I’m dead, but nobody believes me.

I’m dead, but nobody believes me. I understand that it’s a strange concept for some; that’s why I was hesitant to tell anyone at first. None of my loved ones will accept it, and I understand. Losing a sibling, a child, a friend, etc can be very difficult. Not that I can understand; I’m fortunate enough to say that I haven’t ever had a loss greater than when my cat died when I was seven. But I can empathise; I can understand why they’re so in denial. I’m sure it’s impossible for them to accept.

My heart doesn’t beat, and none of my organs work. I no longer need to eat or drink, but I do both to appease the people around me. Nothing tastes like anything; it all tastes like dirt to me. I’ve never cared much for eating, even when I was alive. When my family isn’t looking, I begin to sneak what food I can to the dog, and I send my drinks down the drain or throw them into the plant by my chair in the kitchen. Nobody figures me out, and I feel deliriously happy about it. One small victory. I don’t sleep much, but I never feel fully awake. Why would a dead person need to sleep?

The doctors say I’m hard to diagnose. They have so many theories; they say I’m depressed, maybe schizophrenic, possibly suffering from hallucinations, maybe early onset Alzheimers. So many theories are swirling around, but they won’t accept the obvious facts. I think one of them believes me, at least. Doctor West. When my family and the other doctors aren’t paying attention, I pull him to the side and whisper to him that they’re delusional and need to accept the facts. That it’s not as simple as me being depressed or any of the other theories, that the reality of the situation is something far worse. He nods and tells me he agrees, that it’s our little secret, that he believes me and he’s doing his very best to help me. He says with his brows drawn tightly together that he’s going to make things better for me. It’s nice to have one person on my side.

My mother tells me she loves me with tears in her eyes, and I tell her I’d love her back if my heart still worked. I’d cry too if my tear glands hadn’t dried up long ago. My father says we’ll get through this together, and my mother nods in agreement, but we all know deep down that we can’t do stuff together anymore. To drag my corpse through life like they’re puppeteers and I’m a prized marionette is cruel, and I’ve told them so. I’ve requested a funeral several times; that they just let go, accept that I am no longer with them, and let me rest. It scares me that I am still here, watching the lives of everyone around me unfold through dead, dry eyes, and if they could just accept that I’m gone then maybe I could find some peace.

Unfortunately, they don’t grant my request, instead opting to throw me a birthday party. What is there to celebrate? I ask them, and they tell me that I’ve been on this earth for thirty years. That it’s an accomplishment, that I should celebrate my day of birth, my third decade, that I’ve done so much with my life and they’re proud of me. What is there to be proud of? Who knows how many of my accomplishments are real, and which ones have been some sort of postmortem fever dream?

To be completely honest with you, I’m unsure of when exactly I died or how. I remember being alive; I remember being a child running around with my friends on the playground at school. I remember being a teenager, my teenage angst in my early teen years, and all of the hopes and dreams I had in my late teens as I went off to college. I remember college and all of my classes, I remember all of the skills I gained there. I haven’t used them much since graduating; maybe somewhere around that time is when my soul left this world. It feels like at some point, time froze for me and refused to move on. I resisted at first, but then accepted. If only my family could accept it as well, then this whole situation would be so much easier.

I smell absolutely awful. I’m rotting from the inside out, I know I am. My sister tells me she can’t smell me, that I smell like my strawberry shampoo, but I know she’s simply being polite. When I first started to complain about the smell, she took it upon herself to become my personal hygiene assistant. She reminds me every day to shower, and sometimes to appease her I do it on my own. Other days when rigor mortis sets in and I can’t stand, she draws baths for me and struggles to carry me in. Some days she even brings a sponge or moist towelettes into my room and cleans me. On my worst days, the days when I simply don’t have the energy to play along with their little fantasy, she holds me in her arms softly singing upbeat songs as she combs my hair. She braids my hair, curls my hair, does my makeup, picks out cute outfits. I do feel a little better when I spend time with her, like maybe the smell isn’t quite so atrocious after all of her love and care. A lavender bubble bath and a little of her perfume can make me smell almost bearable.

At my insistence, Doctor West finally convinces my parents that they need to host my funeral. They cry, my sister cries, even another one of the doctors has tears in her eyes. When they finally give in and start planning, they invite me to pick out my casket. They ask me where I would like to host my funeral, and who all I would like to invite. I laugh sharply, surprising all of us with my first laugh in years, and tell them that a dead person doesn’t get a say in their funeral. I tell them I trust them to do what is best for me, and if a dead person were able to imagine things, I could swear I imagine my father looks happy to hear that. Maybe he secretly believes me as well but doesn’t want to upset my mother and sister; maybe he is secretly relieved to finally be able to put his first born to rest.

