awhile back I wrote a short story about this for school:

Dead is a relative term. I prefer to be called nonexistent. I’m not exactly here nor there, I’m just strolling about in a subconscious reality. Dreaming in layman’s term. I’m not alive though. I don’t know why, how, or any other information you would normally ask, but all I know is I’m not. I accept it though, take it in stride if you will. I believe what to call what I do is dreaming.


When the dreams start I am in a room, laying on white sheets in a narrow bed that is way too uncomfortable to carry a body. The room is dark, no windows, and floors that feel like the inside of a freezer. I never hear anything except the occasional ringing in my ear. I am wearing minimal clothing and I have a little name tag on my gown that reads “Cotard”. The only assumption I make about where I am is a morgue.  After finding an exit to this morgue I am free to do what I want. Sometimes I walk around, go to parks, or look at different stores. The dreams are usually the same.


One dream was different. I wake up in a chair in a cozy office. I am in this chair facing a desk with a person sitting behind it. The person looks up, sighs, takes off her glasses, and rests them on the wooden desk.

“Well, you’re here.” she says. She leans back into the backrest of her chair and crosses her arms.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Cotard?”.

“I… um. I’m just…” I become confused at the question. I haven’t thought about what has been happening to me for what seems like a lifetime. I’ve just been doing it.

“Do you know why you are here?” she says this as if she is looking for an answer, but I have no answer.

“Because it’s what I’m dreaming?” I look at her as if she has all the answers. She nods, puts on her glasses, pushes away from her desk to be able to stand, and paces left to right.

Everything goes black. I whip my head up. I’m in my room. It’s all familiar. The floor is freezing, the bed makes my back ache. I jump out of the bed and open the door expecting to pass the autopsy room towards the exit, but I do not go into a hallway. I step into a gigantic room. The lady that was once in the office with me in a previous dream is gigantic.

“Why do you keep escaping!” she screams. “Stop saying you’re dead! You aren’t dead!”.

Everything again goes black. I am in my dark room once again, but there is light. The sound of a projector is going. I lift my head, and begin to read the projection I see on the wall in front of me. “Cotard Delusion: a syndrome where a person believes he or she is dead, but is not.”