I sit across from the corpse of my dead classmate and watch him casually scroll through the internet. It’s like a bad Ariana Grande song, only we’re not wearing leather bunny ears and cracking whips in the air.

“So, like, how much can you feel?” I ask Eugene, the scientist part of me curious to know if this is real or just some kind of elaborate after-death reflex where he talks and glares at us.

“Does my intense hatred for you count?” Eugene replies.

He’s scrolling through his Facebook page using my phone, checking out all the posts about how sorry everyone is that he died.

“I can’t believe this shit. Jen Harrington wrote like five pages about how she blames herself for my death. She cheated on me in seventh grade. I barely even know the bitch.”

I snap my fingers to get his attention.

“Psst! Earth to Eugene. We need to figure this crap out!”

Eugene finally looks up at me.

If looks could kill, right?

“Figure out what?” he demands. “You brought me back. You figure it out yourself.”

The front door opens, and Iggy comes in carrying bags of food.

“It took me half an hour to drive all the way to McDonald’s and back. You assholes better be happy that I brought you anything at all and didn’t just take off.”

He throws the food onto the table, and I snatch one of the bags, tearing it open like a wild hyena.

“Pass me one of those McDoubles,” Eugene says, finally setting my phone down.

Iggy and I trade a nervous look.

Eugene was dead and had risen from the grave.

Or… actually, I had pulled him out.

There was no way he could possibly be hungry.

“What?” Eugene looks up at us. Then he sees the expressions on our faces. “Why are you two dodos looking at me like that?”

“Eugene,” I say first, trying to sound levelheaded about all of this. “You can’t eat because you’re dead. They injected you with, like, ten gallons of embalming fluid and put your organs into tiny sandwich bags. You shouldn’t even be feeling hungry right now.”

Eugene stands up abruptly, knocking his chair backward.

“Give me that!” he snarls.

He rips one of the bags off the table.

“You murder me, kidnap me from my own funeral, and then expect me to sit by while you two eat greasy shit-burgers in front of me? Fuck you, Brown!”

Iggy and I stare in horror as Eugene unwraps one of the little yellow burgers and proceeds to cram the whole thing into his mouth, along with a dozen fries.

It’s like watching that kid eat an entire chocolate cake in Matilda.

We can’t stop him.

He’s crazy.

Eugene eats like he’s been housed in the Marshalsea and fed nothing but bread and water. But after a moment, he stops.

Just like that.

His mouth is still packed with food, but he makes a retching noise like he’s going to be sick.

Oh God.

Oh God.

“He’s going to blow!” Iggy shouts.

He runs for cover.

I realize something then.

This isn’t a story about love or finding life after death.

This is the story of how the undead love of my life McChucks all over me and kicks off several long years of intense therapy sessions.

Eugene goes full exorcist on me, and all the food he’s just eaten sloshes all over my black shirt, jeans, and Converse.

It’s not very colorful because it’s McDonald’s food, but it smells terrible.

And it’s hot.

When it’s over, Eugene leans against the table and groans, holding his stomach.

“Ugh…”

I stand there covered in his puke, trying not to move as warm fluid seeps through my shirt.

“I-I think I need to go shower…” I mumble.

I start for the stairs, my shoes squelching with every step.

“Darcy!” he calls after me. “I’m sorry, bro.”

The thing is, I’m sorry, too.

I wonder if I did the right thing by bringing him back to life, or if this is going to be the worst decision I’ve ever made.

By the time I make it upstairs, I can smell myself.

That’s probably the worst part.

It isn't just that Eugene threw up on me. It's that the smell has somehow fused with my clothes, my hair, and possibly my soul. I slam the bathroom door behind me and stand there for a second, staring at myself in the mirror.

My black sweater is covered in partially digested McDonald’s.

My jeans are soaked.

There is a French fry stuck to my shoulder.

I peel it off.

“Fuck my life.”

I turn on the shower and start stripping out of my clothes.

Downstairs, I hear Iggy yelling. “YOU'RE CLEANING THAT UP!”

“I'M DEAD!”

“That doesn't mean you're exempt from chores!”

