When I was younger, I had always fantasized about what it would be like to fake my death, and oftentimes I found myself wondering if there was anything after death.
So, when my life had finally reached rock bottom after getting fired from my part-time job, my girlfriend cheating on me before taking all my stuff, and my career as an artist failing beyond imaginable, I couldn't help but think, what if?
I worked on getting a new job and slowly deposited low amounts of money in cash and continued on with life as normal without letting my roommate know anything was up. Eventually, I got a new phone, and I worked on art more often while minimizing my contact with my friends and family as much as possible.
The process took a couple of months, but the end result was worth it.
I ended up leaving a purse of my ID, wallet, license, my phone, and my credit card on a bench in a public park. At first, I was worried about a druggie or a thief taking all my stuff but I decided "fuck it, I've been planning this for too long to worry about something happening to my belongings after I disappear" and on the bench, it was left.
I remember boarding a bus later as if nothing happened, yet the thrill of doing something I wasn't supposed to exhilarate me, and the adrenaline pumping through my veins did nothing to help.
The bus driver grumbled about insomniacs always boarding the bus late as I made my way to a seat. Checking the time on my new phone it read 11:57 PM, so it would be about another eight hours until my roommate woke up and realize I'm missing, and probably another day until realizing I wouldn't be coming back.
Few other people were on the bus, and they sure as hell weren't paying attention to me at all. I rode the bus for the longest 43 minutes of my life before getting to the outskirts of the city before I finally deemed it safe to get off the bus. I nodded my thanks to the bus driver and stepped onto the curb, the bus's low hum of the engine roaring to life again before gaining speed and leaving me all alone.
I ended up walking for another 28 minutes before reaching a hotel, not overly fancy and the look of the outside made it look cheap. I shuffled my hand into my back pocket, pulling out a decent amount of cash, "How much for a night?" I asked, my eyes dragging down slightly to her name tag which read Carol.
The attendant looked at the money before drawing her eyes up to me, "$63 per night."
I grumbled at what seemed a high price for such a run-down hotel but nonetheless agreed.
I stayed two nights after that until my name finally came up on the news, the reporter spewing nonsense about my life before going on about how it was a completely sudden disappearance and how they had found all my belongings.
I saw my old roommate on the TV talking about how she came home one night and crashed before the next day realizing that I hadn't come home either. She thought nothing of it, thinking that I was at the job I was recently employed at. It wasn't until that night around 9 PM she started to get worried.
She ended up calling my friends, asking if I was with them, and when they all said "No," she got worried, and ended up convincing herself that I was simply on the night shift. When I didn't come back that morning, however, only then did she file a missing person report. I suppose the long wait was the 24-hour policy before being able to file a missing person report for an adult.
Another few days later, I had seen on her Instagram account that she was going to sell my old artwork and was asking if anyone was interested. Instantly sensing the opportunity, I replied to her post asking how much she was selling the artwork for.
Surprisingly, it was rather cheap, $5 for a sketchbook filled with sketches, paintings ranging from $10-35 dollars, and the occasional inking or oil pastel pieces I made for an additional $10.
We quickly agreed and she sent everything through mail to my hotel and I sent money through a Paypal account.
Another few days after my roommate stated everything had been sold to me for people who were interested, yet my account was now deleted so no one had any means of contacting me.
I used the money I had stored up and moved into a better hotel and managed to keep myself afloat for a few years before suddenly 'finding' an art piece or painting made by myself years ago.
Managing to sell some that were way overpriced (in my own, self-criticizing opinion), I invested that money and over time steadily became rich.
I had gotten new friends and invested my time in a way healthier environment, going under a new name in a city.
What I certainly did not expect, was that the police had claimed they found my body.
Beads of sweat rolled down the palm of my hands, and I felt my breathing becoming sharp and unsteady.
Oh god...
Whoever's half-decomposed corpse that was, it was not mine, and everyone thought it was.
All they needed to confirm was that they were originally a 21-year-old female and automatically assumed that was me.
Me, a 21-year-old female when I disappeared.
And some poor girl whose real identity is unknown, and stolen by me.
The worse part is, apparently she was tortured before drowning.
