I did it. I finally did it! I just published my 100th fanficiton! Woohoo! *jumps up and down* Yippee! Woo! =D
God, this is a milestone for me. I never thought I'd make it this far. I've been here for so long I just... God, I can't even. I wish I wrote down a speech.
I wanted my 100th fanfiction to be something new. Something different than what I usually do. So I chose this. I've seen this movie about ten years ago, and there's only so much I remember from it. I did the best I could with what little I remember.
I started on it on Saturday, and here it is now. Thank you all for joining me all these years. You guys have been the best friends I could ever ask for. ^_^
Well, now that I'm done with talking, let's get to reading this story.
A gasp escaped parted lips as a white light obfuscated everything in sight. The harried breaths that became coughs receded as their owner adjusted to the light. A hand shielded them from the harsh light, eyes screwing to see better. It took seconds to realize the floor beneath was hard and cold as iron while the rest of the world materialized into view. Lowering the hand, it became obvious that whatever this place was, it was something reminiscent to a doctor's office. At least that's what it looked like at first glance, then it became clear that something was off.
There was a door to the right. Whether it was locked or not was the least to worry about. What mattered was getting out.
"You're finally awake," said a voice.
Turning around, a man stood over, watching somewhat indifferently. He was brown-haired with blue eyes. His skin was white as snow and his face was angular, clear and free of blemishes. Upon further inspection, he wore a white coat over what seemed like a black suit. Whoever he was, one thing for sure was that they weren't alone.
"What's your name?," asked the man. His voice was low-pitched and cold.
It took a minute for everything to be pieced together.
"Wayne. My name is Wayne."
"Well, Wayne," said the man, "I'm Jack."
"Where am I?," asked Wayne.
"This is my funeral parlor," answered Jack plainly.
"Funeral parlor?" Wayne furrowed his brow. The answer didn't sink in, and memories were jagged and hazy.
"That's what I said," retorted Jack.
"Why am I—"
"Because you're dead."
The answer came out simple and willfully. Jack strode past Wayne, who watched him curiously. Jack's gait was confident and smooth, he fiddled with his wristwatch, sneaking a glance at the time.
"Wait," piped Wayne, sitting up, briefly noticing the white sheet draped over him. That was when he noticed he was shirtless, and if he had to guess, he was most likely naked, hence the need to be covered up. "Wait, what you do mean I'm dead?" He glanced over his shoulder to look at Jack.
"I mean," rasped Jack, swiveling around, "you're dead. You died. You're no longer living. You're dead."
"But how can I be dead if I'm talking to you?," queried Wayne.
"That's only the start," replied Jack, eyes boring into him intensely.
"The start?," said Wayne.
"It's always the same with every one," quoth Jack, running a hand through his brown hair.
Wayne stared. He barely had half an idea of what was going on or who Jack way, but he knew his own name, which was all he needed for now.
"What's the last thing you remember?," asked Jack. There was no hardness in his voice, just simple curiosity, though he tried to mask it.
Wayne furrowed his brow. "The last thing..."
Turning around, he let an onslaught of memories erupt before him. There were a series of noises and voices chorusing together. Images bloomed before his eyes, blurry and distorted.
"I remember," spoke Wayne, "leaving the bar after I got into an argument with my girlfriend. I remember getting in my car and driving off. I don't remember much of anything else except I was driving. Then there was this light, and after that, everything was dark...and I wake up here."
Jack nodded. "You were hit by another driver," he said, "apparently he was intoxicated, and he had no control over himself. His crashed into your car, he missed the signal...the rest, well, you're looking at it."
Wayne mulled it over until he could put the pieces together.
"Wait," said Wayne, "what happened to the driver?"
"He got arrested," replied Jack, "that's all I know."
"Do my parents know I'm dead? What about my girlfriend? Do they know?"
"They've been contacted," said Jack, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, "they'll be here soon to identify you."
Wayne looked at him, not sure how to process the whole revelation.
"You best keep quiet," said Jack, strolling past him, heading towards the door, "they won't hear you, but it's better to say nothing."
"Whoa, what," said Wayne, reaching out a hand.
Jack reached the door, opening it before Wayne could continue talking. As soon as Jack stepped out and closed the door, the silence seeped into Wayne, leaving him unprepared for what was to proceed.
Jack opened the door for the woman to step out, followed by her husband, and a younger woman.
"I-It's just so hard," said the woman, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"I know, Glenna," said her husband, putting his arms around her, rubbing them up and down to provide a sort of soothing comfort.
