The Love of My Afterlife by Kirsty Greenwood EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Kirsty Greenwood
- Language: English
- Genre: Paranormal / Sci-Fi
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 5.4 MB
- Price: Free
this cannot be how i die.
It really, really can’t.
Naturally I know not everyone is blessed with the whole old-lady-fromTitanic option; drifting off into a toasty sleep, memories of making love to a
peak Leonardo DiCaprio there to soften the blow of perishing. But choking
to death at the age of twenty-seven? Delphie, no.
As I gasp for air, my brain seems unable to compute how I might save
myself from this horror show and instead fixates entirely on the mortifying
circumstances via which it’s playing out.
For a start I’m choking on a burger. Not even a premium or homemade
burger but a cheap microwaveable one I grabbed from the corner shop after
work. And then there are the clothes I’m wearing as I choke: pickle-green
socks paired with the worst of all my nightwear—an over-washed,
oversized atrocity with a cartoon of a grinning star above the slogan Honey,
It’s Time to Sparkle and Shine! My TV is paused a quarter way through The
Tinder Swindler, and my laptop is lit with one solitary tab: a Google page on
which I have enquired, “Are microwaveable burgers real meat?”
Who’s going to find me in this state? My despicable downstairs
neighbour Cooper, who will definitely sneer when he sees my nightie? The
police? Rummaging through my private belongings, hunting for evidence of
possible foul play? They’d have a tricky time finding anyone with a motive,
considering I only know three people in all of London—Leanne and her
mum, Jan, from the pharmacy where I work, and old Mr. Yoon from next
door.
Oh god, what if it’s old Mr. Yoon who discovers me? That must not
happen—his heart is way too fragile to handle something as grim as this.
Sweet Mr. Yoon! If I’m gone, there won’t be anyone to check he’s properly
extinguished his cigarettes before he goes to sleep. And who will make him
a breakfast that isn’t just a bowl of boring old cardboardy All-Bran?
At the thought of Mr. Yoon gazing sorrowfully into his cereal cupboard,
I fling myself over to a rickety kitchen chair and slam my body over the top
in a bid to self-Heimlich. I once saw Miranda on Sex and the City do this,
and she survived, shaken but emotionally wiser for the experience.
I bash my diaphragm down onto the chair over and over again. Then I
clasp my hands together and thump myself in the stomach. Ow. Nothing.
Am I punching myself in the correct place? I do it again, this time a little
lower. And then again, higher up. It’s not working! This chunk of bun and
possibly not-real meat is lodged in my gullet and I believe it intends to stay
there. Shit.
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