "I could never be with you, not after this.  I still love you, Sam, but it's over."

Sam nervously puts up his arms in protest and looks as though he's about to try to mollify her with some trite phrase.  Ginnie kindly saves me from having to hear whatever babbling nonsense Sam was going to spout.  Instead I am aware of a gunshot exploding a round which impacts soundly with Sam's chest.

Sam grunts feebly and collapses back to the tile.  He coughs and rolls around a bit and then goes still, eyes glazed and fixed on the under side of the kitchen counter, his body several feet from my own.

Ginnie takes a deep breath.  She looks back over at what used to be me, and says, "I'm sorry, darling.  I wish things had happened differently for us all."

Then she calmly, carefully places the barrel of the gun to the underside of her chin and pulls the trigger.  My cabinets are splattered with a new texture, and the remains of Ginnie's body falls to the floor, one arm elegantly outstretched.  Her hand, now bearing my wedding band on her ring finger, neatly lands accidentally atop my own and instinctively grasps hold.

As the last of my experience of the world fades away, I smirk emotionally at the tableau that will face the authorities left to sort out the situation they will discover.  I wonder what they will think when they see Sam still wearing his police uniform, his wife and lover joining him in death with clasped hands.

Oh, what a world!  And cheerfully, giddily, I relinquish my remaining hold on the terrestrial world, becoming nothingness, unbecoming, unbeing, gone.