"I'm very sorry for your loss," said Jack. The way he said it sounded distant, but let them know he was attentive.
Glenna turned around, suppressing a sob, her tearful eyes landing on Jack.
"H-How long...is it going to take?," she asked, her tone made it sound like she was almost pleading. And it showed.
"It'll take about about a week," said Jack," usually a week."
"There's a lot to prepare," squeaked Glenna, reaching into her locker for another tissue.
"I still can't believe he's gone," said the younger woman. She was green-eyed with dull sandy-blonde hair cascading to her waist. Her mascara streaked down her face from the crying but even that didn't strip her from her otherwise attractiveness. She looked past Jack, eyes landing on the corpse laid on the table. "He was so...and he and I would've..."
"I know, sweetie," crooned Glenna.
"Come on, Lisa," said Glenna's husband, looking at the blonde, "we should go. There's a lot to prepare."
Glenna wiped at her face, letting out a raspy sob.
Jack watched the three walk down the hall, hearing Glenna's sobs even when they were coming out as muffled squeals. He sighed, stepped back into the morgue and closed the door. Wayne sat up, snapping his head to look at him.
"You've met my parents," he said.
"Obviously," retorted Jack dryly.
"And my girlfriend," added Wayne.
Jack sidled over to the other side of the morgue, standing over a table. He grabbed a syringe and a small bottle. All the while, Wayne observed him, curious while also appearing to be nervous.
"What's that?," queried Wayne, watching Jack fill the syringe.
"Hydronium bromide," said Jack, swiveling around, syringe held at the ready, needle pointing upwards.
"I don't know what that is," admitted Wayne, glimpsing away. The sight of the needle unsettled him.
"It's a drug morticians use to relax the muscles and keep rigor mortis from setting in," explained Jack. He stood before Wayne, eyes boring into him trying to get him to look at him.
Wayne's fingers trembled, and when he wouldn't look Jack in the eye, that was when his right arm was grabbed tight, making Wayne flinch, eyes darting from him to the sterile-white walls. The needle was thrusted deep into his skin, a cold rush flowed through his entire body.
"You should've told me you were afraid of needles," said Jack, eyes focused on the syringe. As soon as the last drop of hydronium bromide was injected, he pulled out the syringe. Wayne cringe. Jack's lips pulled into a microscopic smile.
"I didn't have a right moment to tell you," said Wayne, looking at his arm. Watching Jack walk past him, saying, "Earlier, why were you taking photos of me?"
"To show you your transition," responded Jack, not turning to look at him.
"Transition?," repeated Wayne, raising a brow.
"To show you your process as your body begins to decay."
Wayne shouldn't have asked.
"But why the photos?," said Wayne.
"This is how my master taught me," retorted Jack, turning around.
"Your master? Like...your professor?"
"I studied medicine in college, but mortuary science was my major," said Jack.
"But what's this about your 'master'?" Wayne knitted his brows in confusion.
Jack sighed. "He was the first one to know I had it," he said.
"What?," uttered Wayne.
"The gift."
"'The gift'?"
Jack strode through the morgue, glancing at Wayne analytically. Wayne stiffened, despite being dead, he still felt a twinge of self-consciousness.
"It's a gift we both shared," said Jack, "the gift to talk to the dead after they've died. Like I'm doing right now."
"Okay," said Wayne.
"Wanna see the pictures?," asked Jack.
"No." The answer came automatically and without thinking.
"Suit yourself." Jack shrugged. "There's so much to do, and it's going to take a lot of work to cover up those scars."
Wayne looked at himself. He has a long scratch along his left arm, one he hadn't noticed before when he woke up on the pathology table. It was a result of a piece of glass cutting through him from the collision. It looked like a lion scratched him. He felt around his face. Nothing. On his neck, a long scar along the right side. He had already checked over his legs after Jack took the sheet off to take the pictures. There was a scar underneath his right knee, but that one was already there. Wayne knew because he remembered falling off his tricycle when he was four. There was also one on his left thigh. He got that from cutting himself trying to open his grandmother's birdcage.
"What were you and your girlfriend arguing about?," asked Jack, walked up to him, standing behind him.
Wayne hadn't even noticed he was lost in thought.
"I," he said, "she told me... She's pregnant."
Jack's eyes bulged in surprise.
"Wow."
"And that's not the half of it," spat Wayne, twisting around to face him, "her parents and mine arranged for us to get married because she's from a prominent family, just like ours."
