Just Call Me, Karma...

You thought I was gone, didn't you? Thought I kicked-the-bucket and went up to meet my Maker. Well, I hate to disappoint you buddy-oh-pal, but I haven't quite left yet.

I would tell you not to ask me how this is possible, but it being that I'm nothing but a transparent body of ghostly proportions, you wouldn't hear me nor would I be able to answer you anyway.

All thanks to you. I knew it was too good to be true when you knelt on one knee, held a stupid Tiffany box in my face, and asked me four words that still haunt me today: "Will you marry me?"

Only now do I realize I should've said no. I should have walked away, should have kicked you in the shins, should have chucked that ring farther than Tom Brady can throw a football; but no. I was stupid, naive, and blinded by love.

Speaking of blinded, I don't really appreciate that you killed me from behind. So not cool, dude. If you're going to kill someone, at least be a man and do it to their face. Geez. What is it with men not wanting to confront people face-to-face?

And so with me out of the picture you're with Her. I'm sure you know that I've hated Her since grade school; but I'm also dead sure now (no pun intended) that you didn't give a single care about it at all. You loved Her, not me. You wanted Her, not me. All you had to do was tell me and then I could've called off the wedding.

But no. That was too easy, too simple, too civilized wasn't it? If you were going to get rid of me you were going to do it with style. And with style you did. I must say using a crowbar was a pretty ruthless way to go; but, in a way, almost charming--you clearly didn't hate me that much to stab or shoot or strangle me; just enough to whack me upside the head and leave me to fall to my fatal fate.  However, I give you amateur points for the crime scene: an obviously staged car crash?  Really?  Golly, I expected something more suave and sophisticated than that; but hey, whatever gets the job done I suppose.

Now, although I'm not entirely a huge fan of being dead, I don't necessarily hate this new "life" either.  I hope you writhe in jealousy as you realize I can now see concerts for free and travel anywhere I want to and even be right in front of someone while they talk.

Which is what I did when you were saying your vows to Her. It's what I did when you had your First Dance; when you threw the garter; when you thanked everyone for coming to your stupid wedding. And since I'm going on a confessing rampage, I guess it's safe to say that it wasn't "the wind" that blew Her poofy dress sky high during the bouquet toss, nor was it "mother nature" that made all those pigeons dive straight for your dumb face during the ceremony, and nor was it the universal "accidents happen" that caused that five tiered, french vanilla bean cake to go SPLAT all over the dance floor.

Oopsie-daisies. You know I've always been a klutz.

Oh well. Things happen, right? Even things like your murdered ex-fiance (such as myself) staring you dead in the face as you open the door to the honeymoon suite.

You have a smug look on your stupid face as you hold it open for your newly-proclaimed wife. 

Well, at least chivalry isn't like me.

I take a seat on the sofa and kick up my feet on the coffee table.  Before I have the chance to blink you two are kissing and stumbling over to the bed.  Ew.  It's gross.  And I'm only now noticing that you're quite the sloppy kisser. Might have dodged a bullet there.

You both begin to tug at each other's fancy clothes.

Oh, not for long.

The sofa is pushed over and crashes into the table with a big crash and She screams like a little girl. You eye the scene, but make a face and tell Her it's nothing. You guys keep kissing. So, I turn on the TV and wiggle the dials of the sick stereo system; I flap the curtains and pull up the blinds so the night life can see you and Her as half-naked idiots, staring like bug-eyed freaks around the room. I fly through the wall and turn on the shower and sink and clog the toilet with hand towels and slam the door on my way out.

You're standing around the room, your dumb head whipping around as if this will help you catch the invisible mayhem that is now pursuing towards your newlywed.

There She is, cowering on the bed. My lone, long-time enemy, sitting there like a duck, just asking to be messed with. So, I take the advantage and pull her hair out of the constricting bun and tug at her dress and smash pillows over her.

In case you care, but I'm having a grand ole time.

You notice and come over in a panic, yelling what's going on, and how She's doing that, and telling Her to stop it.

Newsflash, buddy: she can't help it.

Just like I couldn't help dying.

Just like you couldn't help whacking me with a crowbar.

Sometimes us humans just. Can't. Help. It.

I shove Her off the bed and she screams bloody Mary. I jump on the mattress, swaying the sheets around like whips, throwing pillows at your face, kicking the radio and lamp off the nightstand which both crash to their demise. I fly past you and I swear for a split second you realize that I'm here; but I forget the thought and slam the TV to the ground, yank the curtains off their rings, knock over the mini fridge, chuck the champagne bottles and flutes against the walls, smash the box of chocolates at the window, and, finally, I kick you in the shins. You bellow in pain I presume, and punch the air. Your fist goes straight through my stomach, and it tickles. I laugh and that's when I am positive that you and She can hear me--if not the exact sound of my laugh, at least a messed up, hopefully more menacing version of it.

She grips your arm and screams, shrieking that this place is haunted. You shake your head violently, but keep your eyes bulging. Hate to break it to you, but you won't see me no matter how big you make your eyes look. It only makes you resemble a panting Tarsier. Don't know what a Tarsier is? Look it up, you uneducated dropout!

You take hold of Her arm and She slowly quiets down. I don't move. I just stare at you, hoping that somehow you know it's me. A few minutes slip by and you turn to Her with a relieved smile, saying how it stopped and that it was probably some "freak accident" in this old hotel (even though it's a fairly new Marriott. Ugh. You're such an idiot, I can't believe I ever dated you, let alone became engaged to you).

You both slowly walk to the bathroom, probably to turn off the faucets of running water, and I follow behind you. I flick the back of your neck as you open the door and you turn around so fast that She runs into your mouth. She shrieks as I tap her butt cheek. And then, I look ahead in the bathroom and am dumbstruck--nay! I am awestruck. Awestruck with utter brilliance and shock.

As if reading my dead thoughts, She stares wide-eyed behind you and points a shaky finger past your head. You ask her what it is and turn around to see none other than me, my reflection, groggy and faded but still recognizable through the bathroom mirror.

I wave and blow a kiss, and then run a finger across my neck, smiling cheekily.

I don't think I have ever witnessed you--let alone a grown-a** man--scream so ear-piercingly high before, and it brings such joy to my unbeating heart that I practically dance around in the air, laughing as loudly as I can.

She runs out of the room in her bra and underwear, and before you sprint after her, I pull down your pants, leaving you in nothing but your disgusting man-thong (I still can't believe you bought that hideous thing).

As the door slams behind you, I slow my ridicules down and stare at my reflection again. It's nice to see my face, to see my body still intact, to see my features. It's kind of creepy with the split in the back of my cranium, but I can live (or lack thereof) with it.

All I know now is that you shouldn't have done what you did, because karma is coming back to bite, and I bite fairly hard.