I was walking along, minding my business. In fact, there was no plan in the direction I was walking, as all I wanted to be was alone. Surprised, I found that I had strolled into my old neighbourhood and I was practically standing outside of my old house.
It took me a moment to realise that a yard sale was going on, and I spent my time looking around the vaguely familiar objects. That was when I saw it. The desk, my desk! They were selling my desk! It’d been my pride and joy throughout the years, and I was just unable to comprehend the fact that it was being sold.
My hands clenched up into fists, and I somehow repressed the urge to scream at the unfairness of it all. I walked up to it and reached out to touch it, but my hand went straight through the simplistic design. The pain that went through me was an imaginable as I remembered that I was dead. I was dead, and my family were trying to erase me from their life. Had they gotten over me as easily as selling my desk? That was a pain much worse than death.
Written for flash fiction for the purposeful practitioner