"Whoa, what is this, medieval times?" Jack couldn't help but let out a breathy chuckle that was barely even humorous.
"It's been like this my whole life," said Wayne. His eyes widened at his statement, internally raging with new self-contempt. How could he forget he was dead?
"Relax," said Jack, "you're not the first to forget they're dead."
Wayne shrugged, turning away, eyes gazing vacantly at his lap.
"Who was your first?," asked Wayne.
"Huh?," said Jack, jerking his head away from the table, setting down a jar of embalming fluid.
"Who was the first...dead person you saw?," asked Wayne more clearly.
Getting the hint, Jack said, "Oh, that. It was my seventh grade teacher. Ms. Taylor."
"How did that feel?"
Jack jerked his head to look at him, then glanced away, busy filling the trocar."
"At first," he began, "I thought I was just imagining it. I thought I was picturing her alive. I thought it was the grief making me imagine her, but then I met Eliot Deacon and he told me about the gift we share."
"What did you do?," queried Wayne. "When you saw her?"
"I went to find her boyfriend Paul," said Jack. "He was dealing with the loss and he also said he received a call from Anna and thought it was a joke. When I told him what I saw he began to believe that maybe she was alive. So," he turned around, hands holding the trocar, "he went to find her. He went completely crazy, convinced that she was alive and he crashed his car and ended up dying."
"A-And did he," stuttered Wayne, "did you...?"
"I saw him on the table, and watched Eliot inject him with this very here fluid." Jack held up the trocar, as though showing off a prized possession. Wayne stiffened.
"What did Paul say?," said Wayne.
"He kept going on and on about how he was alive," replied Jack. "Accused Eliot of killing Anna. It was a struggle doing the embalming, but he finally shut up right up until it was time for the funeral."
Wayne stared.
"So you...watched him do the..." He grimaced.
"I didn't embalm my first body until I was in college," retorted Jack, sounding offended.
"But...you were a kid," said Wayne, "didn't that stuff scare you?"
"When death has been your whole life," said Jack, "what is there to fear from it?"
Wayne went silent.
"Relax," said Jack, sidling up to him, "you won't feel a thing."
"I prefer the hydronium bromide," said Wayne, lying back on the cold table. "It's like nothing I ever felt."
"I'll have to inject you again after this," said Jack, holding the trocar over his chest.
"Well, it's a good thing this takes a week," remarked Wayne, eyes on the trocar, "that'll give us time to know one another."
Jack chuckled sarcastically. He thrusted the trocar into Wayne's chest, who closed his eyes shut and braced himself.
Wayne's footsteps echoed through the hallway of the funeral parlor. He saw the doorway leading into place where the funeral was going to take place. In the dead of night, with the light of the open window chasing the darkness, it made the place feel less...intimidating.
"You're lucky no one can see you but me," said a voice.
Spinning around, Wayne saw Jack standing before him, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.
"Yeah," said Wayne, offering a sad smile, "that makes exploring this place more fun."
Jack's eyes darted up and down, looking at Wayne analytically.
"Like the suit your mom picked out for you?," he asked.
Wayne spotted a full-length mirror to his left behind where Jack stood. He strode over to it, standing in front of it to see himself in full view. His blonde hair was combed over and shining like it did when he was alive. The spark in his amber eyes had dimmed even when he was alive. The scar on his neck was barely noticeable thanks to the special concealer jack used on him. The suit he had on was a midnight blue color with gold cufflinks. A white button shirt underneath the blazer paired with a black tie added touch to the look. On his feet were a pair of black wing tip shoes.
"At least I'm not walking around naked," uttered Wayne.
Jack scoffed.
Three days had passed since "the transition" started. Jack was kind enough to let him see more of the parlor. He had seen the hallway outside of the morgue lab. He had seen a few rooms used for holding funeral services, the one he had just seen was the most recent. Jack would apply something to his body, and Wayne wouldn't feel it. His entire life he forced himself not to feel anything at all and now that he was dead, he figured he certainly got what he wanted.
"The funeral's on Friday," commented Jack.
"Why doesn't that sound weird to me?," retorted Wayne, turning to look at Jack.
"It's your funeral."
Wayne fought the urge to laugh, but couldn't on the grounds of sounding rude, even if it was his own funeral they were gathering to.
Jack turned to return the morgue. Wayne followed.
"What was it like for you?," he asked, walking beside Jack. "Growing up around this?"
