Ever since K woke up dead, or so he was convinced, he had turned into a bit of a jerk.

That won’t do at all, he said in a huff. That’s how you choose to remember me? He snatched up his eulogy and tossed it in the garbage. I tried to feel sorry for him, because whatever mental affliction he was suffering from seemed to be rather burdensome. Then I began writing a new one.

Help me, he pleaded several weeks ago. I’m dead. I could see the fear in his eyes, and though I didn’t believe him, I was sure that he at least believed he was dead. I made a joke about zombies. But that only irritated him.

As the weeks went by he lost interest in everything that used to be meaningful. The only thing that seemed to jolt him to life–so to speak–was discussing how the life that was now, according to him, over would be remembered.

But the novelty of having a dead friend was eroding quickly.

Are you done yet, he barked? I lunged from my desk and sunk my pen into his neck.

Thank you, he said, as he died a second time.