I was dead. I guess you think this is one of those post-modern stories that thinks it’s clever to kill off the narrator. ‘Surprise! You thought we couldn’t kill this character because he was narrating in the past tense, but first person narration is just a dramatic device so we can flip that fictional construct right over, yeah?’ Well fuck you. This is my life and death story, and my death wasn’t just a plot twist, it happened, and was indescribably awful. As bad as it was, I still wish it had really been the end. Maybe you would prefer it to be the end too. Well, tough. It’s my story, and I’ve been writing it, thumb-typing into the notebook on my phone, the way I want it to be read. I get plenty of time, drifting from place to place, towed by my permanent travelling companion. I find an empty seat or bench, squint at my little phone screen and do my best. I sometimes wish I’d died with pen and paper in my pocket. I’m not sure how you, my reader or readers, are getting to read this, but to be honest I’m so far through the looking glass now I have no idea what might be possible and might not.