"Well," said Jack, "if I anyone else, you'd think I'd be scared or something, but to me...it was my whole world."
They reached the room. Jack opened the door, and he stepped in with Wayne closing the door after stepping in. He looked at it, impressed.
"It's kinda cool that I can still do that," said Wayne.
"Yeah, well..." Jack nodded, walking over to table, grabbing the clipboard.
"So," said Wayne, "how did you feel about your teacher?"
Jack darted his eyes toward his left, then shifting them back to the clipboard, grabbing the nearest pen.
"She was the only one besides Eliot who cared," he said simply.
"What about your parents?," queried Wayne.
"My father died when I was a baby," replied Jack, "my mother was distant, to say the least. She hardly noticed I was there, or that I existed." He jotted down notes on the clipboard, his face darkening like a storm over the sea.
"And Anna?," quoth Wayne.
"I asked her if I could go to a funeral with her," said Jack, clicking the pen, "she told me I couldn't because funerals were private events."
Wayne's face fell.
"She gave me one of the baby chicks we had in our classroom," drawled Jack.
Wayne looked up, raising an eyebrow.
"I remember looking at the cage with all the chicks," said Jack, looking away from the clipboard, "one of them was sick. Anna said that I should take care of it. I did because I wanted to, and I knew it would make her happy if I took care of it. When I heard about her accident, I continued to look after the chick to get her off my mind.
"It wasn't until I saw Anna in this very parlor and met Eliot did I know about the link we shared. He said that it was the same gift Jesus had when he resurrected Lazarus."
"That sounds...cool." Wayne's face blossomed with awkwardness.
"I thought it was cool at the time, still do," quipped Jack, turning his head to look at him. "When I came home after visiting Eliot I checked up on the baby chick and saw it wasn't getting better. I wanted to continue taking care of it for Anna because it's what she would've wanted. I wanted to keep caring for it because part of me thought it would get better.
"But it didn't get better, no matter what I tried, so..."
Jack snapped his head away, the memory erupting before him.
"What did you do?," inquired Wayne.
"I buried the chick," said Jack, "alive."
Wayne's eyes widened.
"Don't be so surprised," spoke Jack. "I can still remember hearing it cheep from inside the box while I piled dirt into its grave."
Wayne's brows furrowed, eyes trained to the floor. It was obvious from his look that he couldn't process this.
"Don't you think what you did was a little..." Wayne struggled to come up with the right response.
"A little...what?," said Jack.
Wayne snapped his fingers to get an idea going.
"I don't know," he said, "but don't you think the chick could've still gotten better if you tried a little more? Maybe ask a vet for help?"
"They wouldn't have done anything to save it."
"But they could have."
Jack set the clipboard down, taking a breath. He stared at the table, not sure of what he was going to say next.
"Did your mom know you came to see this Eliot-guy?," queried Wayne as a way to change the subject.
"No," answered Jack, allowing the new topic, "she didn't. I never told her where I was going. Not like it would've made a difference. She hardly knew I was there. She barely remembered I existed, or that she even had a son."
"So, she...?"
"She died about three years ago," replied Jack, turning around, hands gripping the edge of the table, "I won't bore you with the details, but Eliot was the one doing the embalming. He asked if I wanted to see her. I told him no. I didn't want to look at her, not even when I could hear her asking for me. Eliot told her that I was fine. I don't know what else to tell you, but hearing her call for me was...amusing."
Wayne blinked.
"It was kind of funny," said Jack, smiling, eyes locked on the ground, "my entire childhood I spent my whole life trying to get her attention only to be ignored. When she died she suddenly remembered me and wanted to know if I was okay."
"It was probably because she loved you," said Wayne, attempting to change Jack's mind.
Jack snickered.
"I don't remember the last time my mom said she loved me and meant it." Jack crossed his arms.
A moment passed in silence.
"What happened at her funeral?," queried Wayne. "Did you go to it?"
"Of course I went to her funeral," responded Jack, "and, well, I didn't say much, except that I loved her, and wished her the best in Heaven."
Wayne attempted a smile.
"But I didn't say those things because I suddenly cared about her," interjected Jack.
A frown adorned Wayne's face.
"My point is," said Jack, "I said all that stuff because it's what they expected me to do. I couldn't shout about how much I hated her, or how I was glad she was dead. I just played the sad, mourning son for them while cursing myself for pretending to care."
Wayne looked down at the floor, letting the words sink in.
