I died about four families ago. Sorry for the inaccuracy, but it’s hard to measure time when nothing changes but your environment. Think about it: when you think about your day, you measure it in activities that you have done. Showered. Dressed. Went to school. Came home. Kissed the cat. Regretted kissing the clawed demonic feline. Hugged the cat. Regretted that too.
I didn’t move on after dying because I didn’t finish my to-read list. I feel very strongly about books. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that once you elect to stay…there’s no going back. To put it in a way that doesn’t make me sound idiotic, if you stay to finish a book, you don’t get to leave after finishing the book. There’s no bright light that comes blinding you once your business here is done. Nope. You just get to stay…and stay…and stay.
See, I wouldn’t have a problem with that, personally. I never had many friends or social interaction even back when I was alive. I was the mouse in the corner of a room, creeping back into the shadows whenever a person’s big loud footstep came too close. A squeak was a rare occurrence- trembling was more my thing. But mice are sort of cute, right? Even if they are cowardly…
See, now that I’m dead (bored), I have a lot of time to think about this kind of thing. Is it worth being cowardly for the sake of being safe? I know, cowardice is a lot more than the inability to take risks, but even measuring up to your own fears (of interacting, or rejection, of getting sick from some unhygienic human’s ill-conceived sneeze) is courageous. So that was barred to me by dint of my personality. Which meant that a mouse I was born, and a mouse I stayed until I was run over by a car at eighteen on my way to my first class at university. Judging by the amount of misery the college student in my current family used to feel, maybe it was a good thing I never went. But then, it also fits in with my main attribute, discussed above. Don’t try new things. It should be on a t-shirt. Except I can’t put on any new shirts- they go right through me. Well, now I wear a lot of t-shirts, but that’s because of the person I’m wearing. I can definitely wear people.
So, I guess you could say I’m naked. Except not in a sexy way. I’m more…unobviously naked. Subtly naked, if you will.
Anyways, being incorporeal is not conducive to reading; my hands go right through the books. My hands go right through me too, actually. It’s kind of weird to be able to squeeze your heart in your own chest. Of course, whenever I do that, I hear the person this body belongs to scream, which kind of ruins the fun.
I would be content, playing with my own organs- I can actually feel something when I try playing the banjos on my ovaries- but even tying knots in arteries gets boring after a while.
So, this is my suicide note- my fourth one. After this, I’m going to let this body die. And then what? Well, maybe I’ll hang around to watch this girl’s parents start crying over her corpse, but then I think I’ll go find a new family. One who welcomes a mouse infestation.