Phantom Recall

37 || at the end of you

The space beneath my body is warm. That's about as much as I can articulate in my waning consciousness — like hovering on air, yet if I swept my arm through it, I would touch something. I can move. Little by little, my limbs which momentarily I thought to be paralyzed regain the strength to move, even if just my hands and feet at first. My fingers curl and scrape the surface — soft, like a blanket. It isn't air. I'm not floating, but I'm not on concrete, either, which is equally as strange.

Why is it strange?

My muscles twitch in discomfort. That thought came involuntarily. Why do I find it strange to have awoken on something soft and warm? To have awoken at all? I shouldn't have been able to sleep. Spirits don't sleep. They can't. I tried. Many a time, closing my eyes and imagining I could drift off to some more pleasant place, even if for a moment. Far away from the perpetual chill of the afterlife, where perhaps I could meet the architect of sweeter dreams. I'm dreaming. That is the conclusion I soon arrive to.

For some reason that thought encourages me to peel open my eyelids.

There's a wall right in front of me. Inches from my face, and from this bed on which I find myself. But the room is dim. I can't see much else. Does it matter? I ask myself. I'm tired. My body and my brain are tired, so what reason have I to even move at this point? I could just stay here, right where I am. Whether I'm really dreaming or not shouldn't matter. This space is warmer and more pleasant than anything I've felt in a long time.

It would be a lot better if not for the slight breeze blowing through the open window — well, I can't see a window, but the breeze has to be coming from somewhere, and somewhere nearby, too. I could just shut it real quick and get back to bed. I reach across the place I'm lying and tug at the lamp cord atop my bedside dresser.

My...my lamp.

It's my lamp. This is my apartment. Light floods the space around me and that fact becomes blindingly clear. Yet mere seconds ago, my body acted on its own, as if it knew before I did. It knows as well that this is no dream, either. Neither had been what had led up to this moment.

I hadn't forgotten. The memory merely tucked itself away in a corner until I was able to get my bearings. I had fallen again. From the same building, but this time, I was dropped.

My memory is in tact. The collision hadn't scattered my brain beyond repair, surprisingly enough. In fact, it feels like only a matter of minutes has passed since I struck the ground. Perhaps less. It's impossible to gauge. However, I am thankful at least that I can't recall the physical pain of the fall. My bones may feel a little heavy, but nothing that quite evokes the sensation of having been dropped off a building. I suppose it was an instant death. An instant ... second ... death.

As those words cross my mind, I take a moment to sweep my gaze over the room around me. I'm hesitant to believe this is truly my old apartment. It's a replica, I tell myself, nothing more than a small pocket of space made to resemble it. Perhaps, wherever it is I've woken up, whatever realm this may be, feeds upon the lingering memories of my last days on earth in an attempt to create some source of comfort. It's a nice thought. But I can't really say I've ever felt that comfortable living alone, as much as I used to think it's all I ever wanted.

An escape from people. From cruel stares and harsh words. But there was no crueler stare, no harsher voice than the ones which greeted me upon every reflection I casted. It's pitiful to think back on. How many times I leapt out of the frying pan and into the fire. And to think it all led up to this. To me, alone in my apartment again, wishing with every fiber of my being that I could be on my way to work soon, that I could see my old boss, that I could pass by a mirror and actually be able to see my own face upon the glass. To be real. To be alive.