เรื่องสั้นและนิยายในฉาก Male POV After Death

It had been six months since I died in a car accident, but my wife, Susan Young, still thought I was throwing a tantrum and waiting for me to come home and apologize. Then one day, she suddenly couldn’t find a watch. Her childhood friend, Julian Lane, gave it to her. When it broke, she asked me to take it to a watch repair shop. She called and said angrily, “Quentin, are you finished making a scene? If you don’t want to be with me anymore, we can get divorced. What are you trying to prove? “Where did you put the watch I asked you to get repaired? “Did you hide it from me? After all these years, you still haven’t stopped being jealous of Julian!” Then my sister’s voice came through the phone. “Congratulations, Susan. Quentin is dead. He’ll never be jealous of Julian again.”

Everyone in the family can see the countdown above Eli Nash, my brother, so we all know he dies the day he turns 16 years old. Thus, Eli becomes the most pampered person in the family. He gets all the good food, the latest limited-edition sneakers, and even the bedtime stories from Mom and Dad. I feel very bad for him, yet I am jealous of all the love he receives. I finally make it to the eve of his 16th birthday. But Mom and Dad fear that I will cause trouble, so they lock me in a storage room while I am suffering from a high fever. I panic as I bang on the door. "Please let me out, Mom! I'm running a fever, and my head hurts so badly!" Mom snaps through gritted teeth, "That's enough, Ash! Eli is going to die tomorrow! Why can't you just put up with it?" "I feel really sick, though…" I start losing consciousness as the sounds outside the door die down.

I have pica. I have had a compulsion to eat hair for as long as I can remember. Whenever I feel strands of hair tugging inside my stomach, I feel strangely calm. I look at my thin wrists and the sharp outline of my ribs, and I feel proud. Sometimes Mom cries and asks why I became like this. Seeing her hurt because of me fills me with satisfaction. Dad runs himself ragged trying to get me appointments with specialists, his hair turning completely gray from the strain. And somehow, that makes me feel happy too. My therapist asks whether there is some knot inside me I can't untie. I shake my head and say that my parents have always favored and spoiled me. How could there be a knot? It isn't until Mom completely breaks down in the consultation room that the truth begins to surface. She drops to her knees in front of me, presses her forehead to the floor, and sobs. "Please forgive us. Please stop doing this to yourself, okay?"

Seven years ago, I ignored my girlfriend's heart-wrenching pleas and ruthlessly severed our relationship. Now, after seven long years, she had risen to the top—and she was back, ready for her wedding. She didn't come home for mere celebration, though. She came for revenge. She obliterated the company my father had spent his entire life building and did not stop until she shattered his leg, forcing him to endure unimaginable pain. It was all so I'd be forced to go to her wedding and beg for forgiveness. But that wasn't enough. She wanted more. She hissed, brandishing a blade, "If Matthew's not here in ten minutes, I'll slice off a finger for every minute he's late." My autistic brother's fingers, the only way he could create art, became a bargaining chip in her sadistic game. Dad's anguished cries filled the air as he pleaded for mercy, but she was not done. She wanted to tear my family apart piece by piece. My mom, fragile and trapped in the haze of Alzheimer's, was next. Her mind, already slipping, crumbled under the relentless torment. She cracked, completely lost to the madness. With tears streaming down his face, Dad said, "My son died the day you left for abroad."

Ever since I was little, my dad taught me that no matter what happened, I should put my studies and exams as my top priority. When I was eight, I accidentally broke my leg during gym class, but my dad insisted that I finish that day’s class before taking me to get it treated. When the doctor said I was brought in too late and would have to be hospitalized, my dad looked troubled. “Third grade is a crucial transition period in elementary school. My child absolutely cannot waste any time right now!” So, I went to school in a wheelchair during the day and returned to my hospital room at night to finish my homework. When I was discharged, I was left with a lasting condition. Ever since then, I walked with a slight limp. When I was eleven, I ran a high fever of 102 degrees and started babbling incoherently. But my dad took forever to arrive. The teacher was so anxious that she took me to the hospital first, only to be berated by my dad when he finally showed up. “The transition from elementary to middle school is a critical moment for a child’s future. If my son, Teleus Costa, misses these three classes, just think how far behind the other kids he’ll fall!” Even though I had not fully recovered, my dad sent me back to school the very next day. From then on, I suffered from severe myocarditis. At seventeen, I developed a serious heart condition that put me at risk of sudden death at any moment. But my dad insisted I wait until after the SATs to seek treatment. “The SATs are the pivotal moment that determines your future. Missing even one class at such a time is tantamount to suicide!” One night during evening study hall, my heart seized up again, and I stumbled down the stairs. Lying in a pool of blood, I mustered my last ounce of strength to press the emergency contact button on my smartwatch to call for help. But on the other end, I heard my father’s voice. “There’s still one more session of evening study hall left. Can’t you just hang in there until it’s over?” ‘Dad, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I could make it,’ I thought.

She cupped my face in her hands and said, slow and deliberate, "We're going to make a promise. Starting tomorrow, you'll draw one sun a day in your notebook. No skipping, no cheating—you have to fill it with thirty thousand suns. Only when you've drawn the last one can you come find me."

