When Octavius Phillips got murdered the only thing he could think about was not of his life but of those serial documentaries (“why he was such a nice man!” And “he seemed perfectly normal to me”) as the blood poured in alarming amounts from his stomach.

He wondered if he would get a documentary, if there would be anyone to cry and say “what a beautiful man, that Octavius. I will miss him dearly.”

It was a silly thought, not the kind of thing that should be your last thought. Yet it was. Here, Octavius, killed only to be robbed of his 20 bucks and the off-brand bike he was riding. Ha! What a goddamn joke.

He’d always believed in God, too, in the idea that there was a meaning to life

The afterlife was not what he’d thought it’d be

“Where’s my heaven?” He tried to speak but his tongue got tied halfway through the sentence and it remained silent. Goddamn joke indeed! A man dead AND mute.

How long had he been dead now? A week? A few days? The memories burned in his mind, that terrible blade plunged into his stomach, the fingers of a man he didn’t even know the name of pilfering through his pockets as life left Octavius’s body and fuck, hadn’t it been cold? He didn’t know anymore.

He’d quickly taken to stalking his killer— he learned thus far that his name was Bruce, that he couldn’t keep a job for the life of him, his girlfriend Penelope was a real winner (“Can’t fucking do anything right, can you, Bruce??”) and he was flat broke. Well, other than a dead man’s 20 dollars and some odd ins and outs he was going to sell, including Octavius’s precious bike.

What a mess, Octavius thought, I’ve always wondered what could drive a man to murder.

Octavius stood, invisible, next to Bruce as he cried into his drunken bottle. He’d be much happier a spectator, he’d be much happier dead

Octavius kicked the bottle into the wall so that it smashed. Bruce jumped back and screamed a pathetic scream, cutting his hand on one of the glass shards that reverberated. “Who’s there??” His neck craned wildly from side to side.

Octavius took the shard and engraved on Bruce’s skin a single word: Octavius. He would always be reminded of the man he’d killed.

Now, the worst thing of all. Octavius would let him live with that guilt of what he’d done. And it would haunt him, more than any ghost ever could