Read I'd Rather Not Be Dead for Free Online

was built three years
ago. My own home's a couple months younger. They aren't any more or
less patterned than the post-war homes, but somehow they manage to
have less character.
    I stand outside my cookie-cutter
nightmare house. Do I really want to go in? It's not like anyone
can see me. That's why it's taken me so long to come out here. Mom
ignoring me in the shop was one thing, my entire family looking
straight through me at home would be another. And for them to be
doing it while that other girl, that previous version of me, walks
around living my life... Frankly, I don't know if I can take
it.
    Bike wheels whoosh on the
pavement behind me and I turn to see my youngest sister peddling up
the driveway. Rain. Such a hippy name. I never figured out what Mom
was thinking with it. The name fits her though. She's our mediator,
the one who just wants everyone else to get along. And, unlike me,
she's never thought the best, if not only, way to achieve that is
simply to kill everyone else.
    She props the bike up on the
side of the porch and trots up to the front door. Drawn to her, I
cross the lawn and hop up the stairs.
    And come crashing to the ground.
Just like when I tried to get on the bus yesterday. What the hell?
I've been interacting with buildings the whole time I've been dead.
Yet, here I am flat on my face in a pile of dirt underneath my
front porch. Above me, the door opens and closes as I roll over to
stare up at the wooden planks I should be standing on.
    I prop myself on my elbows, then
reach up slowly. My fingers pass through the floorboards. I lie
back down for a few minutes, then move back onto my stomach and
close my eyes before crawling out.
    The house looks as real as any
of the other places I've been.
    I walk around the porch to the
side of the house proper. A curtain ruffles and my cat, Miss
Whiskers jumps into view. My heart races as I wait for her to
notice me, but she doesn't. She looks right past me in search of
something furry to daydream about tracking. So much for cats being
better psychics than humans.
    My fingers pass through the
glass. Then they pass through Miss Whiskers. And my vision goes
blurry from tears.
    I turn and walk away.
Quickly.
    I keep walking until I find
myself at Cris's house. Am I trying to hurt myself or something?
What happened with Miss Whiskers didn't hurt enough?
    Cris's porch steps support me,
though I sink a little. It feels like the steps sag, but when I
look down I see the bottoms of my feet sunk halfway though them. I
look away from that fast and rush through the door. Walking down
the hall to Cris's room reminds me of being in a bouncing castle,
minus the little kids making the ground buck and heave. The floor
has more give than it should, but I don't fall into the crawlspace
under the house, so I call it a win.
    The first time I saw Cris's
room, I found the chaos a little appalling. It boggled my mind that
he'd brought me there without bothering to pick up at least some of
the dirty laundry, used dishes, and empty soda bottles. But then I
convinced myself it was a good thing that he was comfortable enough
with me to let me see how imperfect he was.
    It occurs to me now that maybe
he just didn't care enough.
    He's sprawled over his bed,
sound asleep, and the only part of him visible from the mass of
blankets heaped on the mattress is one lonely foot. My hand goes to
it, passes through it. The mound shivers and the foot slides up
under the covers with the rest of Cris.
    I try to lay down with him, but
his bed isn't there for me, so I have to settle on the floor,
between a crumpled sweater and an empty chip bag. I lean back
against the wall and stare at the ceiling. When will he figure out
I'm dead? What's my death going to do to him? Will it crush him or
slide right off his back like water on a duck?
    His phone rings after a while
and his hand slinks from the blankets to grab it. The phone
vanishes for a second, falls silent, and gets tossed back onto the
nightstand