"It's late," said Jack, "there's still more to do and your mom's coming again to go over the preparations."
As Jack walked toward the door, Wayne stopped him before he could open the door.
"Wait," he said.
Jack glanced over his shoulder, lifting an eyebrow.
"I want to thank you for not telling my Mom Lisa's pregnant," said Wayne.
"You're welcome," said Jack. "It wouldn't have done her any good to know." Then another thought came up to his head. "Do you think she'll tell them?"
"I think they'll know when they see the baby has my eyes," retorted Wayne.
"You're not wrong there," quipped Jack, slumping his shoulders.
Wayne watched him leave the lab, the door closing with a clear click. He turned over to the table, curiosity nagging at him. He walked toward it, seeing the collection of photographs Jack took of him. He gazed at each one.
In the photos his hair was duller than he remembered. His skin was practically gray. One would say that he hasn't been in the sun much, but who's complaining? Wayne liked the tone his skin took since dying. He had always been so youthful and full of drive, but seeing these photos made him open up his eyes. From what Jack told him, "the transition" consisted of the dead accepting that their dead in order to let go of of life.
Being dead, he didn't have to eat or sleep anymore. Exhaustion was the least of his worries. While he didn't mind, Jack told him to explore as much of the funeral parlor as he wanted, only to not knock something off a shelf. When he was allowed out of the lab, he first went into a parlor with old- fashioned furniture. It reminded Wayne of his grandmother's house, and it had been so long since she died.
Jack told him that many of the other corpses he helped make "the transition" were stubborn in their protest that they were alive. It was usually a long, arduous process that he hated ding on account of trying to play the empathic funeral director or to be as cold and distant as possible.
Everybody said to live their lives to the fullest, and to Wayne, living was just one of the things he wasn't doing.
Thursday.
One day before Friday. The funeral. Wayne sat on the far left corner of the floor, gazing at the photos of himself. Jack had been kind enough to hand him a mirror to see himself the moment he first woke up on the pathology table. He looked like he did when he was alive, his skin still had its red flush. He hadn't seen himself in the mirror on account this he wasn't ready yet. But Jack was going to ask him if he wanted to see his reflection again before tomorrow.
The door flew open. Jack stepped in, looking from the table to the rest of the lab until his eyes finally landed on the corner where he saw Wayne sitting, looking at the photographs.
"You reminiscing?," he said, walking up to him. He stooped down, keeping his eyes on Wayne, trying tot get him to look at him.
"I am," he said, "but I'm also...afraid."
"Afraid?" Jack echoed.
Wayne sat up straighter, head lifted, gazing at the ceiling.
"I'm afraid of what's going to happen after this," said Wayne. "Of what's going to happen after the funeral. What's going to happen to me when the funeral's all over, and I'm in my casket?"
"I've dealt with this many times before," drawled Jack.
"What happens to them after it's all over?," said Wayne, snapping his head to him. The look in his eye told Jack that he was trying to hide that he was actually scared and wanted to know at that moment.
Jack had an answer that might work.
"When Anna died," he said, "Eliot had to keep telling her that she was dead in order to accept that she was dead." He looked away, trying to dig through the deeper parts of his memories. "He showed her reflection to show her she was dead, and even when he was injecting her with the hydronium bromide she kept insisting that she was alive. Wanted to go back to her life. To her boyfriend."
"What did he do?," asked Wayne.
"He told her that she wasn't really living anyways," said Jack, sitting on the floor next to Wayne, "he told me what he knew when I first started my training. Told me that he met Anna's mother, a real piece of work that one."
"You mean she was a bitch?," quipped Wayne, raising a brow.
"Yup."
"Kind of like Lisa's grandmother."
Jack offered a rueful smile.
"What happened next?," asked Wayne.
"It wasn't until I started thinking about things more clearly," replied Jack.
"And...what did you think?"
Jack paused.
"I remembered her kindness and motherly sweetness. I didn't think she was depressed about anything. It wasn't until I put the pieces together from what Eliot told me and describing how Anna's mother was...I thought that maybe deep down she wanted to die." Jack gazed down at the floor.
"But," piped Wayne, "she...she kept saying..."
"That was because she was regretting not living her life," said Jack. "I mean, I can understand; the overbearing mother, the boyfriend... I don't know anything about how he was before he met Anna, but the point is, she wasn't happy with the life she had, and she wanted it to end. But as she began to descend deeper and accept she was dead, she relapsed as soon as she thought Eliot was lying to her. That she wasn't really dead." He paused to rein in his inferno of rage.