As I was rummaging through the trash for leftovers, my wife, who had died three years ago, suddenly showed up. She stepped out of the Voyce and looked down at me from above. “Honey, you really did pass my test.” I was holding some moldy stale bread. I stared at her in bewilderment. It turned out that three years ago, at a class reunion, the school heartthrob she had once dated had suggested it. “I wanted to see if your love is real.”

My brother and I get into a car accident. My heart is ruptured—I need emergency surgery. But my mother, the hospital director, calls every available doctor… to my brother's room. He only has a few scrapes, yet she orders a full-body scan for him while I lie there bleeding out. I beg her to help me, but she snaps, visibly annoyed, "Can't you stop fighting for attention for once? Your brother almost injured a bone!" In the end, I die on the operating table. But after the news of my death breaks, my mother, who has always hated me, completely loses her mind.

The impoverished student I had sponsored, Jacob Murphy, had accumulated a massive gambling debt. When the debt collectors had kicked the door open, my childhood sweetheart, Renee Austin, had shoved me forward instead. Her voice was cold and distant. “He’s Jacob Murphy. Take him away.” In the darkness of an underground casino, they tore out my fingernails, then smashed my ribs one by one with an iron rod. When the searing pain arrived, I groveled on the floor like a dog. I was weeping and screaming, without a shred of dignity. Then, they “mercifully” gave me one chance to call for help. Clinging to the last sliver of hope, I called Renee. Her voice on the other end sounded very cruel. “If you hadn’t set him up, how would Jacob have ended up buried in gambling debt? Even if you die at their hands, you deserve it.” The dial tone after she hung up became the last sound in my world. Later, I really did die, just as she had said. However, there was not the slightest trace of a smile on Renee’s face. It was as if she had gone mad. Her eyes were bloodshot as she searched every underground gambling den in the city. ‘Renee, why were you crying for me?’ I wondered.

My dad is a fan of tough love parenting. When I was a kid, there was a time when I obtained full marks on two subjects. But he told me, "Your grades don't mean anything in life. If you were a true man, you'd leap down five floors without batting an eyelash." Some time later, I was awarded for my act of bravery. But Dad scoffed in my face. "Not even a hair is harmed on your head. Why should you be awarded anyway?" I thought Dad wanted me to go through more training in life. On Christmas Eve, he ditched me on a snowy mountain under the guise of wanting me to go through more training. He didn't give me a tent or a lighter. Later on, Dad even brags about his parenting method to his relatives and friends. "A real man should survive and thrive in a desperate situation! I told Julian that he can forget about being my son if he can't even make his way back to the summit!" But the red dot on the GPS tracker installed in his phone hasn't moved for the past three hours. The truth is, I've already frozen to death in the mountains. Trapped in my fist is a crumpled, torn scrap of paper. Meanwhile, my soul is currently floating above the dining table while watching Dad brag about his tough love parenting.

Five years after I died, Delia—my wife, a doctor—tried to dump her first love's new mess on me again. She stormed into my old place, waving some fake agreement with my name on it, but all she found was dust. Panicking, she ran downstairs and cornered the shop owner. "William?" he said. "He's been dead five years. Heard the family of that malpractice case found him. Stabbed him up bad." Delia laughed it off, like the guy was making it up. "So what if he got suspended? He's still sulking over that?" She rolled her eyes. "Tell him this—he's got three days. If he doesn't show, I'm cutting off his sister's cancer treatment." She muttered something ugly, slammed the door, and left. The shop owner just watched her go, shaking his head. "There's no sister left," he said quietly. "She died years ago... couldn't pay for treatment."

To support my wife, Natalie Strickland, in her work, I stayed behind in our first-floor apartment during the hurricane, caring for our son, Tyler, as he burned with a high fever. But as the director of the neighborhood committee, Natalie gave our family's last remaining life buoy to her childhood friend, Hayden Walker, on the tenth floor. When I confronted her about how unfair it was, she snapped at me over the phone. "Emerson, you're my husband. You should put the bigger picture first. Our family has to set an example. "Hayden's situation is different. He's raising his daughter alone, and she has asthma. Both professionally and personally, they have to be our priority." Once again, I let her convince me with her talk about the greater good. Then the floodwaters swallowed the first floor. Holding my barely breathing son in my arms, I frantically called the emergency command center. The dispatcher apologized before delivering the news, "Sir, Director Strickland listed Mr. Hayden Walker and his daughter in the first evacuation group. You and your son were assigned to the final group." I looked down at my son as the last traces of breath faded from his tiny body. My heart filled with despair. "System, I accept your offer to leave this world with my son." 'Natalie, Tyler and I will never need you to save us again.'

After I fail in my mission, I am about to be erased by the system and will disappear from this world completely. In the final 24 hours before I am erased, I agree to donate a kidney to my younger brother, Zachary Durham. My wife, Judith Sanford, hugs me excitedly and says she will not divorce me anymore. When Zachary plagiarizes my design, I take the blame and admit that I am the one who copied it. My parents nod in satisfaction, saying I have finally become sensible. Finally, I become the good husband and son they always wanted. But when they see my lifeless body sometime later, they all lose their minds.

