Hi everyone~ new story, characters are going to be OOC sorry bout that...and i hope you enjoy :)

Dying sucks. The events following death suck even more. I'll let you in on one big secret, the one question every living human desires to know, 'What happens after death.' Well simply put, nothing happens. Nothing at all; no heaven, hell, and certainly no God. Once I died, I expected to be zapped somewhere. Like a sanctuary full of the dead or eternal fires licking at my flesh, I don't know. I expected some sort of 'thing' to happen. What that 'thing' entails completely eludes me at this moment. All I know is everything I have ever been told about dying is complete bullshit.

All commonly held notions about death are untrue. I don't know why I put so much faith in the livings' beliefs. I mean how would they know? They are still alive and kicking. Meanwhile I quietly wait for nothing, observing the livings' daily life. I witness their birth, their death, their hardships, and of course their happiness. I came to realize all these feelings, which boil down to chemicals reactions in the brain, are unavailable to me. I feel nothing. No fear, no confusion, no happiness. Just nothing. Only my consciousness exists, my thoughts are what compromises whatever I am. Through close interactions with the living I can regain some sort of feeling. By interaction, I mean creepily moving through people. Its like milking a cow for milk although I've never actually done it. I don't know how or why it happens, it just does. Why question a good thing? I find its similar to being drunk, the more you milk, the longer the effects last.

If you haven't noticed yet, there's this tiny little detail that makes everything infinitely worse. All the dead still roam the earth. It's like a second life, except you can't touch anyone except other dead. The living cannot interact with the dead.

I have desperately tried to get the livings' attention. I screamed, kicked, tried to move stuff with my mind (it failed horribly), and nada. The living kept ignoring me. I know it's impossible to interact with them. I know it's not their fault, nor mine. But I can't stop hating them. I can't stop the envy and hatred that builds up in my dead stomach. These idiots are squandering their life away. And there's nothing I can do about it. Because I'm dead and if you haven't noticed yet my options are severely limited.

By routinely milking the living, I have developed this rather vexing condition. It's an addiction to feel what they feel. Constantly. But it comes with a price. I suppose I've milked enough living to last me awhile. I haven't had the constant need to milk like a whore to a dick. Time is irrelevant to the dead, so I'm not sure how long ago it was. But if I had to guess, about 10 years give or take. Which is strange. And believe me, I know strange when I see it. The dead aren't supposed to be feel without periodically milking. I appear to be the exception. There may be a greater, underlying problem. But seriously, who the fuck cares. I'm dead.

The price I pay for constantly feeling are these bitter feelings gnawing at my very essence. First, let me clarify some things. One, I don't know who I am anymore. I don't have a name, or even a personality. Two, I barely remember my past. Three, I have no idea how long I've been dead. And four, I'm the personification of animosity and spite. Don't get me wrong, I'm not evil. But I can't help myself. How can I not be jealous? I'm stuck in constant misery while the living complain about not having enough shoes. I mean really? Shoes? It's just not fair. Why did I have to die? Why do they continue to live and worry about shoes? Although I complain about dying, I don't recall how it happened. I may be repressing the event, but that doesn't matter at this point. What can I do about it? Nothing. Nothing at all. Fan-fucking-tastic.

There's not a lot I remember about my prior life. Just a few snippets from the past. Not that it really bothers me. From what little I do remember, I used to be very shy and insecure. Death changed that. Literally, I give no shits about anything anymore. So I guess I changed for the better despite the fact that I'm always spiteful.

There are a few benefits to being dead. Flying being one of them. The ability to fly makes travelling a thousand times less frustrating. When I'm not insulting the living, I'm flying to places. It is my only connection to my living self. It serves as a reminder of what living might have felt like. With my 'condition,' this is all possible.

I can pretend the wind actually ruffles my hair and scratches at my face.

I can pretend to catch my breath even though breathing isn't required.

I can pretend that I'm not one of the dead.

I'm always trying to summon the exhilarating feelings. To not feel the hatred that has become a part of me.

Flying is the only bridge that connects me to my lost humanity. I feel human for a short while. Not an entity being swallowed by animosity. That may be the deciding factor that differentiates me between other dead. I can feel human sometimes. It may be the cause of my 'condition.' Again, I don't know. There is no way to validate these theories. To test them, to prove them. After all they are all just theories, an unknown truth or a delusional misconception.

To keep this illusion of humanity, I fly frequently. I never wander in one place too long. Staying is bad. Many negative 'emotions' arise. So I fly, which in a way is like running away from my problems. Except I'm running away to prevent losing my humanity, or the illusion of humanity. I'm not sure as to where I'm travelling. There's this sort of pull, which beckons me to follow. I'm afraid to give in to the pull. It feels wrong. Feels like it will be the termination of my existence. So being the rational ghost, I fly in the opposite direction.

Except I find myself closer to the pull each time. No matter where I end up, I'm closer than before. And this terrifies me. I'd say I'm scared to death, but I'm already dead. But I feel this fear growing within me. It's only a matter of time before I succumb to the pull. I'm probably already moving towards it. And I know, although I don't like to acknowledge it, there's nothing I can do to stop it. I think I can die a second time. Except this time it will be real. There will be nothing left. Although I'm dead at least I exist right now.

Fuck this. This is way too depressing to talk about. I can already feel the darkness eating me up. I'm going Amelia Earhart, flying indefinitely till something brings me down. Not likely though. I mean really, who can stop a ghost? See you later Charlie.