My name is Frank.

I'm pretty sure I died.

Like, a hundred percent sure. I felt the bullet go through my heart. I felt the cold. I tasted blood, smelled the copper of it. My pulse stopped, because you can't pump something with a ruined mechanism, right?

|That's usually the case.|

A skeleton perches beside me on some ledge I can't really identify. That's when I notice I can't really see all that well - everything is dark, outlined in deep blue, the world now monochrome in twilight sky. |I mean, that's usually the case with humans. If you shoot them, they die. End of story. No more thought. No more breath.|

I look down at my not-hands, flimsy light blue, transparent. I notice the shining scythe the skeleton holds as he stands, a robe - no, a suit - flickering into being. |But - you're different.|

"...What?" the word comes out strange, distorted, more of an expression of pure confusion, a statement without words. "How?" I know what I want to say, but I don't say 'how', I profess a statement, desiring clarity.

|Depends on how you wanna see it, kid. What we're doin' now, we're waiting for your soul to sorta... reform. Heal.|

>I don't understand. What do you mean?
>How was my soul hurt?
>I just want to go home.
>Wait... I'm not really dead?
>If I'm not really dead, why are you here?