CHAPTER ONE

I used to be one of those weirdos who liked funerals; you believe that? People always wear their best shoes to funerals. Not weddings. They’ll scope their closet, they’ll think about the bride or the groom, and they’ll go, “yeah, I can wear these, I don’t need to go to the mall”, and they think nothing of wearing last season’s pumps.

But if it’s a funeral, they’ll think, “aw, jeez, I was so mean to Aunt Ginny that time and now she’s dead”, and out come the new Guccis.

Me, I was so lucky. So lucky. I was so lucky I didn’t know how lucky I was; I’d think, “jeez, Aunt Ginny was such a jerk to Cousin Brian, I wonder what he’s gonna wear to her funeral?”. I never had to go to the funeral of anybody I really really loved. Well, except for my dad’s. But I spent most of that funeral in a state of high piss-off, so my focus was elsewhere. (It turned out an evil librarian was out to get me, and not—for a change—owed from all the overdue charges from late returns. And there was a cursed engagement ring involved. Nightmare. The whole thing. Just awful.)

My focus was often elsewhere and, too often, my focus was often in the exact place it should not be. Case in point: my dead friend Marc. (Also: the future, but I can’t think about that right now. One soul-shriveling crisis at a time, please.)

Once, a long time ago (in my head, I mean...in real life, it hasn’t even been five years), I talked a man out of committing suicide. Two weeks ago, he killed himself. I’m ashamed because I didn’t see it coming. How’s that for the Lex Luthor level of lame? Who doesn’t see someone they know to have suicidal tendencies committing suicide? He practically wrote it on his forehead in red Sharpie.

I wasn’t at his funeral, by the way. Nobody was. He’d strictly forbidden one in a number of letters he’d left for me; he also left his diary. Words, words, they were all over the place. He was nagging me more in death than he had in life, which was a pretty good trick given that, nag-wise, he trailed only behind my friend Jessica. Okay, and maybe my mom.

I couldn’t stand to read too much of his stuff at a time. I’d cry, and then look ugly, and cry harder, and make my husband sad, and then we’d sad-fuck. Which is great, but sad. (Thus the name.)

Still.

The stuff I’ve read. It’s like he knew he was going to die within a few years of meeting me. But he doesn’t say how he knew. It’s all over his diary, it’s all over his suicide letters. Who writers suicide letters? He wrote me a suicide manuscript, the heartless bastard...he knows if it’s not Gone with the Wind or Pat Conroy I’ve got zero interest. He knew he was doomed, he had a plan, but what he never said was why.

I found that kind of curious.

I never find anything curious. So I figure it’s a time-travel issue, or a me issue. Now, I’m not pulling a Mary Sue thing here, but I am the Vampire Queen. One of my best friends killed himself so that Evil Me From The Future (EMFEF, pronounced “emfef”) wouldn’t turn him into a horrid nasty Marc Thing.

So, yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s not all about me, but it’s definitely a lot about me.

So. Time to get to work.

Don’t get too comfy being dead, Marc.

I’m coming.