Instant, searing pain, then . . . nothing, followed by a vague awareness. He stood gaping, too shocked to speak, watching his body slump to the floor, and finally, surprise at the realization. ‘She shot me! The ungrateful brat actually shot me.’
What had happened? It was after hours, in the kitchen of their restaurant, his vision, his skill, built with her money. They’d been arguing. He’d made his play and she’d found out. She’d threaten to push him out and he’s slapped her. And then . . .
He floated above the scene, near the ceiling, looking down, watching her remove his clothes.
“Who’s in charge now, bitch,” she spit as she knelt and began cutting with one of his best knives. “Take my money, then think you can push me out? Did you really think me that stupid?”
He howled with rage, at being dead, at being killed, at being killed by her, knowing she’d get away with it; a kitchen offered many ways to dispose of meat. His silent screams went unnoticed as she continued to cut.
‘Okay, reality check,’ he thought, ‘I’m a ghost. I can haunt her. I can haunt her into the grave. Then, when she’s dead, I can torment her ghost.’
He looked down with new purpose, but she and his body were indistinct and far away. It was his last thought as his ghostly essence dissipated through the ventilation ducts.