Officially I have been dead for thirty six days, not that anyone other than me has noticed. My apartment remains as quiet as my remain, save for the occasional piece of junk mail hitting the pile that was already embarrassingly sizeable before my death.
Work won't call for another few hours - dying right at the start of a vacation you'd been anticipating for years certainly puts a much greater damper on the whole death business than keeling over in the office would. Though I suppose that lingering in the office for the rest of my afterlife might have been worse than watching flies crawl in and out of my mouth in the comfort of my own home.
I'd likely have been buried by now if I'd died at work. Hopefully by the sea but I never really got round to making a funeral plan or a last will and testament. Part of me thought I'd have more time to get these things sorted but death doesn't care for the plans of the living.
It's a right bastard like that.
Still, in a few hours work will start to call, then text, then email and maybe they'll send someone over to check on me. Maybe that someone will smell my decay and break the door down. Maybe they'll assume I never came back and fire me instead.
Maybe someone will come looking for me.
Maybe.
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