Short story writing...

No idea where this short story is going but have a read of a little bit..

I was dead and much to my amusement, the afterlife was remarkably like life had been. I awoke, or what ever it was that I did after "it" happened to me, to find that I still had a basket overflowing with laundry and a pile of bills propped up behind the roses tin. I sat across the breakfast table and stared into the face of the very man I tried to get away from. It was impossible to escape the sheer irony of it.

My eyes became fixated on the stubble on his chin, the salt and peppery collection of sprouting hairs. I grimaced with disgust. I really hated this man.

It wasn't as if he liked me very much either. We had lived like this for some years, simply because of the convenience. Rental prices been what they were, not to mention the flat was so near our respective workplaces meant it was a solution. to suit us both. So I thought.

It was just as I stood to put the breakfast bowls into the sink, that I caught my reflection in the mirror. Staring back at me was the face of a dead woman with a gaping knife mark severing her neck. My neck had stained rusty, I caught the scent of my own blood, metallic and musty. The gasp I took drew his attention. He looked at me as if it was an effort to fix his eyes on me and simply said "Its only a flesh wound", and with that continued with his cornflakes.