My Dead Boyfriend

By K.J. Boye

Following a car accident that leaves his partner dead, Tristan is reeling in the aftermath of a tragedy that leaves him emotionally shattered. It seems too much to be able to lose his partner physically, but when a supernatural visage of what Tristan believes is John starts revealing itself in the weeks following his death, Tristan doesn’t know what to do. His friends think he’s mourning, his therapist thinks he’s crazy, and the Catholic priests say he’s simply being visited by a denizen of Hell. The whole while Tristan is being haunted. The only question is–is the thing outside his window real?

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.J. Boye
• Release date: Aug 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476205465

Book preview

Foreword

Dear reader,

It is with great honor and pleasure that I introduce you to the first in my series of free, speculative and contemporary-fiction stories in my novella cycle. My Dead Boyfriend, the first of this cycle, tells the story of a young man who, after a tragic accident in which the love of his life dies, begins to see his partner—from beyond the grave.

This work could not have been produced without the love and support of several great people. Maksim Finogeev, who was gracious enough to provide the base photography for my photomanipulatory editing, is an amazing photographer whose stark and visceral photography strikes a real and powerful chord within any who look upon it – at least to me. His willingness to be part of this project for only exposure as compensation is a huge deal for me and I cannot thank him enough. My friend Gwen Perkins was also kind enough to provide copyediting for the work. Her meticulous notes on the structure of the novella, as well as its content ultimately made it better and helped secured it into the form it is now in.

If you are reading this, you have picked up this free novella. I hope you enjoy my work and will, in the future, consider purchasing my other work.

Greatfully,

K.J. Boye

8/31/2012

The spirit of my dead boyfriend is haunting me.

At least, that’s what others might claim.

I can’t be so sure.

It doesn’t seem real.

It feels like a dream.

He comes to me every night, but he is not a ghost. Upon his back are two wings the color of a raven’s feathers—stark blue, reflecting their hidden color only when the light reflects off their surfaces—and his smooth, alabaster skin is far too fair to be any semblance of what John used to look like. His form is stretched, his posture bent forward. The most terrifying and unsettling thing, though, are his eyes—they’re black. There is no sclera—just darkness—and his lips are not stained with color. Instead, they are white—a color which, in life, would have never afflicted his flesh. He was too perfect, too real for any apparition to come in a form that was unlike him. Maybe that’s why I can never look him straight in the face when I dream. Maybe that’s why I wake up crying.

My friends think I’m crazy. My therapist says I need to be on medication. The priest said I’m gay and that my boyfriend would’ve never went to Heaven. Instead, he said, John went to hell—a place that, though seemingly connected only with the real world, is said to exist below.

Sometimes, when I think about how it happened, I feel like he’s there right beside me—standing, watching, waiting for me.

When that happens, I can’t help but wonder.

Did John really go to Heaven… or did he go to Hell?

The accident happened one month ago.

It was simple, really. We’d planned it for months. Our trip to Florida—it was supposed to be something of a going-away party before John and I started a new life together, a cross-country jaunt across the United States to prepare our weary souls for the storm that was supposed to come ahead. We were to travel along the east coast until we hit the sunshine state, then go see the Everglades before skipping along the west—where, in New Orleans, we would attend Mardi Gras, see the sights and look at a few houses that were for sale in the area. It’d been our dream to live in the French quarter, or at least near it, so for us to think that anything would have gone wrong at all would have been ridiculous.

For weeks before we left, I watched the weather and would warn John about anything that was about to go on.

The day before we were supposed to leave, a cold front blew in and brought with it rain. John, I’d said. Are you sure we should be going now?

We’ll be fine, he’d replied.

If only that had been true.

If only he were still alive.

It comes in flashes now. The pain, the agony, the sorrow, the frustration, the complete and utter need to push yourself over the edge when you’ve suffered the most horrific tragedy that you’ve ever experienced in your entire life—it’s all been present in my life even though it’s only been a month since the accident. It’s like a cancer, slowly-spreading and eating me alive. But unlike cancer, and unlike any kind of debilitating illness, it does not wear on me physically. It does not weaken my joints, sallow in my knees, sweat blood or bring about the pains that only the most severe forms of distress have upon the heart. Rather, it consumes my mind, my heart, my feelings. It drives away each and every form of happiness I’ve been lucky to have since the accident and delivers me to a place that I would not wish upon even my worst of enemies.

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