I’m dying. A ghost in life, a stray spirit in death. But I've always been considerate. The thought of my body being left undiscovered in my apartment for too long is... unsettling. The smell, the decay, the rot, the maggots. I don’t mind messing up my own place, but to haunt the building’s property values and ruin my neighbors’ appetites? That’s a sin I’m not willing to commit. So I called my ex-boyfriend, the one I hadn't spoken to in seven years. “When I die, could you do me a favor and collect my body?” Silence stretched for a long, heavy moment on the other end. Then, his voice, cold as ice. “Sure. My dogs are hungry.” 1 I lowered the phone, a hollow ache of disappointment settling in my chest. In this age of instant gratification, you can get food delivered, errands run, even a designated driver at 3 a.m., but you can't find a service for posthumous body collection. I’m dying. The kind of dying there’s no coming back from. After the initial shock, the terror, the rage, and the complete breakdown, I’ve found a strange sort of peace with it. I have no family, no one to lean on. Death is just… a change of address for my loneliness. But the logistics are a nightmare. I’m terrified of dying at home and no one finding me for weeks. My body, left to the slow, merciless work of decomposition. The putrid smell, the liquefying flesh, the swarming maggots… an unholy stench creeping through the vents. My corpse would probably only be discovered when the entire floor of the apartment building was under a full-scale biohazard assault. That would be too late. Call it vanity, but I don’t want my last public appearance to be a grotesque spectacle for a crowd of gawking strangers. And call it civic duty, but I refuse to turn my home into a house of horrors, a stain on the neighborhood that tanks property values and makes people lose their lunch. The housing market is already a disaster; the last thing the mortgage-slaves in this building need is more bad news from me. I could, of course, check into a hospital and pass away peacefully under the sterile, fluorescent lights. But I can't stand the smell of antiseptic. So, I needed someone. Someone to make sure that, after my last breath, I was turned to ash as quickly as possible. Clean, efficient, and sanitary. After turning it over and over in my mind, only one name surfaced from the wreckage of my past: my ex-boyfriend. I fished his number out of my blocked list and dialed, praying he hadn't changed it. It connected. I could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing, but he said nothing. “Leo… Leo?” “It’s… It’s Hazel…” I wasn't sure if he still had my number, so I had to introduce myself. Click. He hung up. Yep, that was definitely Leo. Anyone else would have at least muttered a "wrong number." Swallowing my pride, I dialed again. This time, it rang a dozen times before he picked up. Fearing he’d hang up again, I rushed out the words in a single, desperate breath, like a speed-reader rattling off a list. “Don’t hang up! I know you hate me, but I’m dying! For real! Can you just pick up my body? Think about it, watching me die right in front of you… it’d be satisfying, wouldn’t it?” The words tumbled out, and this time, he didn't hang up. After seven long years, a voice that was both achingly familiar and chillingly strange came through the line. “You’re only dying now?” he scoffed. “You’ve been dead to me for years.” The words were meant to sting, but I was a woman who no longer feared death. What power could mockery possibly hold? “Your wishing me dead was just that—a wish. This time, it’s real. I’ve got three months, tops. You should treasure this opportunity to see me off yourself. You’ll never get another chance like this, no matter how much money you throw around.” I pleaded my case like a seasoned salesman pushing a once-in-a-lifetime deal. “Hahahaha!” A sudden, harsh laugh erupted from him. “Hazel, you really will stop at nothing to get my attention, won’t you?” His voice was dripping with schadenfreude. “You might have dropped off the face of the earth for me, but I’ve kept tabs on you. I know things went south. Your family went bankrupt, your father took a nosedive off a skyscraper, your mother ran off with her boy toy, and you got divorced. Thrown out by Julian Shaw. All alone now, aren't you? No one in your corner. It must be pathetic.” He paused, letting the venom sink in. “I’m starting to think you’re a black widow. Everyone who gets close to you ends up miserable. But the ones who leave you? They thrive. Look at me. Successful, respected, on top of the world.” Even through the phone, I could picture the sneer twisting his features, the bitter triumph in his eyes. “So now you’ve hit rock bottom and you come crawling back to me? Playing the dying swan to get my