“What’s the worst betrayal you’ve ever experienced?”
I was supposed to die in a car accident. The paramedics told my roommate Jake I probably wouldn’t make it through surgery. He rushed to the hospital, stayed for hours, then left to “handle arrangements.”
What Jake didn’t know was that I woke up the next morning. Concussion, broken ribs, but alive.
The nurse said my roommate had been “so devastated” and was handling everything. I asked her to call Jake, but she said he’d specifically requested no calls until after the funeral arrangements were finalized.
Something felt off. I borrowed the nurse’s phone and called Jake myself.
“Jake’s phone, this is Mike speaking.”
Mike? That was Jake’s cousin who’d been crashing on our couch for weeks, eating our food and never paying rent.
“Where’s Jake?” I asked, disguising my voice.
“He’s at the bank closing out his dead roommate’s accounts. Smart move—everything goes to next of kin if there’s no will.
My blood ran cold. I wasn’t dead, and Jake wasn’t my next of kin.
I hung up and immediately called my bank. The automated system showed multiple failed login attempts on my account starting yesterday.
I pressed zero for customer service. “This is regarding suspicious activity on my account.”
The representative pulled up my file. “Sir, we have a gentleman here now with documentation of your death. He’s been here since we opened, waiting to speak with a manager about transferring funds.”
“I’m very much alive,” I said.
“Can you verify your social security number and mother’s maiden name?”
I rattled off the information while pulling out my IV. The nurse tried to stop me, but I was already grabbing my clothes.
“Sir, we’re keeping him here until we can verify the death certificate with the coroner’s office. Can you come in immediately?”
I threw on my jeans and hospital shirt. My ribs screamed in protest, but adrenaline was kicking in. I called an Uber while limping toward the elevator.
During the ride, I called my insurance company. They confirmed Jake had filed a death claim that morning, listing himself as my emergency contact and sole beneficiary.
“He submitted hospital paperwork showing you died,” the agent explained.
“I was unconscious, not dead.”
The driver kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror as I made call after call. I contacted my employer next. Jake had already called them, sobbing about my tragic death and asking about my final paycheck and 401k.
“He said he was handling your affairs as your closest friend,” HR explained. “We were about to process the death benefits.”
I stumbled through the bank doors, still in my hospital gown over street clothes. The security guard looked concerned, but I walked straight to the customer service desk.
“I’m here about the fraud attempt on my account.”
The teller’s eyes widened. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
“So I’ve heard.”
She picked up her phone and called the manager. Within seconds, a woman in a business suit appeared, looking bewildered.
“Mr. Thompson? We were told you passed away yesterday.”
“As you can see, that information was incorrect.”
She led me toward her office. Through the glass walls, I could see Jake sitting in a chair, paperwork spread across the desk.
“He’s been here for two hours,” the manager whispered. “Very emotional about your passing. He brought a death certificate, medical records, even photos of you two together.”
We stopped outside the office door. Jake was holding up his phone, showing the banker photos from our last vacation. “This was just three weeks ago,” he was saying. “He was so full of life. It’s such a tragedy.”
The manager knocked and opened the door. “Mr. Sutton, there’s been a development.”
Jake turned around, mid-sentence. His face went from grief-stricken to confused to absolutely terrified in the span of two seconds.
“But… you died,” he stammered.
“Funny thing about that,” I said, walking into the office. “I got better.”
The forged death certificate was right there on the desk, along with my bank account information and a stack of paperwork he’d been filling out.
The manager picked up the death certificate and examined it closely. “This shows a time of death at 3 AM, but the hospital signature looks… unusual.”
“That’s because he forged it,” I said.
Jake finally found his voice. “This is impossible. The hospital called me. They said you were gone.”
“The hospital called you and said I might not make it. Big difference.”
The bank manager called security. Jake was arrested for fraud and identity theft.
Turns out he’d been planning this for months, waiting for the “right opportunity.”
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