After I Died

I died in a cold, abandoned warehouse. The wound in my abdomen still bled, like the night three years ago when I lost my child. As my consciousness drifted from my body, I saw the kidnappers leave, their faces twisted into cruel smiles. They said Frederick James wouldn't pay a single cent to ransom me. They said Frederick James himself spoke it: it would be better if Cindy Limbaugh were dead. My soul floated lightly, drifting through the thick walls. In the next moment, I stood inside Frederick's office. He sat in a broad leather chair, a cigarette pinched between his fingertips. Ash fell onto his expensive suit trousers; he remained utterly indifferent. The assistant pushed the door open, voice careful and subdued. "Mr. James, the police said... they've found a trace of Miss Limbaugh." Not a flicker stirred on Frederick's brow. He flicked the ash from his cigarette; his voice was cold as ice. "You call that a trace? More like human remains." "A woman as wicked as she is, no matter which dark corner she dies in, it is retribution." My heart—no, I no longer have a heart. Yet I still feel the pain. The pain makes my very soul tremble. The assistant hesitated, then spoke again. "Also, the hospital is pressing for payment—Miss Limbaugh's father, Mr. Limbaugh's hospitalization fees..." Frederick suddenly lifted his gaze, impatience blazing in his eyes. "What's the big rush?" "What use is there in wasting money on a man about to die?" "Stop it." Two words, light as a feather. Yet like a poisoned blade, they pierced the last shred of my hope. That was my father. The only person in this world still protecting me. I watched Frederick stamp out the cigarette and pick up the photo frame on the table. The person in the frame was Nancy Dash. The woman who made him hate me for three long years. My soul, beneath his cold gaze, slowly grew transparent.