Wayne quirked a brow, trying to gather the right words to not come off as an ignorant.
"So, when Paul also died, did she get what she wanted? You know, to be happy?"
"I think so," quipped Jack, "haven't talked to either of them in about fifteen years."
"...Okay."
Jack rose to his feet, strolling toward the cabinet across the room. He opened a drawer, shoving his hand inside, grabbing the hand mirror.
"Do you want to see yourself one last time?," he asked, looking over his shoulder.
"Yes." Wayne's voice sounded distant.
"Alright."
Jack returned to the spot Wayne was and crouched down with the mirror. He handed Wayne the mirror, who took it, glancing at him before looking at the mirror's reflection. Wayne drank himself in.
His amber eyes had lost the spark they usually had. His hair had taken in a tone that was duller than ash. Even with the wash Jack gave his hair, it didn't bounce back like it did when he was alive. His skin was as white as snow; the scars were still visible despite the foundation Jack used on his corpse. Looking over himself even dressed in this expensive suit he couldn't deny that he felt like he was in someone else's body.
"I have to admit something," said Jack.
"What?" Wayne lifted his head.
"Throughout the entire week I've been preparing you you haven't fought back with me." Jack stood up, shoving his right hand in his coat pocket while running the left one through his brown hair. "Most of the ones I deal with usually protest that they're not dead. Some have managed to try and kill me. The first corpse I embalmed here at the parlor was a six-year-old girl who kept driving me crazy chasing her around the lab. I was glad when we held her funeral and she was out of my hair.
"What I'm saying is, most of the ones I helped make the transition were happy when they were alive."
"Well I've never been happy!" Wayne suddenly raised the pitch of his voice that it rang off every wall. Enraged, he tossed the hand mirror to the floor, where the stem broke in half and the pieces shattered, scattering on the white floor. Jack stepped over the broken mirror pieces, standing before Wayne, noticing him trembling with silent fury.
"Come on," he said, "you were rich, you had everything handed to you."
"Yeah, well, rich life's not everything you think it is!," spat Wayne. "My whole life my parents molded me to be something that I'm not. Wanted me to be their perfect little prince. All my life they've pushed me to do things I hated: piano, fencing, cello, horseback riding. I hated it! All I wanted was to have my own life with my own friends, but they kept picking where I could go, and who I could play with." He hung his head, hands gripping his hair. "I could get everything I wanted so long as I got good grades, spoke when spoken to." He curled into a ball, hiding his face in shame.
Jack seemed to want to speak but felt it best to let Wayne vent out everything before time slipped him.
"I met Lisa when I was in college," said Wayne, lifting his head. "Majored in business, just like Dad wanted me to. She was studying music, so gradually we hit it off. But as time went by and she introduced me to her parents, she was becoming overbearing. Her parents liked me because we were one of the richest families in the world. I would've preferred it if Lisa was poor and penniless. That would've been better, but I knew my parents wouldn't have approved of it.
"Then just last month, they start pressuring us to get married. We've been together for three years, and we hadn't even brought it up. I put up with Lisa even when I grew bored of her. I'll admit that I liked her, but I fell out of love with her. Too much to bear. My plan was to break up with her. That's what I was going to do when I texted her to come meet me at the bar. Only she revs up and dumps this huge bombshell on me about being pregnant. So I just snapped.
"I told her that I wasn't going to take responsibility. I even told her that I wasn't sure that baby is mine."
"What do you think?," questioned Jack evenly.
"She's the only woman that I've had sex with," replied Wayne, "I admit that. Before Lisa there wasn't anyone I could've..." He paused, seeing how he was getting off topic. "I told her to get a DNA test and prove to me that the baby was mine. That was when I got in my car and drove off. I don't know what I was thinking. I just wanted it to end, I wanted to wake up from this nightmare! I wanted it to stop."
Jack, feeling that he needed to push him along, crouched down, placing a hand on Wayne's shoulder. Wayne gaped up at him, on the verge of tears, but even if they still worked, he wouldn't be able to cry.
"My whole life I've had to be a windup doll for them," ventured Wayne, "they made me do these things I hated because they didn't get to. My parents only got married because my Mom was pregnant with me, and they were going to do the same with me. If or when Lisa tells them she's pregnant...I just know they're going to subject the baby to the same suffering I went through."
"It's possible," said Jack, "but it's also possible that Lisa doesn't tell them."
