Echoes of a Hidden Life

My name is Stephen. I was born into a high-profile family, and everyone assumed I had everything I could ever want: wealthy parents, accomplished siblings, and me, an ace at music. Honestly, they weren’t wrong. My parents were rich; my brother Jonathan was a renowned neurologist; my sister Claire consistently topped her class. They made Mom and Dad beam with pride—but that was only half the story. There was a darker side they kept hidden… and heaven help anyone who ever discovered it.

I still remember my fifth birthday. Claire and I were helping Mom decorate the room when Dad stormed in, hand in hand with another woman. Mom had told him we’d be at Grandma’s for the celebration, but when Grandpa fell ill, Grandma rushed him to the hospital—and Mom forgot to update Dad.

Confused, I watched as Jonathan hustled us upstairs while my parents tore into each other. Now I know the truth: that woman was Dad’s mistress, a secret he’d kept for years. No wonder I envied my friends’ families—they seemed genuinely happy, understood real love, and weren’t as fake as mine. Every day, I endured Mom and Dad’s bellowed arguments, loud enough to make me wonder how they hadn’t killed each other yet. “Women have to suck it up,” Mom used to say.

When I was ten, Mom slapped me for siding with her during one of their fights. Later, she apologized, telling me I had no right to interfere in adult matters.

Jonathan was the only one who truly cared for Claire and me. Claire, a year younger, was the family’s golden child, adored by everyone. Jonathan—fifteen years my senior, born of Mom and Dad’s teenage fling—was the perfect role model: brilliant, cool, successful.

And me? Academics weren’t my thing. But music was everything. I saved my first paycheck to buy a guitar. Andy, my best mate, supported my musical dreams and helped me write our own songs. I remember his ridiculously wide grin when his crush finally followed him on Instagram—despite the fact he’d sent the request first. His laugh always annoyed me… but now, watching him weep uncontrollably at my unmarked grave for three days straight, I miss it. I never thought I’d miss his laughter, but here I am, choking back tears. “Andy,” I whispered, “it’s been three days—stop crying over my tombstone.” A bony, grouchy figure in a tattered cloak—calling himself the “Grime Reaper”—snorted, “He can’t hear you, kid. And if he could, you’d just scare him.”

Three days… because I died three days ago. The memory is blurry. One moment, I was waiting at the curb; the next, a truck barreled past and I saw my own lifeless, bloodied body. People gathered around, but none could see me. Claire trembled and sobbed; I tried to comfort her, but it was useless.

Then that grouchy geezer reappeared, grumbled “Time to go,” and swung a massive axe at me. Nothing happened. I saw frustration in his eyes. All I could think was: Who the hell is this guy, and why is he trying to butcher me? He shrugged. “You’re dead. Now, what’s your last wish?” No sympathy, no explanations—just blunt truth. I stammered, “I want to travel the world,” and he merely rolled his eyes. Ever since, I’ve been stuck with him, trailing along as he guides lost souls to their chosen afterlife—heaven or hell, wherever their deeds demand. My memories return in flashes, enough to remind me who I am and what it was like to be alive.

The Reaper kicked me in the shin. “Enough gawking at your friend, kid. We’ve got another soul to collect. After that, I’m taking a nap.” Ah, did I mention? This grouchy old bastard is lazier than a sloth—if that’s even possible

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