"What was your life like?" Skander asked. He was sitting in his chair at his desk. Adrian was lying in bed, fiddling with a pen.
"Life..." The ghost-boy said, "Ninety years since I took a breath...Hah!"
"Do you remember what it was like?"
"I remember death," Adrian said. "I remember it. Slow. Painful. The influenza. Nasty stuff. I think you can read about it on the...the internet?" he asked. "..I think you can. There are probably pages and pages about it on there...But it's nothing like actually seeing it...having it."
"What was it like?" Skander asked, he was getting excited now.
"Imagine drowning," said Adrian, "Imagine drowning...backwards. Everytime you breathe, your lungs flood from the inside. You breathe in air but your lungs, they fill up with muck. You cough and retch and spit, but they keep filling. You bleed inside. You wheeze and you struggle. You feel cold, hot, shivering, boiling, sweating, trembling. You can't stand, you can barely sit up..."
Skander thought about it. He looked at Adrian, lying there with his neat, clean suit and his semi-transparent, brown hair, neatly parted.
"Sounds pretty bad," said Skander.
"Sounds bad, looks worse," said Adrian. "My mother was going berserk! You can't breathe. You drown. Your lungs fill with this white pus and blood. If you're lucky, you throw it up. Tastes like...I can't even THINK of what it tastes like. Then, you live a little longer...eventually, you can't take it anymore. Christ, I wish I could show you..."
Skander closed his eyes, trying to imagine it. "I wish I was back...90 years," he said. "Wish I could see it..."
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