"You really think she won't tell them?"
"No. I think she'll tell them either way. But I also think they might not believe you're the father."
"You think that, too?"
"I would if it were me."
Wayne blinked. He wanted to speak, but his mouth didn't seem to work.
"Now that you're dead," said Jack, retracting his hand away from Wayne's shoulder, "how do you feel about all this?"
There was a moment of silence.
"Part of me doesn't forgive them for making me do all the things I didn't want to do," said Wayne bitterly. "So I'm glad I'm dead. I'm not sorry I died. They didn't deserve me. I was just a toy for them. Well, the good thing about broken toys is that you get to throw them away."
Jack raised how eyebrows.
"Wow, that's..."
"I know."
Standing up, Jack prepared to leave when Wayne spoke up.
"Wait."
"Yeah?" Jack turned around.
"This whole week," began Wayne, "it's been the first time I could be honest with anyone. You were probably the first real friend I've had."
"I don't know what to say about that," retorted Jack.
"All the friends I had only hung out with me because I was rich," said Wayne, "but you...I guess since I'm dead I can't really make you do anything to convince you to be my friend."
"The dead are much better company than the living," commented Jack.
Wayne smiled. "I guess that's something we can agree on."
Jack nodded.
Jack turned to walk toward the door, but he hesitated, waiting for Wayne to say something else.
"Your funeral's tomorrow," he said, "you've got anything to say?"
"Well," said Wayne, "I guess I'm still afraid of what's going to come next. I mean, after the funeral's done, what's going to happen to me? Will I get to see my grandma again?"
"You will," answered Jack automatically.
"What about you? Will I get to see you when you die?"
"Of course."
"But I'm still scared."
"It's alright. All the others I've embalmed were scared. Well, one of them didn't do or say anything. It was actually pretty quiet work. But you get the idea. All of them were scared of the unknown until the actual day of the funeral. The transition is to help the dead let go of the living world in order to embrace death."
Wayne stood up, stretching his arms. He sauntered to the table, and sat down, eyes downcast.
"What about you?," he piped.
"What do you mean?," queried Jack.
"I mean, are you happy?," asked Wayne firmly. "Are you happy doing this? Wasn't there anything you wanted to do before you found out about your gift?"
" I wanted to be a lot of things" replied Jack, sidling up to him. He stood beside him but he didn't meet his gaze. "Actor. Musician. Singer. I wanted to be like Zac Efron."
"You can still do that," said Wayne, "you're only like, what, twenty-five?"
"Twenty-six," corrected Jack, looking at him.
"Ah. But you see, you can still do something more fulfilling."
Jack laughed. "I spend my days trying to convince the dead to let go of life, now a dead guy is trying to convince me to live."
Wayne gave a crooked smile, unable to deny that that was in fact funny.
"Yeah, you're right," he said.
"But I'm happy with what I do," said Jack. "I was happy helping Eliot help a corpse make the transition."
"You don't regret it?"
"No."
"Not for a minute?"
"Nope."
"Not even if you could go back in time and stop yourself from meeting Eliot?"
"Nope. I wouldn't change a thing."
Wayne looked at him for a minute, then glanced away. An unreadable expression on his face.
"It's getting late," said Jack, walking toward the door, "I'm gonna get some sleep. Is there anything else you need before tomorrow?"
"No," said Wayne, "I'm still nervous about the funeral but I guess I'll find out when it happens."
Jack nodded.
"Are you going to be there?," asked Wayne.
"Of course," said Jack.
"I just wish I had a better life," said Wayne.
A moment passed in silence.
"Well, see you tomorrow," said Jack.
"Right."
Jack left, turning the lights off. Sitting in the dark, Wayne mulled over what he had been told. His entire life had been predicated on suffering, and seeing them from a different perspective made him rethink everything he thought was right, or what wasn't right. Even now that he was dead, he didn't feel like he could trust his parents. He loved them, but felt like he couldn't be honest with them. His entire life was spent like being an windup doll, always putting on a facade, acting proper, hating the fact that he couldn't be himself in front of everyone.
Wayne had always been afraid of death, but seeing as how he already was dead, and he spent his time with Jack, he felt like there was no longer nothing to fear from it.
Friday arrived on a quiet.
Wayne laid inside the coffin hearing the voice of his father speak on the microphone. Though it was an open casket, he didn't want to seen anyone. Considering that he hated seeing most of them when he was alive, he still didn't want to see them even in death. He listened to his father drone on about his accomplishments, and how his son was the apple of his eye.
