.

The dead guy was back again.

Marie sighed and thought, oh great, just what I need. It wasn’t so much the fact that he was dead as the fact that he was supremely annoying. He’d bounce on her bed and make fun of her Dir en grey posters and be a general pain in the neck, and then when her mother came up to see what was making the bed springs squeak so, he’d disappear, leaving behind only the faint odor of hair dye, cigarettes, and beer.

And then her mom would be all like, “Have you been letting your hoodlum friends smoke in here again?”

Just great. Asshole.

“You really ought to appreciate me more,” he was saying in that nasal voice that always grated on her nerves. “I’m dead, so I can tell you all about the mysteries of the Other Side and shit.”

Marie rolled her eyes. “So clue me in, O Great and Miraculous Savior.” She waited, a mock-rapturous expression on her face.

The guy waited a moment, looking thoughtful and far away. Marie examined her plushie collection through his semi-transparent form; idly, she wondered if plushie-Hyde was in need of more company. Maybe she should order that plushie-Gackt after all?

Finally, the dead guy nodded to himself. “Don’t die,” he advised. “It’s kind of boring.”

“That’s it?”

“Basically. Yeah.” He scratched himself. “Man, I wish I had a beer,” he murmured.

Marie was disgusted. “Why don’t you go haunt Budweiser or something, then?”

He looked at her then, and for a moment his eyes (pretty eyes, she had to admit it) looked so sad, she regretted her words. “You really got no idea who I am, do you?”

Marie was only sixteen, and even when she felt sorry on the inside, she saw no reason to give anyone a break. She snorted. “No. Should I?”

His eyes were far away again. “Guess it’s my own fault.” He was talking to himself. “Guess I shouldn’t have died.”

Marie turned back to her computer. “Yeah, well, kinda late for that now—“ she glanced over her shoulder.

The dead guy was gone, no trace of his pink hair anywhere. Well, good riddance.

The computer chimed to let Marie know her download had finished. She turned her attention back to the screen. The file had said only “J-Rock”; she hoped it was a Glay PV or something. She located it in her “shared files” folder.

“’Hide TV Funeral Report?’” She frowned, and opened the file.

end.