sympathy? You think I still have a soft spot for a two-faced, manipulative woman like you? Think again. Your sob story doesn’t work on me. Because if you actually dropped dead in front of me, the only thing I’d do is chop you up and feed you to my dogs.” I gave it a moment of serious thought. Being dog food was grim, but… it was still better than rotting into a puddle of maggot-infested goo, right? Besides, I’ve always liked dogs. “Could you make it a Border Collie? I’m not really a fan of Huskies,” I suggested earnestly. “You…” He was speechless. He must have thought I was mocking him, because he hung up again. I didn’t call a third time. There’s a limit to even my reserves of humiliation. I started searching for crematoriums on my phone, wondering if they took adPitt bookings. But then, he was at my door. Leo. He actually knew where I lived now. “The world turns, and the pauper can become a prince.” That was something Leo had told me back in college. He was always quoting those epic fantasy novels, telling me I was a "Level 10 beauty." Reality had turned out to be stranger than any fantasy. It didn't take thirty years, just seven. In seven years, Leo’s life and mine had completely inverted. Seven years ago, he was a poor college kid, scraping by on student loans. I was the wealthy heiress, born with a silver spoon. He had loved me with a desperate, all-consuming passion, loyal and humble as a knight serving his queen. And I had crushed him. Kicked him, played him, and thrown him away. “Leo, we’re not right for each other. We’re from different worlds.” “This was just a game to me, and honestly, I’m bored now.” “You didn’t actually think I’d marry you, did you?” “Hahaha! I couldn’t stand the embarrassment!” “Get out. Poverty doesn’t get to have an opinion on love.” I watched him break in front of me, saw the tears stream down his face as the fire in his eyes slowly flickered and died. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I had personally murdered the innocence and love within him. Seven years later, he was a self-made tech mogul. At an age when most rich kids were still living off their parents, he had built his own empire and landed on the Forbes list. He was mature, confident, powerful. And I was a ghost. The shine of the heiress was long gone, and now I lived in a cramped, 500-square-foot apartment in an old, rundown building. Jobless, friendless, family-less. And, most importantly, dying. I was asking him to collect my corpse. The story of us felt like a sick joke written by the devil himself. “You don’t look so good,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, one hand casually tucked in his pocket. “Tired.” He’d always been handsome, but now money had chiseled his features into something sharper, more magnetic. The Armani suit and the Vacheron Constantin on his wrist radiated a quiet, lethal success. A world away from the faded, washed-out clothes he’d worn through his sophomore year, the ones I’d tried to replace but he always insisted were too expensive. “Is it because the family money dried up? Having a tough time adjusting to being poor?” He was smiling that cruel, triumphant smile again, his eyes scanning my tiny, shabby apartment. “It’s small, but clean. I have to admit, I was kind of hoping you’d be living on the street.” I looked around the small space with a pang of affection. One room, a small living area. It was the third home I’d had in my twenty-five years. The smallest, the oldest, the most pathetic. Nothing like the mansion I grew up in, and certainly nothing like Julian’s sprawling estate. But it was the only place I’d ever felt safe. Truly warm. It was mine, bought with the last of my savings, money I had earned myself. I was content to die here. Which was exactly why I didn’t want my death to defile it. “Thank you for coming,” I said, opening a drawer and pulling out the deed to the apartment and a handwritten agreement. “I don’t have much left. This place is all I own.” “After I’m gone, please sell it for me. The money should be enough to cover a burial plot and the funeral expenses. Whatever’s left over… maybe a hundred grand or so… just donate it to a charity. I don’t have any family to leave it to, and I know it’s pocket change to you.” I laid out my final wishes calmly, but Leo’s face darkened with rage. He lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders and slamming me back against the wall. His face was inches from mine, his eyes blazing, his breath hot on my skin. “I don’t know whether to applaud your acting or condemn your shamelessness,” he snarled, his voice a low, vicious growl. “A venomous woman like you doesn’t just die. And even if you did, you, donating to charity? You, who got off on trampling on the dignity of the poor?” A muscle twitched in his jaw, his