"Does it hurt to die?" I asked Mike one day.
"Yeah, it does." he admitted. "At least, it did for me, I
can't speak for anybody else."
"Is it real bad?" I pressed the matter, a bit uncomfortably.
Part of me didn't really want to know the answer.
"It's actually not the pain that's the real issue in the
experience," said Mike, "it's the absolute knowledge that
you're about to die, and that there's nothing that you can
do to prevent that from happening. In that exact moment, you
want to live more than you ever did in any other moment in
your whole life, and knowing the simple fact that you won't
get to do all the things you really wanted to do can drive
you crazy."
"Oh." I said. It didn't seem like there was really anything
else to say.
"It's not that bad, when it's over." Mike continued, perhaps
sensing how distressed I was. "And it actually doesn't take
that long... if you're lucky."
Somehow, that last comment didn't do much to lift my
spirits.

I suppose I'd better explain the above paragraph, since to
most of you it would probably seem pretty weird. I'll start
with assuring you that I haven't lost my mind, nor do I
usually see dead people walkinng and talking.
Only Mike. Well, talking, anyway.
See, Mike's full name is Dr. Michael Skowlski. When he was
alive, he was a world-renowned scientist that specialized in
brain cells and neural pathways. Even more specifically,
memories: their creation, erasion, and especially,
salvation.
 Mike found a way to preserve the memories and
consciousness of a dying man and transfer them into the
brain of a living one. In effect, what he discovered was a
way to prolong life to double or more what they used to be.
He even got a Nobel Prize for that, I think.
Provided one could find enough hosts, it was actually a
limited form of immortality, as long as you didn't mind
leaving behind your physical body and becoming an abstract
consciousness in somebody's head.
Mike didn't. He made this discovery when he was dying of
lung cancer, obssessed with staying alive, no matter how.
That's where I fit in.
I'm Mike's nephew. I'm and eleven-year-old boy with an IQ of
156. Besides my youth and thought patterns, which are
similar to those of Mike's, I'm also a blood relative, which
made me the perfect choice to implant Mike into.
While I can't say that I was thrilled with the idea of
carrying somebody around in my head for the rest of my life,
I did like my uncle, and I didn't want to see him die. Even
my parents, after some persuasion (and promises of monetary
compensation) agreed to this plan, once they were given
assurances that I'd be perfectly safe.
So, one morning they took me to a hospital, put me on a bed,
and gave me something that made me sleep. When I woke up,
there was my uncle's voice in my head, as clear as if he was
constantly standing next to me, which in a way, he was.
At first it seemed to be my own inner voice; the same one
you hear in your mind when you read or think to yourself,
then slowly it became Mike's voice again. He told me that
was because of my perceptions. What really happend was that
a piece of my brain, which was never used before, was now
given its own consciousness and independent thought
capability. In the beginning I heard his thoughts as my own
thoughts because, in fact, they were. Gradually, though,
that piece of cauterized, scrambled neurons inside my
hypothalamus became more and more active and self-aware,
which was when Mike's personality took over again.
 All this must sound pretty awful to some of you: never
having any privacy, forced to share my deepest thoughts and
emotions with someone else. Others must no doubt wonder
whether I lost myself inside Mike's personality, or even if
he could take over my body. Well, you can all breathe easy.
Mike had practically no motor control, or any other form of
control over my body because the parts of the brain that
runs them was still me. He could only control his own
thoughts, and those were constantly being watched by me. I
promise you: if anyone was the losing party in this
symbiosis, it was him.
 Of course, it wan't long before I started to see the
possibilities in this situation. For example, the only way
Mike could communicate with the outside world went through
me, and I knew every word he was about to say long before he
ever said it, so I could control that, too. I started using
Mike as a prestense for small things, like asking money from
my parents or a new part for my computer that Mike
supposedly needed for his research, or using his vast
knoledge is scientific areas to pass the physics tests in
school. When he objected, I reminded him that this situation
was better than the alternative. Then I moved on to bigger
things, like using his knowledge of computers to hack into
government sites on the Internet, or writing anonymous
letters to newspapers via his scientific and rhetorics
skills.
 Don't give me that look! Can you honestly say that if
you'd have the chance, you wouldn't have done the same
things, or even worse?
 Besides, Mike did most of this on his own free will. The
man might have been eighty-six and an abstract
consciousness, but he was always a kid at heart. And he did
a lot of good things, too, like helping me with my math
homework, or telling me when I was being a smartass, and
just generally being a good influence. It's because of Mike
that I managed to get through my first date without
completely embarassing myself (although I never told her
that-- it would freak her out).
 Mike and I would frequently have long talks with each
other during the night. He'd show me memories from his old
life and talk about the experiences he's had, giving me
advice. He became my best friend in the world. Life was
pretty good.
 Until the day I got really dizzy and they took me back to
the hospital.

I lay there, barely conscious, and listened to the rather
large number of doctors arguing with my parents and each
other over what needed to be done with me. Mike was part of
the argument, too. This was one of the only times he could
come through: when I was half-asleep. He argued fiercely
with the other doctors about "the condition" as they called
it, and was very adamant in his demands, but I didn't
understand a word of what was said. Of course, since our
body was completely shot up with morphine, I don't suppose
he made much sense either.
 Finally a decision was reached and the arguments died
down. I felt a needle press against my skin and sank into
darkness.

I woke up in a strange room with a strange feeling. It was
the way I always imagined astronauts feel like in zero
gravity: unattached, floating, and impossibly light. It
wasn't a bad feeling, only eerily uncomfortable, as if I had
nothing to grasp to hold on to. I tried to get up, to get
off the bed, but my legs didn't move. After a quick check, I
found that I couldn't move a single muscle. I was completely
paralyzed!
 Then, I did move, but it wasn't my doing. It was as if my
body had a will of its own.
 My estranged mortal coil got up, slowly rubbed my eyes,
and stepped over to the mirror at the edge of the room. The
face I saw were familiar, but they were not my own.
 It was the face of my eight-year-old little brother.
 I was nothing but an echo in his mind.
 Still frozen in shock, I heard Mikes' mental voice
laughing, cackling as if he was in on the funniest joke ever
concieved. And through the torrent of that horrible, insane,
disembodied laughter, only one thought filtered.
 "My dear boy," he thought, "welcome to my life."