Still Dead
Sep. 1st, 2012 05:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bronzechimeraMarch 13, 2010 - "Still Dead" (Faye)
Rather than begin the story, I will end it.
I don’t remember the exact date I took my own life, nor do I remember the details of my experience. I want to be able to give this place a name, but in life I was not religious and I do not feel that it is fitting.
Here in death, everything is black. It’s frightening, but calming at the same time. I have a desk with painted, peeling wooden legs and a rickety chair. On the top of the desk I have an ancient brass typewriter – with a delete key! Plus, there is an endless supply of paper.
Most of the time I write about my life. Since I am now blessed with a photographic, superior memory, I describe what it was like to crawl out of my mother’s womb and into the world. I remember the color shirt my father wore when he held me for the first time.
I close my eyes and grip the sides of my chair. Suddenly they’ve become Jason’s hands, which were simultaneously rough and warm. Now I feel the weight of his arms around me, and his nose in my hair. But this feeling is quickly replaced by terrible longing for what does not exist.
I died when I was fifty-seven years old. While my body here is as beautiful as it was when I was seventeen, I am an old woman. I feel even more tired and burdensome than I was when I was young. What a horrible feeling.
Often I wonder where Jason is. I miss him and I want to see him again. Didn’t every religion promise me that I would get to see him again? Oh – that’s right. I wasn’t religious.
Where’s my grandson? I want to see how he would have grown up. Yet I wonder if he’s still a baby. I wonder if his face is still pinched and his skin is milky, translucent; I wonder if he is able to use his lungs.
We’re dead, though, so breathing shouldn’t matter.
I stop breathing.
I’m still dead.
Rather than begin the story, I will end it.
I don’t remember the exact date I took my own life, nor do I remember the details of my experience. I want to be able to give this place a name, but in life I was not religious and I do not feel that it is fitting.
Here in death, everything is black. It’s frightening, but calming at the same time. I have a desk with painted, peeling wooden legs and a rickety chair. On the top of the desk I have an ancient brass typewriter – with a delete key! Plus, there is an endless supply of paper.
Most of the time I write about my life. Since I am now blessed with a photographic, superior memory, I describe what it was like to crawl out of my mother’s womb and into the world. I remember the color shirt my father wore when he held me for the first time.
I close my eyes and grip the sides of my chair. Suddenly they’ve become Jason’s hands, which were simultaneously rough and warm. Now I feel the weight of his arms around me, and his nose in my hair. But this feeling is quickly replaced by terrible longing for what does not exist.
I died when I was fifty-seven years old. While my body here is as beautiful as it was when I was seventeen, I am an old woman. I feel even more tired and burdensome than I was when I was young. What a horrible feeling.
Often I wonder where Jason is. I miss him and I want to see him again. Didn’t every religion promise me that I would get to see him again? Oh – that’s right. I wasn’t religious.
Where’s my grandson? I want to see how he would have grown up. Yet I wonder if he’s still a baby. I wonder if his face is still pinched and his skin is milky, translucent; I wonder if he is able to use his lungs.
We’re dead, though, so breathing shouldn’t matter.
I stop breathing.
I’m still dead.