A Dream of Dying :: Jun 30, 04:31 PM

I don’t remember what he was doing. I don’t remember who he was. I don’t remember what I was doing there.

I remember attempting to stop him. I remember the feeling of being shot. And dying. I remember watching more able people do what I could not. I remember how I was praised as a hero, despite ultimately amounting to nothing.

Then came the realization that no reaper had come to claim me. While no longer alive, I had not ceased to exist. I was a ghost.

Devoid of color, devoid of emotion. Cloaked in gray nothingness.

I sought out my friends. They did not know my presence, save one. I was only mildly surprised. He was always a smart one.

He greeted me cheerfully—in fact, more cheerfully than he had ever greeted me in life. I felt a passing happiness and returned his sentiments. I left.

I recognized my mother and brother. They were walking down a street. As I came to them, they greeted me. I followed them.

As we walked through the tightly-packed housing district, I stopped my brother from stealing candy from the mailbox—It was not right.

He spilled some of it. I would have to apologize for him.

As we walked past more of these houses, I noticed something peculiar, perhaps familiar, about the one that we were approaching. I went ahead of my kin and slipped into the house.

Inside were a teenage girl and her parents. She looked gray, as I was. As if she were dead herself. I recognized her as a spirit-talker. A modern-day shaman.

I knelt beside her, seeking consolation. She offered none.

My kin arrived at the small house. They spoke with the parents. I left with the girl to a small room. Her parents showed no surprise: they were aware of her duty.

We conversed. I learned that my time remaining on the Earth was short. My spirit would decay gradually until, if I may phrase it in this manner, it died.

Then I would be sent to the other place. I still didn’t know what the other place was. Being dead wasn’t as much of a revelation as I thought it would be.

I stood outside, solitary. What would I do with my remaining time?

I could spend it watching the ones I love. I could spend it alone, wandering the streets. It was a choice between heartache and longing.

Either way I would be alone.

Section: Fiction | Category:

Comment

Commenting is closed for this article.