Sequel.

She wrote a sequel to my life. Black ink on gray newsprint; tiny neat letters that spelled out a story that I wasn't willing to tell. Inspired by my premature death, she put pen to paper daily. Her story opened with me waking up, nose bloodied. The car I had arrived in was still idling, and was damn near out of gas. I stood up, stumbled through the trash-littered apartment. I almost lost my balance by the entrance and grasped at a wall, leaving a series of crimson fingerprints on the face of some dead rock star. Regaining composure, I unlatched the door and walked onto the balcony. The sun instantly spit it's bile into my eyes. I doubled over and wretched but my empty stomach expelled only air.
She considered writing in a revelation but decided against it; my character was unaware that she had been resurrected. She felt anything but lucky.
Head pounding, I got into my car and drove less than a mile to my home. I stumbled into my room and fell onto my bed and slept for what seemed like days. The rest of the first chapter was filled with romantic prose about the "new lease on life" that I had been given. It was trite and uneventful, until a phone call roused me from my slumber. It is with this phone call that the joke began. I admit, I had set her up for quite the punchline.
She gave me life but took everything else away.