I ask if I can await my funeral at the morgue with the other dead people. It would be nice to be surrounded by others like me. My mother calls me morbid and says she can’t take it anymore, and she runs from the room in tears. My dad looks at Doctor West with a grim nod before following after her. I think he’s finally beginning to understand.

Doctor West takes me down to the basement of the hospital. There is a small group of corpses with white sheets draped over them elegantly. The air smells like bleach. It is quiet. I am home and feel at peace for the first time in ages. He escorts me to a table and tells me I’m welcome to sleep there as long as I don’t touch anything or bother any body. He asks me if I get the pun. I tell him I do. I like Doctor West. I appreciate that he believes me and everything he’s done for me. He tells me I’m welcome to go back to the sixth floor and request a bed if I get uncomfortable, but I tell him I’d prefer not to sleep among the living. I don’t want to make them uncomfortable.

In the morning, the morgue attendant arrives and helps me prepare for my funeral. She’s a nice lady; she’s accepting of me and my unique condition. When Doctor West comes to fetch me, I thank the attendant for all of her help. She solemnly wishes me a lovely funeral. We get into Doctor West’s car, and he drives me to a nearby funeral home. He escorts me to my casket, and I lay in it. Slowly the guests filter in. They all approach me, patting my hand, kissing my forehead, whispering that they love me. When the funeral starts, Doctor West stands and thanks everyone for coming. My sister gives the eulogy, and my father, best friend, and a few others speak nice words about me. My mother sits quietly, and she looks broken. I think she has finally accepted it.

Eventually everyone leaves, and the room grows quiet. After several hours pass, the funeral director whispers for me to rest in peace before turning off the lights. It is dark. It is quiet. I am at peace. Finally, everyone has let me go, everyone has accepted my death, and I can move on. I smile as I drift away.

And then I wake up. I sit up to find myself in my bed at home. I look down to see that I am no longer in my funeral clothes, but a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. I call out in confusion. Doctor West enters the room and welcomes me back to the land of the living. He asks how I’m feeling, and I say that I am confused. He tells me that I have been suffering from a rare syndrome called Cotard’s that has given me the illusion that I am dead. He tells me that I am very much alive, and he hoped that by letting me accept death by hosting a funeral I would realize I was still alive. He asks if I feel reality coming back to me, and I tell him yes, that I’m feeling much better. I am disappointed. I thought that I could trust him, but he turned out to be just like everybody else.

Maybe I’m looking at this wrong; perhaps I am immortal. Perhaps this is a good thing that has happened to me. I know I am not a zombie or a vampire or anything silly like that. I have died, yet I have somehow managed to remain in the land of the living. It’s a blessing that not a lot of people have; in fact, I may be the only one. I do not understand the logistics of it, and I do not care to. I simply am.

I start living (pun intended) a normal life. I start by taking care of myself more, reestablishing my independence. I work on mending relationships, and I find a good job working with people who are likable enough, starting part time and eventually moving into full time as I pretend my condition is improving. Everyone is so happy to see me thriving once more, and I am such a good actor I almost start to believe it myself.

Nothing I do has consequences; I am truly invincible. I begin taking risks, and they always pay off. I do what I want, and I always get away with it. My sister tells me that I am living my best life, and I find it both hilarious and ironic that I had to die in order to achieve my best life. I no longer feel fear. I no longer feel sadness. I no longer feel anything, and I love every minute of it. Maybe I truly have gone mad, but that madness has granted me freedom, and I embrace it. I want the people I love to feel this freedom too.

Doctor West tells me he is disappointed in me. That he really thought that I was doing better, that I had been successfully rehabilitated. His demeanor is calm, but I notice the sorrow in his eyes as we sit on the front porch of my house. He asks me why I did what I did as I call for my dog. He tells me that my dog is dead, along with the rest of my family inside the house. He asks me again why I did it. I tell him that he couldn’t understand, that I wish he could and that I wish he had understood sooner. He agrees as the cops pull me to my feet and slap handcuffs on my wrists. They escort me to their car and I look back at my house with a smile on my face, knowing that my family will be back soon, and that they are now free, too.