The change that took hold with his death was not abrupt, nor was it painless.
The initial pain had come from simply dying at his mother's hands, her gloved fingers prodding and groping his internal organs and sawing at bone as though it were nothing more than flimsy pieces of driftwood to get to the treasure that truly lied beneath - she had been enamored by his heart. He remembered the intrusive itch as her fingers skated gently over the pulsing organ, the way he had choked and gurgled in protest, any way that he possibly could whilst bonded to the cold, metal table, the way she had dug her fingertips into the aorta with such disturbing curiousity that he had given a breathless sob at the stabbing pain the scalpel brought moments later as it began to give way, vision fading as he begged for death, screamed for it silently in his mind, fingers clenching into fists as he arched his back to the best of his ability before remaining still.
The next few moments were silent, save for the squelching of ectoplasm and blood as his corpse was fondled mercilessly in her raw, eager hunger for the knowledge she would inevitably gain from the vivisection - no, autopsy, watching that heart begin to slow and stop pumping.
It was seven minutes before the rings appeared around his waist, two more before she screamed and broke down over the body of her son, and one before fingers curled around her neck and pulled.