Snow was falling outside the windows. For once it was like the movies, where snow lies thickly over roads and the rowdy singing of the stricken drunken folk can be heard meekly as they ramble through streets peering into the frosted windows displaying steaming, golden roast birds and homely Christmas trees dancing in the light. And children's ears strain to hear the faint sounds of imaginary sleigh bells and the clomping of heavy snow boots upon their roofs. The television screens are filled with the fuzzy pictures of comforting black and white programmes and the shiny presents lie around the floor whispering softly. People howl at bad cracker jokes and take gulps of beer with tired mouths. Old CDs are scraped away from the backs of cupboards and played at full blast through crackly stereos whilst remembering feet tap accordingly. Candles glow dimly in dark rooms and frozen men staring from the garden return coaly smiles. Stars twinkle gently and the moon casts curious looks onto the sheets of ice covering the lakes and rivers.

I died that night. Imagine what the police felt like; getting a call at some early hour claiming there was a girl with a knife lodged in her skull, bleeding all over the main road. Must've killed the Christmas spirit, killed something at least. I went out to catch snowflakes on the rough of my tongue and then some drunken idiot carrying a knife charges at me and gives up on me when he can't even get the knife out of my head. I guess I must have died instantly after that because I don't remember anything other than being cold, freezing cold and bright spots in front of my eyes, blinding me.

Then I'm on a boat, sleeping on a bed drenched in blood. I get up, look at the mirror, see that there's a huge chunk out my head and it is sending viscous blood dripping down onto the floor, I think it should hurt but it doesn't. Actually, it's more annoying than painful; it just keeps flowing out of the wound and shows no signs of stopping. I know I'm dead, I don't know how; it just kind of sits there in my mind (what's left of it) that I have to be dead and that it's not all a dream. I should be sad, why am I not crying? Why do I not feel upset? But instead I feel…mundane, ordinary, indifferent. Maybe it's because I know there isn't much point in feeling sad; I'm dead and that won't change. People don't cry when they're born, (well, they do, but not because they feel sad) and dying is just like being born, kind of.

I search for rags around the room to clot the blood but there's nothing and I suddenly feel very alone, the room is empty with the exception of a single bed, a stout mirror and small chest of drawers. What if there's no one but me in this world? What if I have to stay in this world forever? I read something about that once; if someone were to become immortal then eventually they would lose track of time, and I mean really lose track of time. Centuries would whizz past your ears while you're still cocooned in blurry memories. It would be horrible, worse than anything you could possibly imagine, because you can't imagine that kind of thing. I look to the mirror, the blood flow has slowed and my scar appears to be healing miraculously. But when you're dead nothing is a miracle anymore.