That Time I Died In That Squeaky Fucking Bed

All those years and we never replaced it

We would fuck like rabbits in that bastard bed.

We never gave a fuck about the neighbours, and we never had kids to disturb. That was my fault. She was as fertile as a cornfield in spring, and I was as infertile as a bollock-free sheep in the winter.

Sure, the woman next door would scream something at us in Polish, but it never stopped us. Izzy was turned on by it. She told me she wanted the whole world to hear our fucking. That’s why we kept the bed.

Ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah.

Nice, slow, spacious, loving.

Then,

ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah.

Fast fucking, sweating, ball slapping —

Well, you get the point.

We never replaced the bed because Izzy had this habit of humanising things. She made me feel wrong about chucking the ends of carrots away, saying they weren't fulfilling their destiny. We just about had a fucking funeral when the Toyota Corolla was finished, mainly because cars have eyes. To her, the bed had a personality. She knew no one would ever use it again if we ditched it, so we kept it, and the bastard just got squeakier.

Then I got something. I don’t know what, but I knew it didn’t feel right.

It didn’t take long. Izzy sat in front of me, holding my hand. Every time I coughed, that bastard bed squeaked. The coughing got worse, and so did the squeaking.

At least the Polish woman next door stopped yelling. I guess she knew what was happening. When it was quiet, I could hear the clink as she put the glass on the wall.

My coughing fits got to the point where I would cough for a full minute without pause.

Ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah—ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah—ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah — ree — ah—ree—ah—

Eventually, my wife came in, holding up a can of WD-40 like some ritual sword and announcing that it was time.

NO, I said. Let the bastard squeak.

I told her every time I coughed, it reminded me of when we used to be energetic lovers. She burst out crying. I hated it when she cried cos it made my cough worse. Actually, the coughing was fine. I spent years as a bong-rat in my twenties, so I know how to cough. It’s different, though, when the blood starts coming out. It’s that thick black blood, like some exotic shrimp paste, the kind that smells like pure arsehole. It would stink the whole room out.

She stayed by my side for those last days, cleaning up my stinking black blood and holding my cold, sweating hands. There was less squeaking because I didn’t move much except when coughing.

She cried continuously after I passed, and I didn’t mind because I no longer had any lungs to cough with. Also, it comforted me. I hung around watching from above for a while. She slept in the bed each night, and each morning, she would masturbate furiously like a ritual.

Ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah-ree-ah.

At the end, she would cry for another ten minutes or so.

Six months went by in a flash.

It does that when you are a so-called ghost. And, I wasn’t a friendly ghost either like Casper that bastard. I was more like a perverted poltergeist, watching her in the shower and knocking over lamps every time she swiped right on Tinder.

Eventually, she went on a date and brought this young idiot back. A typical Tinder arsehole he was. She excused herself in the lounge and went into the bedroom. She pulled out the can of WD40 from the drawer next to the bed. Then she looked up at me as if she could see me. She blew me a kiss and lubricated the bed.

I knew it was the end. I could stay and haunt her like a jealous ghost, but why would I? Sure part of me wanted to watch her fuck that ripped young idiot but being a ghost, I had no cock to wank, so honestly, what’s the damn point?

Like I said, time passes quickly when yer a ghost and before you know it they are in bed and he is fucking her hard, and she is screaming, but the bed is damn quiet. And I am jealous as fuck. I want to be inside her, not this little prick who doesn’t care for her as I do. He doesn’t even care. He just wants to fuck, but maybe she does too. I don’t know. It’s our bed, for fuck’s sake.

I should have left when I had the chance, but it’s too late now. Im being sucked into her womb and that's how I know she isn't using any protection—that horny minx. Damn, I love that about her.

Great. I’ve taken form, and now this idiot is my father, but no doubt he will fuck off anyway to the next Tinder date. Maybe she won't even tell him about me. I hope not.

My lover is now my Mother. It’s not weird. That’s how life goes. And no one will know. It’s warm in this womb. I’m close to her. Nine months will go quickly then I’ll be able to suck on her tit again in the physical world.

Buddhahood can wait for another lifetime. She needs me again in this life.

I seriously hope my Dad fucks off, though.

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