Owen sat staring at the wall. Being dead, at first he had thought it was a miracle. A means of escaping the darkness. His light at the end of the tunnel but he had now realised it was a curse.
He couldn't eat. He couldn't drink. He couldn't have sex. Not to mention he had a gaping hole in the middle of his chest and the fact that everything felt wrong.
If cheating death was like this then maybe he didn't want to live but he was forced to. He had learnt that lesson from jumping into the ocean only to an hour later come back up still conscious of everything. And again when tried to smother himself to death. An attempt again failed by the fact he didn't need to breathe. Nor did he need to sleep.
Hanging himself again proved the same problem and only left him with a burn mark on his neck. He wore a carefully placed scarf on his neck until the mark died down. He didn't even know how there was a mark in the first place. His blood wasn't pumping through his veins. He shouldn't have had a mark but when he checked himself over with the scanning equipment, he was still dead.
Overdose, poison, excessive amounts of drugs, jumping out of a five story building amongst other failed attempts had left him as dead as he ever was.
It wasn't until a few years later that Owen got his wish. In the middle of a risky move on his part he had tried to diffuse a bomb. Red wire or yellow wire? One meant he lived his life as a walking dead man and the other meant he was blown to pieces. Most likely resulting in a proper death.
He glanced over his shoulder. He was alone. Jack had taken the others to safety despite a few protests against his attempts to stop the bomb going off in...
What if he could still feel something even if he was made into a mist of pink?
Which wire should he choose? Yellow? What about red?
Oh god! Oh god! Oh god! What the fuck do I do?
Owen closed his eyes and cut the wire whispering, "Goodbye."
When he opened his eyes he was staring at the neon flashing letters gleaming red. Almost taunting him him with the word 'BOMB ABORTED'.
"Dammit!" he muttered to himself. When was he ever going to die?