After the real son, Asher Vale, was brought back, everything in our house became tied to drawing lots. The chef of the day, who would have to cook a particular person's preferred dishes, had to be decided by drawing lots. Even our parents' kisses and hugs were chosen the same way. I always drew the short stick. The long stick, by default, belonged to Asher. He never had to do anything to receive our parents' love. Whenever I felt it was unfair and wanted to cry, Mom would scold me sharply, "I bought the lot-drawing box because I was afraid you'd feel hurt. I wanted to be fair to both of you. If you want something, decide it yourselves. Your father and I won't interfere. If you can't draw the long stick, you can only blame your bad luck." So I began practicing every day, shaking the box diligently, over and over, in hopes that one day, it would help me earn my parents' love. Unfortunately, for ten years, I never once drew the long stick. Until my birthday. Asher wanted to go to the amusement park, and Mom once again told us to decide by drawing lots. I secretly glued the two short sticks together and handed them to Mom, hoping to keep her with me. She slapped me hard across the face, screaming that I was cheating and disobedient. Then she stormed out of the house with Asher. When I fell to the ground, the short stick stabbed deep into my neck. 'I'm sorry, Mom. Next time, I'll work harder. Next time, I'll definitely draw the long stick.'

The day Ken Bowen and I finalized the divorce, I walked out wearing only the outfit I had worn on our wedding day. I let Ken keep the house, the cars, the money, and the kids. He looked genuinely surprised, then let out a mocking laugh. "Are you sure about this? You raised the girls yourself, and you're just giving them up? If you really don't want anything, then you won't need to pay child support either. That's fair, right?" I signed the papers without hesitation and said calmly, "Yeah. That's fair." Ken paused, then slowly signed his name. "If you regret this later, you…" I lifted a hand and cut him off. I didn't look back as I walked out. Ken used to say I married him for money and status, that I used our three daughters to tie him down. Whatever. The day he saw my dead body, he would finally understand.

Three years after I died, Stella, my wife, decided to divorce me and marry her dying ex. She stormed into my old house like she owned the place, forcing me to sign the divorce agreement. Mom told her the truth—I was already gone. Stella rolled her eyes. "Why's he still pretending? Harvey's dying. I just wanna be there for him. What's so wrong about that? If he won't come out, I'm done paying your medical bills." She thought threatening Mom would shake something loose. But what Stella didn't get? Mom had already stopped treatment. She was just hanging on to watch her crack.

A tsunami was coming. My wife was the captain of her ship, and she gave her true love the only chance at escaping, all to protect him. I begged her to save me first, or else I would die in this disaster. She told me impatiently, “Drop the act. Everyone knows you’re a first-rank seafarer. We’d be better off if selfish souls like you really do die!” She had forgotten one thing. I could no longer go into the sea. Not after I developed thalassophobia from saving her.

After being forced to give my wife's first love my heart, I died in the hallway of the private hospital she had personally founded. My six-year-old son, Ash, had already begged her thrice by the time I had drawn my last breath. The first time was when he tugged on her hand, saying I was coughing up blood. Sneering, she claimed, "So he's finally learned something—teaching his kid how to lie." Then, she had the bodyguards throw him out of the room. The second time was when he clung to her sleeve, insisting that I rambled nonsense due to the pain. "It's just a heart transplant," she opined with a frown. "The doctor already said he won't die." At that, the bodyguards stepped in again and dragged him away. The third time was when he fell to the ground, clutching her pant leg with all his strength, crying that I had already passed out. She finally lost her temper by this point, grabbing Ash by the throat and hurling him out of the room. "I have already said it—Howard isn't going to die. Dare to disturb Skye's rest again, and I'll throw both of you out of this hospital," she warned. To save me, my son pawned the most precious thing he owned—his St. Christopher medal—to a nurse. "Ma'am," he said. "I don't need to live a long life. I just want my dad to live." She accepted the medal and was about to arrange for me to be transferred to the last available room. However, my wife's first love, Skye Whitley, had someone block the doorway with his pet dog. He mentioned, "Sorry, kid. Your mom's worried I'll get bored if I can't see my dog. This room is reserved for him."

My fiancée is a forensic doctor, and I'm a detective in the major crimes unit. I love her more than life itself, but she only cares about her first love. To help him wash his hands of a murder, she helps him deal with a corpse. What she doesn't know is that it's my corpse. When she learns the truth, she breaks down…

The day my attending physician gave me the critical illness notice, my wife Jane Hesler secretly mortgaged the house to the bank without telling me. The money she borrowed was not for my medical treatment, but was transferred to her first love, Anthony Shane — all because he said he needed funds for his business. I called her. "The house is for our daughter. You can't touch it." Her voice on the other end of the line was full of anger. "If you'd been able to come up with the money, would I have had to mortgage the house? Anthony's business needs funding; what's wrong with me contributing some money as a partner? Let me tell you something. I can live a thriving life without you." After hanging up, the doctor asked me with a grave expression, "Are you sure you don't want further treatment?” I nodded, putting on a bitter smile. "Yes."