“I JUST VOMITED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY AFTERLIFE!”

“You've been alive for twenty minutes!”

“THAT'S STILL MY FIRST TIME!”

I close my eyes.

I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

Maybe both.

I step into the shower and let the hot water pound against my face.

For a few seconds, everything is quiet.

Then I hear footsteps on the stairs.

Slow footsteps.

Heavy ones.

“Darcy?”

It's Eugene.

I grab the shampoo and squirt some into my palm. It's Head and Shoulders, a delightful product that leaves my hair extremely shiny and absoultely gorgeous. “What do you want, Eugene? Can't you see I've been traumatized beyond belief right now?”

“I'm sorry.”

“You said that already.” I point out, and roll my eyes a little. 

“I know.”

“Then why are you saying it again?”

“Because I feel bad.”

I squeeze shampoo into my hand. “Congratulations. You have a conscience.”

There is a long pause.

“Can I come in?” He questions, sounding hesitant. 

I stare at the shower curtain. “No.”

“Okay.”

Another pause.

“Do you want to know something weird?”

I sigh.

“Everything about you is weird right now.”

“I can't feel my heartbeat.”

The shampoo bottle nearly slips from my hand.

I turn off the water.

For a moment, I just stand there.

“What?”

“I can't feel it.” His voice is quieter now.

I pull the shower curtain open just enough to look at the bathroom door.

Eugene is standing on the other side.

He's still wearing the clothes they buried him in. His hair is messy. His face is pale. There's a little smear of dried lipstick near his cheek where somebody must have kissed him before the funeral. An elderly aunt or a grandma or something saying their last goodbye. 

He looks almost normal.

That's the problem.

He looks almost completely normal.

“What do you mean you can't feel your heartbeat?”

“I mean exactly that.”

He presses two fingers against his neck.

“Nothing.”

He moves them to his wrist.

“Nothing.”

Then he puts his palm against his chest.

Nothing.

I swallow. “Maybe you're just…”

“Dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Great theory, Sherlock.”

“I'm serious.”

“So am I.” He looks down at his hand.

“I can feel everything else.” He flexes his fingers. “I can feel the floor. I can feel the cold air. I could feel that burger going down and then back up.” He grimaces. “I wish I couldn't feel that.”

Despite myself, I snort, and he looks up at me.

“I'm glad you think my suffering is funny.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Dude. No you're not.”

“No. I'm really not," I reply, and shrug a little. "I usually never am."

For the first time since he came back, Eugene smiles. And somehow, that scares me more than anything else. Because dead people aren't supposed to smile. Dead people aren't supposed to complain about McDonald's. And people definitely aren't supposed to stand outside your shower and make you laugh.

I look away. “Eugene?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember dying?”

The smile disappears. His fingers slowly fall away from his chest. “I…”

He stops.

“I remember arguing with you about that stupid ass frog.”

My stomach twists. “And then what, Eugene?"

He looks at me. “I remember falling.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I remember the floor in the science lab.”

“I remember hearing someone scream.”

He closes his eyes. “And then…” He goes quiet, swallows again, and shakes his head once. 

“And then what?" I press. Had I done it? Had I really found a link between death and potentially ressurecting the dead? Had I somehow managed to bridge the gap before a soul was pulled into the afterlife? Or had it been some kind of bizzare conincidence? 

Eugene opens his eyes and stares right through my soul. “I heard you.”

My heart drops. "Excuse me?"

“You were calling my name.”

I stare at him.

“Well, that doesn't make bloody sense," I say. 

“I know.”

“You weren't even alive.”

“Neither am I now," he points out, scoffing a little at me.

“Eugene.”

“I heard you.” He steps into the bathroom, comes to stand on the other side of the shower curtain where his massive size looms over my dimunative body. “You kept saying my name.”

I grip the shower curtain tighter, until my knuckles turn white and gaze up at him, feeling the beginnings of an erection stir down below. “What did I say, Eugene Wilder?”

His expression changes, confusion furrowing his annoyingly attractive brow.  “You said…” He pauses and swallows hard. “You said, '“If death wants you, let it come through me.”'