I’m Already Dead

Rohan woke up to the drone of his phone. Rubbing the sleep from his half-awake eyes, he reached out for the cell phone which was lying on the nightstand, and squinted at the screen.

Arjun: “Are you working today?“

He yawned and stretched his arms before typing back.

Rohan: “Yeah, leaving in a bit.“

He recorded the morning as being quite ordinary. The sun used to have its full collegial glare streaming into the room, and just the faintest echoes of traffic from the outside were wafting in with the honks of horns. The smell of something cooking in the pot was filling the kitchen-a concoction of coffee perhaps? Rohan threw his leg across and got out of bed, rubbing his eyes, walking down the walkway. His mother, was humming a tune, gently stirring something in a pan on the stove.

“Good morning, Maa!” he said.

She took no notice.

“Maa?” He stepped a bit closer.

Silence again.

An odd feeling crawled up his spine. Maybe she was just lost in thought? He reached out and lightly tapped her shoulder.

His hand passed right through her.

Rohan jerked back and caught his breath, just short of a scream. What the hell just happened? His hands trembled again when he reached out and touched nothing this time with his fingers.

His mother kept cooking like he wasn’t even really there.

All his panic boiled over. He fell over and knocked over a chair on the way. The effect was like thunder crashing in the kitchen, but she ostentatiously did not shift. Didn’t turn around. Didn’t react at all.

His heartbeat pounded thunderously in his ears. He tried telling himself it was just a bad dream, that woke up any second, but everything appeared too real.

He wanted nothing but to get out of there.

The office was no better.

When Rohan walked in, no one looked up. The receptionist who usually greeted him with her eyes glanced him over and continued typing on the computer.

He walked past his coworkers. No one spoke to him. No friendly waves, no nods, nothing. He tried talking—tried shouting—but it was like he didn’t exist.

The clamminess of his hands increased. He pulled back a chair expecting at least some reaction. But as soon as he let go, the chair slid back into place as if he had never touched it.

The weight of dread stacked heavily in his chest.

There was something very, very wrong here.

Then his phone vibrated.

A news notification flashed across the screen.

“Rohan Verma, 27, died in a car accident this morning.“

He froze for a moment with a hitch of breath. Words jumped into his pulse-pressing brain.

No. No, it was a mistake.

He was alive. Here. Breathing. Existing.

But the more he thought about it, the more everything began making sense. His mother ignored him. His friends don’t see him. The way objects seemed to move on their own when he touched them.

Victory at last.

His knees felt weak. He clung to the edge of the desk for support. His mind screamed at him saying that he has to wake up; he needs to do something.

He quickly ran out of the office to find himself moving past the people who were not interested in even a glance at him.

There was but one direction left to go.

The hospital hallways smelled of antiseptic and stale air-conditioning. Rohan walked with his heart hammering in his chest.

A nurse went past, pushing a stretcher. He pulled her aside and pressed, “Excuse me, I need to see … need to see Rohan Verma’s body.“

The words tasted strange on his tongue. The nurse didn’t even blink, she passed him as if he didn’t even exist. But he was well informed where the morgue was. His feet were weighing heavier and heavier. He never wanted to go there. He wanted to avoid the sight at all.

But he had to.

He was grasping the desk’s edge in support. His very thoughts begged him to arise, to act, to do something, anything at all.

His quivering hands clutched the metal drawers-the coldness sliced through even skin under his fingertips.

Must mean something, right? He was still here. Still real. But then his eyes found the corpse- His corpse. It was him, same clothes, same face, the same scar on his wrist from when he fell off his bike as a kid. And yet, here he was, watching, standing outside of himself. His stomach turned, his mind rebelled against it. But deep down, he already knew.

He wasn’t alive. From there, he drifted in search of nowhere. The world continued to move without him. Cars rushed by and people laughed, shopkeepers bickered with customers, but there was no observer for him.

Nobody heard him.

He stood in front of a café where he and Arjun would sit together after work. Inside, his best friend was drinking coffee and laughing at something on his phone.

Rohan opened the door. “Arjun!” he called out. Nothing. “Arjun, it’s me! Look at me, man!” His voice broke, and desperation clawed at his throat. He took hold of the chair opposite Arjun and tried to pull it out. It didn’t budge. Arjun continued scrolling on his phone, utterly unaware of him. Nothing broke inside Rohan. A heaviness descended on his chest.

It was done. He was already gone.