This is an exclusive extract of my novel, which will be released in March 2020
I never imagined my own death. Why would I? I was thirty-six years old. I had years left, or so I thought. I changed my mind about that when I woke up in the morgue. The dead body…my dead body laid out in front of me, provided a good indication that I no longer needed to draw breath. My eyes were open, and I could almost imagine I was staring at myself. Yet I struggled to look away from the shell I used to inhabit. My eyes wandered from my bruised face to the red mark on my neck, as if I was punched and strangled.
I closed my eyes. Maybe this would be gone when I opened them again. I’d have a laugh at the weird dream I had about being beside myself in the morgue. A brief memory popped into my head, hands gripping my arms, then the image faded. I opened my eyes to find my corpse wasn’t gone though. It seemed to be taunting me for thinking I could make it not real.
“Did somebody do this to me?” I asked my dead self, only to receive no response. She just laid still. I wondered if all dead people looked like…well…like they had been scared to death I suppose.
I watched enough crime shows to recognise the signs of a murder. I recalled those same crime shows. Copying what they did seemed like my best option. The first step was to examine the victim. I took a deep breath, although no air went in or out of my body, but the action remained the same. I twisted my head from side to side. I stretched my arms like someone preparing for a boxing match or an intense workout session might do. It helped to imagine I was looking for clues about what happened to a fictitious character. If I stopped to dwell on the reality of my death, I might have panicked. It also helped to have no recollection of the circumstances leading up to my death