Oh please, Dad, he bitterly thought. He wished he could sit up and take a look at the place, but Jack told him he had to stay still or else he would make something go off. Such as causing the microphone to short circuit. Wayne wished he could do that silence his father's drawling voice.
His father finished speaking, then he heard him walk away. He heard about her set of footsteps making a tap sound upon the hardwood floor. From now it sounded, they wore a pair of high heels. It was either his mother or Lisa or any female relative in his family.
"Thank you, Howard," spoke the voice. A woman's voice. This was his mother. "I would just like to say that..."
Oh dear, let me through this day. Wayne's eyes widened. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
He listened to his mother speak, trying to get past her pausing to wipe her eyes or blow her nose. He wished she hadn't gotten up to speak; he knew this would happen.
Wayne drowned out his mother's voice by thinking back to this morning when Jack came to put him inside the coffin. He told him how he didn't to leave him, insisting that he wanted to stay with him. Jack reminded that he was going to be fine, that he went the through this all the time and that it didn't get to him. Wayne didn't want to see Jack alone, and wanted to stay on to assist the next body make the transition. Jack listened to him, and wished him the best on his journey to Heaven.
Then came the men to put his body into the coffin and carry him into the parlor.
"Thank you so much for coming here," said Glenna, "thank you."
Wayne listened to her high heels tapping on the hardwood floor. He wondered who was next to speak up.
An hour passed with a few family members going up to the podium to say what they thought about him and sharing good memories of him. Wayne didn't listen to all of it. He wished for it to end, so he could be done with it. After everyone had a chance to speak they came to see him in the open casket. He wished his facial nerves still worked so he could glare at each person or stick his tongue out. But Jack told him that they wouldn't see him either way.
After that was done, his coffin was closed, then lifted up, and carried down the hall and toward the cemetery. This Wayne knew.
He felt his coffin slowly lowering into the open grave. If only he could see what they wrote on his tombstone.
One thing he couldn't stop thinking about was leaving Jack. He didn't care that he had to follow the transition. He hated his life, and he was starting to hate his afterlife. He wasn't going to listen to him of what the rules said. He wasn't going to leave knowing that he didn't fulfill his life the way he wanted to. This way he was going to fulfill his afterlife the way he wanted, and be damned whoever said it went against the unwritten rules of the dead leaving the living.
Wayne heard the men groaning as they dumped pile after pile of dirt. He could feel the dirt's weight sinking his coffin even lower. Wherever Jack was, he was going to stay no matter what he said.
Life was escaping him and Wayne allowed it. He didn't to cling to the facade he scrounged up to not face reality. This way he didn't have to pretend anymore. No more giving false compliments when he didn't like someone. No more waking up to a world that slowly crushed him. No more having to keep up with the latest trends and styles. No more nosy gossipers.
He was wrong about one thing. Being dead meant you no longer had to eat or sleep, he was going to miss being able to eat, but he was glad that he didn't have to pretend to be okay when he wasn't. Death was merciful, and it welcomed him without hiding him.
He let the darkness embrace him. Were his eyes open or closed? Either way it too dark to name and it was as if he had gone blind.
Suddenly the darkness dissipated and he found himself back inside the morgue. There was the table, though his corpse was no longer there. Everything was in its place; the table, the ceiling lights, the white walls, the cabinet, the desk. Now all that was missing was...
"I didn't think you'd be back soon."
Wayne turned around, seeing Jack looking at him like he were on display.
"How am I back?"
"This," said Jack, holding up a gold chain. Up close, it resembled a locket. It must've been but there was something deeper about it.
Wayne looked up at Jack, wordlessly asking what it was.
"It's a way to tether a ghost after death," explained Jack. "I didn't think it'd work."
"How come you never tried it before?," asked Wayne.
"None of the dead I embalmed was worth keeping tethered." Jack looked from the locket to Wayne. "I though about what you said, and thought maybe this could work, but if it doesn't I'll sever this tether and you'll be sent to Heaven."
Wayne smiled.
"You're not going to regret this."
"I never did."
Figuring out Jack's age was a nightmare, so I did the math and rounded up his age to twenty-six.
Having him talk to the corpse was all part of the plot, including being distant. It was all part of the transition, and I haven't seen the movie in years. Maybe I should watch it again.
Anyways, thank you for reading my 100th fanfiction. ^_^
