When Three Becomes Two

Tre’s PoV

After an inner debate with myself all night long back and forth, I still had no idea what I was going to do. I wasn’t willing to put my friends at more risk than they were already, nor did I want to deal with the pain I had gone through before dying. But coming back to life might be what saves Billie and Mike, I had argued with myself. We could have Green Day again, and I could see my family…

I had stayed in Billie’s house that night. He woke up to the alarm clock right when the sun rose, dressed and left. I followed him in his car to the place where the funeral—my funeral—was going to be held. The whole way there, Billie was drawn and pale, gray eyes dull. It was more than likely Mike looked the same.

When we did arrive there, I was surprised by the location. I had seen the cemetery before—a few of my older family members had been buried there. It was a quiet and peaceful place hidden in the mountains. My friends and several other men took my coffin from the hearse and carried it to the table. I couldn’t resist looking at myself. They had neatened me up enormously since the hospital—all the blood was gone, my hair was neatened, and I was dressed in a suit.

A thrill of excitement rolled in my chest. I could do it now. I could come back, and talk to my friends, tell them at last everything that had happened to me…go back to life…

I mentally shook myself. If I’m going to do this, I should wait until everyone’s here. Yeah, that would be better…

Now filled with a mixture of anticipation and dread, I left to sit in the chairs to wait.

It wasn’t long before people started arriving. I knew many of them, from Gilman, from high school, from fellow punk bands. I fought the urge to run to every one of them and eagerly talk to them, filling them in on the years since we had last met. But I couldn’t. Although, if I was lucky, maybe I would get to after the funeral…

There were also droves of people I’d never seen in my life. Judging by the fact that many of them had dyed hair and tattoos, they were all fans. I was amazed that so many of them cared so much about me that they traveled hundreds of miles to see my funeral.

Eventually, a man clothed in purple and white approached the podium. There was the first viewing of the body, and then the eulogy. As odd as it sounds, I barely listened to the people who talked besides Billie, Mike and my family. I was too nervous and eager for the wake to care.

After what must have been nearly two hours of sitting and listening to so many people talk about me, it was time for the wake at long last. I followed the small line of people to the front. If I’d had a heart, I’m sure it would have been pounding loud as a bass drum.

I would wait until the last people—Billie and Mike—came up to view my body. Then I would try and get back in.

So much of this relied on chance. Could I fight off the wounds that had destroyed me? Could I face the pain there was bound to be?

Yes, I thought grimly. For my friends and family, I could.

It was time. Billie and Mike slowly walked together to the front, bent softly over the coffin. I felt heavy as stone, but I found the strength to walk forward, through my friends, and into the coffin. Carefully, I lined up my transparent arms and legs to my real ones. I concentrated on controlling a real body again…

Then I felt the agony again. The same horrible pain I had felt right before I had died. But this time there would be no reprieve. I had to fight, I had to! This was the only way. I wanted to scream. It felt as though a knife had scraped against my bones, stripping away the muscle, allowing the marrow to crack from its shell, and left me to writhe with the aftermath of it all.

But there was no time to dwell on it. I had to try and move. Otherwise there was no way I could tell Billie and Mike I was alive. If I didn’t, I would suffocate in my own coffin.

I gathered the pitiful remnants of my strength and focused on channeling all of it into one hand. Through the blazing fire of pain, I could feel a different cool hand on my burning wrist. All I had to do was move…

Yes! I finally made my finger twitch, ever so slightly. And now…

The icy hand that had lain on my own seconds earlier was pulled off mine. I could hear Billie and Mike’s voices, whispering quietly to each other. I barely caught the words.

“…you do…Mike?”

“I guess…did.”

There was vibration. I could feel it through the coffin.

NO! Billie, Mike, please! I’m alive! Please! I’m alive! Don’t you see? Don't you understand?

I could no longer summon any more energy—it had taken every bit of it I had left through the firewall of anguish to move my finger. I fought as hard as I could against the bonds of exhaustion and pain, but I couldn’t do it.

Despite giving all my strength even to sit up, even when the light shining through my closed eyelids disappeared, and even when I felt the coffin rise and move, I could not move.

Even though I was immobile, hot tears leaked from underneath my eyelids. I had lost. I couldn’t fight against my own body. I’d lost my battle against death. There was no hope. I’d never talk to Billie or Mike, nor my son and daughter ever again.

And worst of all, the penalty for losing this fight was to be buried alive.