No_Competition_3411 t1_irl32ua wrote
Reply to [WP] As an art school student you came up with a plan to fake your own death if you don't manage to become famous. It worked and you're now a millionaire living under false name and 'finding' a new painting every few years for an extra cash. But in the news today you see that they found your body. by WillTheWheel
When I was younger, I had always fantasized about what it would be like to fake my death, and oftentimes I found myself wondering if there was anything after death.
So, when my life had finally reached rock bottom after getting fired from my part-time job, my girlfriend cheating on me before taking all my stuff, and my career as an artist failing beyond imaginable, I couldn't help but think, what if?
I worked on getting a new job and slowly deposited low amounts of money in cash and continued on with life as normal without letting my roommate know anything was up. Eventually, I got a new phone, and I worked on art more often while minimizing my contact with my friends and family as much as possible.
The process took a couple of months, but the end result was worth it.
I ended up leaving a purse of my ID, wallet, license, my phone, and my credit card on a bench in a public park. At first, I was worried about a druggie or a thief taking all my stuff but I decided "fuck it, I've been planning this for too long to worry about something happening to my belongings after I disappear" and on the bench, it was left.
I remember boarding a bus later as if nothing happened, yet the thrill of doing something I wasn't supposed to exhilarate me, and the adrenaline pumping through my veins did nothing to help.
The bus driver grumbled about insomniacs always boarding the bus late as I made my way to a seat. Checking the time on my new phone it read 11:57 PM, so it would be about another eight hours until my roommate woke up and realize I'm missing, and probably another day until realizing I wouldn't be coming back.
Few other people were on the bus, and they sure as hell weren't paying attention to me at all. I rode the bus for the longest 43 minutes of my life before getting to the outskirts of the city before I finally deemed it safe to get off the bus. I nodded my thanks to the bus driver and stepped onto the curb, the bus's low hum of the engine roaring to life again before gaining speed and leaving me all alone.
I ended up walking for another 28 minutes before reaching a hotel, not overly fancy and the look of the outside made it look cheap. I shuffled my hand into my back pocket, pulling out a decent amount of cash, "How much for a night?" I asked, my eyes dragging down slightly to her name tag which read Carol.
The attendant looked at the money before drawing her eyes up to me, "$63 per night."
I grumbled at what seemed a high price for such a run-down hotel but nonetheless agreed.
I stayed two nights after that until my name finally came up on the news, the reporter spewing nonsense about my life before going on about how it was a completely sudden disappearance and how they had found all my belongings.
I saw my old roommate on the TV talking about how she came home one night and crashed before the next day realizing that I hadn't come home either. She thought nothing of it, thinking that I was at the job I was recently employed at. It wasn't until that night around 9 PM she started to get worried.
She ended up calling my friends, asking if I was with them, and when they all said "No," she got worried, and ended up convincing herself that I was simply on the night shift. When I didn't come back that morning, however, only then did she file a missing person report. I suppose the long wait was the 24-hour policy before being able to file a missing person report for an adult.
Another few days later, I had seen on her Instagram account that she was going to sell my old artwork and was asking if anyone was interested. Instantly sensing the opportunity, I replied to her post asking how much she was selling the artwork for.
Surprisingly, it was rather cheap, $5 for a sketchbook filled with sketches, paintings ranging from $10-35 dollars, and the occasional inking or oil pastel pieces I made for an additional $10.
We quickly agreed and she sent everything through mail to my hotel and I sent money through a Paypal account.
Another few days after my roommate stated everything had been sold to me for people who were interested, yet my account was now deleted so no one had any means of contacting me.
I used the money I had stored up and moved into a better hotel and managed to keep myself afloat for a few years before suddenly 'finding' an art piece or painting made by myself years ago.
Managing to sell some that were way overpriced (in my own, self-criticizing opinion), I invested that money and over time steadily became rich.
I had gotten new friends and invested my time in a way healthier environment, going under a new name in a city.
What I certainly did not expect, was that the police had claimed they found my body.
Beads of sweat rolled down the palm of my hands, and I felt my breathing becoming sharp and unsteady.
Oh god...
Whoever's half-decomposed corpse that was, it was not mine, and everyone thought it was.
All they needed to confirm was that they were originally a 21-year-old female and automatically assumed that was me.
Me, a 21-year-old female when I disappeared.
And some poor girl whose real identity is unknown, and stolen by me.
The worse part is, apparently she was tortured before drowning.
This woman wouldn't have peace even after death.
I had to find this woman's real identity...
No...
​
​
I needed to.