Perhaps, somewhere, there is a ship at sea, one that never docks but merely circles the Earth atop crystal waters on some sort of endless loop. I have found myself aboard this ship. Though calling myself a passenger would be generous. I have been brought here against my will, a prisoner to the cold grip of death.
Before my passing, I was among those who hold expectations regarding what was to come. Yes- the golden gates, the light at the end of the tunnel- I supposed it was all a bit too easy. Yet, at the idea of the unknown, naive explanations were satisfactory. Unfortunately, no one is truly prepared, which is why I now find myself in the most complicated of positions.
For a week now- or two- I have been held captive by this higher power, trapped in the life that was once my own. The same house that I died in, the very air I used to breathe, I cannot escape it.
Finish it.
I cannot escape that voice either. Initially, the instruction was unclear, seemingly unrelated to my circumstance. It wasn't until I noticed my husband's illness that the direction made sense. Would it be more appropriate to refer to him as an 'ex'? I feel it is unnecessarily cruel. No matter the proper etiquette, I am concerned for the man's well-being.
I don't recall how long ago I passed away- a month or two perhaps- but my husband's mental state has only deteriorated. I'm sure it was difficult to discover my body in its deceased form. I do not remember how I died, but I'm sure it wasn't painful; it would be more memorable if it had been. Regardless, I sympathize with the trauma he must have endured to find me like that. However, he has deviated beyond the normal cycle of grief. After a year, he is still in denial.
Each morning he greets me, seeming to spot my spirit and look directly at it. He runs a bath, inviting me to take one while he brews coffee downstairs. At mealtimes, he still sets a plate for me, complete with my own serving. Occasionally, I have attempted to eat. His eyes went wide as I presume he must have been confused. Yet, I tasted nothing. I felt the solid bite plummet through the hollowness of my body and splatter on the ground below. He burst into tears, and I'd figured I had made a breakthrough. But, the next day, I watched as he set two plates of food out for supper once again.
I've deduced that it is likely he can see spirits. Well, at least to some extent. His eyes often follow me as I pace around our home. For weeks he tried to strike up a conversation with me, but those useless efforts eventually faded. Feeling the dead, even seeing them, is odd, but speaking to them? Expecting them to talk and eat and bathe? That is purely psychotic.
Finish it.
For months I have been pondering ways to free my husband of this burden- to snap him away from the insanity and denial. I am hopeful that once that has been done, I will finally be granted permission to pass over. I must force him to face the truth- bring him to the harsh reality that I am gone.
Finish it.
I pity him. His ability to see me has only made this more difficult. It has made it easier for him to refuse my death. However, I will use it to my advantage to wake him up.
I took my place by the bedroom window in the middle of the night. I watched the sunrise, whose bloodred rays glinted against the blade behind my back. He would be awake soon. I readjusted the knife to conceal it from his view. If he saw it, he would try and take it from me. He would try to stop me from showing him the truth.
Finish it.
His eyes were beginning to flutter. I looked back to make sure the weapon was still there without the luxury of feeling it in my hand. He was awake now, stirring beneath the sheet, squinting at the brightness of the sun.
FINISH IT.
The relentless voice was annoying. I desperately need it to stop. Before he can sit up, I am dragging the blade through the flesh of my lower abdomen. He is fast; he has already taken the knife from my hand. I pay him no mind; I am done using it anyway. To prove my death, it will take more than a mere cut. I must prove beyond a reasonable doubt that I am no longer living.
FINISH IT.
I use my fingers to spread the open wound, trying to make room for the entirety of my hand. I will admit that I did not expect this to be so difficult, to encounter many obstacles. Despite having felt empty, that is not the case. There are things in my way, clusters of organs that must be removed. I pull at them viciously, finally able to dislodge them after a few moments of fumbling.
FINISH IT.
The path is finally clear. I can reach the finish line. I clasp my hand around the muscle and pull, getting a glimpse of the heart extended in my palm before me. Now, there is darkness.
I see my imprisoned body, but I am not in it. I am standing level with the window, looking down on my mutilated morality. My husband is in shock. He is not crying, but his face is frozen in an expression of despair. I cannot help but smile, knowing I have healed him. I feel a cold grip on my shoulders. I look in the window reflection, curious to see what has touched me, but it is hidden beneath the shadows. Tears begin to well in my eyes, blurring my vision.
I am finally home.
