dead.

My gaze, one as subtle and temperate as the night sky, fixes on the body lying lifeless beneath my shadow. I feel as though a part of me has been taken, though I do not know why. This person, young, rough looking and somewhat familiar, is face forward against the pavement-lips touching the hard-hearted floor.
The weather is unsympathetic. It begins to rain regardless of the distraught and haze. As clouds form chaotically above the heads of the local inhabitants, the calls of sirens moan miserably in the distance. An indication that people must scatter the ‘crime’ scene. I, however, decide to stay, and contemplate the theory of life.
We-being humans-are only shells to carry the burden of a soul. Once we die (either naturally or artificially) our soul moves on and occupies another. And then the cycle starts again; birth to death.
My queries distribute to the back of my mind as I realise the police circling around the figure on the floor. They slyly whisper sequences of numbers to each other-codes of some sort-though they do not realise my presence behind them. I cough slightly to illustrate my appearance to them…no heads turn…not even a twitch. So I take a few paces closer towards them-still nothing. It may be the case that they are too busy to deal with the nuisance of myself, but I feel as if that is not circumstance. I lower my head and crouch down to my knees in order to observe the strange rituals being performed on the body.
It seems as though they called a doctor to investigate the frame sprawled out on the floor. From his inner pocket, he pulls out a test tube and a sterilized swab and begins to take wipes from the wounds embedded into the body. Within seconds, the swab is saturated in the victim’s stale blood, emitting the odour of a thousand rotting corpses. He then stands up and walks away, casually, as though nothing had happened. But an unsure gleam in his eye unsettles me. His face may be picture perfect, but his heart has stopped. The ticking that to many of us is unrecognisable, no longer lingers in the air. But instead has been replaced with the murmur of silence. Nobody else notices it…but I do. And it won’t go away. I’ve been chained to it all along. But the ticking of hearts veiled over the screeching of the shackles dragging on the ground. I am stuck between what is life, and what is just a game. At the moment, I am I full play-and it can go one of two ways. You win and find freedom. You lose and find death. There is no option.
I ponder over this for a few seconds, realising what I have uncovered. But I must shove it to the back of my head and lock it away, down in the black pit from where there is no escaping.
With the thoughts in my mind scrambled like an old T.V, I decide to return home to my wife-where I know that she would be waiting for me- child in arm. The walk back wasn’t far, but it was risky. Especially now that the once humble little village I used to live in was stereotyped as a place of carnage. 
As I begin to walk back, I notice something strange. I am a very, oh how do you say it,- I was always trusted and depended on. But it seems as though people are avoiding me, as though I have done something wrong; as though I am the killer. Nobody even lays a single eye on me…as if I’m not even there, just a gust of wind, dying down as the sun intrudes through the canvas of white. But I can’t let that creep under my skin and bury itself there.
I’m home now though, safe from the outside world. Well, at the door of my house. I knock once and wait. Nothing. I knock again, hoping for some sign of life. Still nothing. I call out to my wife, to let her know that it is me-her husband-but still…not even a sound penetrates through the door. I stand alone, in the cold, hoping that one soul will spare me even just a look, all I want is someone to look at me. And then it clicks.
I run back sceptically, hoping my hypothesis is untrue. For if it is, then I am done for; my family is done for. And when I arrive, well, there’s only so much one can say. The police had dispersed around the area, after turning the body around and placing a white sheet over it. To confirm my prediction, I slowly make my way over to the corpse on the rock-strewn surface. Bend down towards its masked face, and take a grip of the sheet. I gradually lift it off, viewing a nightmare ghosts cannot even visualise. But I did, for I was one. That was me, lying there on the floor. Dead.