expression a mask of vengeful glee. “And then you became one of them. That’s karma, Hazel. That’s justice.” He leaned in closer. “I was actually afraid you would die. That would be too easy, an escape. You deserve to live a long, miserable life. To suffer for what you did.” His grip was bruising. I tried to explain it wasn’t an act, that I was really sick, even holding up my medical file. He dismissed it as a prop I’d faked from some online template. Finally, my patience wore thin. It was my life, my death. Why did I have to prove it to him? I suddenly remembered old Mr. Hemlock, the kind, simple-minded junk collector who came by the complex. Maybe I could ask him. I could leave him everything in the apartment, and in return, he could just… recycle me along with the rest of it. “You’re hurting me,” I gasped, struggling to push him away. “If you don’t want to do it, fine. Just forget I asked. You can go.” But he wouldn’t leave. He stared at me like a predator toying with its prey, a cold light glinting in his eyes. “You love playing games, don’t you? Fine. I’ll play.” A cruel smile spread across his lips. “I’ll collect your body. I guarantee it.” He leaned in, his voice a menacing whisper. “You said three months, right?” His gaze was sharp, pinning me in place. “What happens if, at the end of three months, you’re not dead?” “I can’t wait to see you then. The pathetic little liar with nowhere left to run.” “If you have a single shred of shame left, you’ll kill yourself to make it true.” He laughed then, a low, triumphant sound, as if he’d already won. But I smiled back. It was him against me. And I had Death on my team. Poor Leo. He never stood a chance. My plan was simple: Leo would just need to show up and collect my body after I died. We agreed to check in every three days to confirm I was still alive. If he didn't hear from me, it meant the time had come. He already had a key; he'd come over and handle the arrangements. With the summer heat, time was of the essence. But Leo found this arrangement far too boring. The very next day, he was back at my apartment. "Get dressed. We're going out." "Where?" "Cemetery shopping," he said with a strange, unnerving grin. "Told you I'd feed you to the dogs, but that was just talk. Dogs are man's best friend; they shouldn't eat garbage." "So, I figured I should at least get your opinion on where we're going to plant you." I knew what he was doing. He was convinced this was all an elaborate performance, a desperate plea for his sympathy. He was using the morbid task of buying a burial plot to mock me, to call my bluff. Fine by me. I didn't find it morbid at all. When you're dead, you're dead. A patch of dirt is a patch of dirt. But I wasn’t about to spoil his fun, so I got into his Porsche and we toured every major cemetery on the outskirts of the city. At each one, Leo would announce loudly to the salesperson, "We're here to buy a plot. For her." I would simply smile politely and say, "So sorry for the trouble." It made the salespeople incredibly awkward. One moment they'd be waxing poetic about the pristine landscaping and excellent feng shui, the next they'd be stammering, thrown off by the presence of the future occupant. "It's alright, please continue," I'd have to reassure them. "It sounds lovely." After we'd chosen a plot, on the drive back down the hill, Leo couldn't hide his frustration at my composure. "Doesn't this bother you at all?" "You've been very thorough," I said, gazing at the lush, green surroundings of my future resting place. "I bet I won't have any trouble sleeping there." He was trying to get under my skin, but my nonchalance was clearly getting under his. He slammed his foot on the brake. "Fine! You don't care about that?" he snapped. "We're not done! We've got the plot, but what about a casket? An urn? Have you even taken a funeral portrait?" "Don't worry," he sneered. "I'll arrange everything." "Oh, and we need to book the entertainment. A funeral band. Got to give you a proper send-off." Leo was a man of his word. He dragged me to arrange every last detail. He bought seven different burial outfits, one for every season. The urn was carved from pure jade, intricately detailed with dragons and phoenixes. The funeral portrait session was a minor disaster. The photographer initially thought we were there for an engagement shoot. When he heard it was for a funeral, his face soured. "Sorry, I don't do that kind of work. You'll have to leave—" Leo held up three fingers. "Thirty grand. Yes or no?" "Right this way!" the photographer chirped, suddenly accommodating. "What kind of mood are we going for? Stoic acceptance? Lingering regret? We can do it all!" "I want her to look like she got what she deserved," Leo said coldly.
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