Next of Kim (Patreon)

“Fuck you, Thomas”. Kimberly was catching his breath after a particularly hard pull session at the gym. It was a ritual by now to end every gym session that way, catching breath and cursing Tom. On one hand it had been a year, so one could argue it was time to move on, but on the other it had been exactly one year since his suicide. “Fuck you, Thomas”, he said again, this time loud enough to be heard throughout the locker room. No one cared, as he made his way to the showers. He was a regular here, typically four visits a week. Although no one had ever asked him about it, all the other regulars had heard this before.

What do you do to commemorate a suicide? It was pure chance, luck, or curse that he stumbled into Thomas's apartment when he did, to hand back the textbook in mechanics. He was utterly fed up with ideal cylinders rolling over tilted surfaces of uniform friction. Thank god he passed the exam and could forget all of that. Thomas looked surprised, sad and annoyed when he opened the door, and not at all his normal self. More surprisingly he was dressed in his tuxedo. Now, there is a lot of weird stuff going on at university, so when I asked where the party was I was mostly curious what event I had missed to sign up for. That’s when I saw the noose.

I stepped through the door and demanded to know what was going on. Thomas wasn’t the best student, though technically only one student is the best, but he was always kind to me and always helpful. Almost in a panic I started to tell him all the things I admired about him. I quickly realized my mistake as I didn’t know him well enough to go beyond cliches like friendly and compassionate, and veered off into talking about how I admired the dedication he put into his body and his workouts. I can just imagine how pathetic it started to sound a few sentences in on how impressive his wide shoulders and big biceps were. What a waste that would be to let all that hard work and dedication go to... waste. He smiled, put his hand on me to stop me from digging a deeper grave for myself, and assured me that he was just doing a bit of an art project. He was taking some pictures of himself as if he had committed suicide, he told me. Weird, but not really, compared to all the other weird stuff students are up to.

It was almost two weeks later, when I was just about to go to bed, everything just when black. There was a shockwave of pain that tore through my body, and gravity just jerked in a different direction. The dizziness, pain and nausea made me vomit as I screamed. A wet gurgle of wail and stomach content projectiled out of my mouth, and continue in the wrong direction, covering me rather than onto the floor. Through the skull-splitting headache and confusion, a voice at the back of my head was urging me to get a grip. It’s panic that kills. You need to figure out what is up and down, or you’ll drown. Are you bleeding? Did the building collapse? You need to start taking action, or you might never be able to.

If I could trust my senses, which was still a big if, I was lying down on something soft. Vomit was pooling on my chest. I could see dim contours of a room in darkness. Save for my head, I wasn’t actually in pain. Not anymore. Tentatively I wiggled my arms and legs, toes and fingers. I was sore all over, like a day after a good workout, but nothing like a trauma.

Unsteadily I started to get up, and found that I had crashed in a bed. Not my bed though, and the room layout was wrong. With the warm vomit running down my body, smelling like aged Parmesan I fumbled my way towards what looked like a door frame and a light switch.

It was Thomas's apartment. It looked very much like when I handed over the book, except for the noose. Neat and tidy, with a trail of puke towards his bed. Everything was neat and tidy. Only two things were out of place. There was a note on the desk with a big “Kimberly” written across it, and I was somehow wearing Thomas’ body. The wide shoulders. The big biceps.

I grabbed the note and flipped it over. “Then don’t let it go to waste” was all it said. “Fuck you, Thomas” I shouted as I scrambled to find a phone. It was just next to the bed, plugged into a charger, but I didn’t have a pin and it didn’t have a fingerprint reader. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I dialed 911, reporting a suicide in progress at “my” address. I hung up, ignoring the instruction to stay on the line, and searched the apartment for something to wear. I wiped the vomit off my chin and abs, and threw on sweatpants, sweatshirt and sneakers, rushed down the stairs and ran all the way to my apartment. I had no idea of time, but I was outside perhaps 20 minutes later. There was a police car outside and an ambulance just leaving.

“Where are they taking him” I demanded from the officer standing next to the door. “Who are you?” “I’m a... his... I study with Kimberly” “He’s not in the ambulance.” “He’s not?” I said, a bit relieved. “No, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. It’s against regulation to transport corpses in ambulances, in case its needed for an emergency. We’re waiting for a transport to the morgue.” “He’s... dead?” “Again, I’m sorry. I’m gonna have to ask you to leave now. I’m not allowed to tell you any more than that.”

I was in a daze walking back to Thomas's apartment. He’d murdered me, kind of. At least to the rest of the world I was dead. Would I even be allowed to attend my funeral? “Then don’t let it go to waste”. What a fucking arrogant prick. I never said there was anything wrong with the body I had. I mean, this one is arguably in better shape than mine. I wasn’t even breathing heavy despite running all the way home. Fuck... former home. But I could have made the effort to get in shape.

Turned out I was invited to the funeral, to my surprise. After the small ceremony his... my mother walked up to me, teary eyes, gave me a hug and told me this was all my fault. I was taken aback. I never would have guessed my mother to make such an accusation on a funeral. My funeral. “Why do you say that?” “In the letter he left he said that he had fallen in love with you, but was too afraid to tell you,” “If only I’d known” I managed to say. I almost said “Fuck you, Thomas” aloud, though I guess my mother would have agreed.

I’ve never missed a day in the gym since.