Liver failure is never fun.

Why couldn't we just STOP? When I fell asleep, I could have sworn that was it, me, dead, forever. Finally, gloriously dead. But someone decided to give me another chance, no, I didn't wake up to a blinding hospital room beside the gentle beep of a heart-rate monitor, surrounded by worried doctors and nurses and my mother's face, streaked with grey tears and hosting swollen, baggy eyes. For that, I guess I'm grateful, for this, I'm almost sorry.

I should have known, overdosing results in liver failure, obviously I wasn't bothered about that when I did it, I didn't predict I would end up anywhere like this, in a situation anything like this. I thought death was the end, I didn't believe in heaven or hell or God or Satan, I didn't believe in reincarnation or that my heart would be weighed against the feather of truth. Now I'm not so sure, I'm dead, I know that.

Well, I was on a bus, or a coach, or some sorts of vehicle with multiple seating opportunities, the seats were small and cramped and my legs were almost squashed up to my chest. The backs of the seats in front of me and my fellow passenger had the kind of elastic netting for magazines and leaflets that you could find on most commercial modes of transport. They contained a laminated sheet on how to exit the coach during an emergency, (so this mystery machine was a coach after all) rather pathetically, these sheets had been tied to the netted holders, I was quite bewildered at why anybody would ever want to steal the plastic safety instructions given aboard one of these coaches. The string was ratty and frayed and the colour in the instructions had faded to degrading shades. The sheen of the sheet was dulled by coffee cup rings and sticky juice spills, I was immediately aware of the unhygienic edge the card gave and was compelled to let it drop, to where it swung by the seat again. I reached once again for the grey net; the last of the two contents was revealed to be a blue leaflet with a gravestone on the cover. Leaning on the gravestone was a stocky man with a Hollywood smile. The title read: "So you're dead" I threw it to the side with disgust. Partly for the sake of my sanity, I couldn't engage my brain in what it was having so much joy in creating; that would only encourage it. This couldn't be real, could it? And partly for the sake of my stomach, which was taking no pleasure in looking at the sickening colours of the glossy paper or being forced to read the letters while being critically conscious of the moving blur of road and forestry outside the window. Whilst having to deal with my deathly wishes, causing great discomfort. It couldn't take much more.

Actually, it couldn't take ANY more. I searched desperately for a toilet or window or bucket or something to throw up in, at last, I did find a window, by this time the sour taste of bile was evident, I broke free of the seat and pushed past the elderly woman beside me, rather rudely, but I had no time to stop and apologise. I barely made it to the window and I thought it sensible to stay near, for the next time my stomach became unsettled. I collapsed into the nearest seat I could find and sighed, feeling suddenly very weak and shaken. I didn't even realise I was wearing the same clothes as when I died. The same coat with all the stupid pockets filled with...painkillers! I searched around, shuffling through all the bottles, in the end; I did find some, I even popped two onto my hand but would it be wise to take them? After taking so many...I shook it off and nearly threw them out the window before the passenger beside me stopped me; "Wait! Are those painkillers?" He asked hurriedly.

"Uh, yeah, do you need them?" I held my hand out to him. "I probably shouldn't take anymore."

He accepted them with thanks. I was still feeling miserable. "How long do you think this journey will take? It's just; I'm really not feeling great." I croaked. I lay back, closed my eyes and tried to deal with the torturous ache. I ignored the convulsions in my body, and curled up meekly.

"I'm not sure, it looks like a while, I'm Nikolas." He said cheerily, I could tell he wasn't a grumbler, just my luck. Whatever anybody says, my glass is always half empty.

"Jonah."

"How'd you get here?" He beamed; he would be hard to shake off. I hate annoyingly happy people.

"Overdose." I replied bluntly, any other time I would have been sarcastic, insulting, revelled in the cruelty of my words. But in my fatigued state I bit down on my tongue and huddled closer to the coolness of the window, to the dusty air blown up from behind the tyres. It clung to my clammy face.

"Oh." He quietened for a moment but started right back up again. "My end was a little gorier than that." I could tell he was smiling. "Look." He nudged me. I took my cheek off the glass and faced him. Or rather I faced the huge, gaping hole in his chest. A scarlet explosion of muscle, bone and festering flesh. The smell hit me instantaneously. I rushed back to the window and forced up yet more bile through my throat.

"Fuck! Man, put it away," I shooed his wound back into his shirt. "Jesus Christ, how the hell did that happen?"

He thought about it for a minute. "I can't remember." He suddenly went very quiet.

I must have upset him because he stayed quiet for the rest of the journey, of which I could remember anyway. I tried to go to sleep but somehow, something just felt empty, like something was missing. It took a while to figure out what it was, either that or I just felt embarrassed to think it. I missed George.

George was my scrappy rabbit made of rags. I think my older sister made it for me when I was small. He was small and scruffy and I used to take him everywhere, like most children. Obviously, when I started school and found out it was babyish if you were a boy to have soft toys I stopped taking him places. I kept him on my bed, and he resided there ever more. Sometimes I would sleep with him if I felt upset, or just hold his soft, mismatched ears to my face as a comforter. Yes, I missed George very much indeed. The thought of him, sitting very lost and alone on the ocean of my bed was truthfully heart breaking. I felt I would have shed a tear, but my eyes were tired and aching. And so instead, I fell into a vacant sleep, my mind still full of George's silent cries, waiting sole on the bed.

A/N: True Talker – I completely get that the first chapter was questionably a rather odd dream. And in honesty, it didn't start out like that. But this chapter, this was in the dream. And hopefully, the others to come will continue its legacy. But thank you for reviewing, you lovely person, and I'll update again soon! Have a nice day!