THE SLOWEST BURN ~ wally clark x oc

~ whole ~

KAITLYN

Everything looks the same, feels the same, even smells the same. I'm lying on my side, sunken into the cushions of an old cozy couch in the theater storage room. The couch is practically hidden in the back. Pieces of sets, props, and costumes on racks surround me.

This dark green lumpy eyesore nestled among all these memories has always been my happy place. It's become a running joke among the theater kids, because this old couch somehow ends up in at least one scene of every play and musical we ever do. We even managed to work it into A Midsummer Night's Dream, which wasn't exactly in Shakespeare's original vision.

I've laid here during scenes I wasn't in, saving my energy for when I was due back on stage. I've flopped here to run through my lines in the after-school lull before rehearsal. I've piled on here with Alison and our friends and gossiped about whatever drama was currently going down with everyone. And let's not forget the time Ryan and I made out here... which apparently was the catalyst for him realizing he was gay. Oh god, that was embarrassing. But not even that could take away the comfort this place gave me.

I want it to work so badly this time.

My eyes are closed, but the tears still stream down my face. My arms wrap around me tightly while sobs make my chest heave. There's no one here to hug me, it dawns on me, and I try not to get pulled into a deeper well of despair. I take some deep breaths, slowly in... pause... then out. I tell myself I'm okay. It's a lie, but maybe I'm a good enough actor that I can even fool my own brain.

A long time passes... an hour? maybe two?... until I'm ready to loosen the tight grip around my body and relax my tense muscles. Next my breathing calms and regulates. And eventually I open my eyes, and the tears slow, for now.

I'm dead. I'm in the afterlife. It's not what I expected. But, as far as I can tell, it's not hell. My couch is here. I'm wearing my favorite hoodie. And I feel good.

Wait a second.

I feel good. Like... healthy.

Why didn't this drastic change occur to me yesterday the moment I crossed from life to death? The last time I felt this good physically was before I was diagnosed with leukemia. I never thought I'd feel like this again, ever.

I don't feel the constant dull ache in my body, or the cloud of fatigue. Here I am, eyes open and mind clear. My gaze falls on a folded up wheelchair we used as a prop in last year's play.

I sit up suddenly as it fully sinks in.

I can walk, like, on my own without help. Hell, I bet I can sprint if I want to. And climb a tree or jump into a pool or do cartwheels. Maybe it's normal to experience confusion, anxiety, and disorientation when you first cross over. But the fog has lifted. I remember the sickly broken shell of the girl I was twenty four hours ago.

But she's gone. And I'm me again.

I take a deep breath and stand up, cognizant this time of how easy it is. How could I possibly not realize this? I chalk it up to the extreme circumstances. Dying is rather dramatic, after all.

My hand runs along the cement-bricked wall as I work my way out of the obstacle course of set pieces. The high walls are covered in paint: name after name, decades of theater kids leaving their marks before they leave this place. Mine is up high.

Two and a half years ago, when I was first in remission, I climbed a ladder to find an open spot. Clutching two plastic cups and a brush, I painted a patch of golden yellow for the background and then used blue to paint "Kaitlyn Sands 2024", the year I thought I was going to graduate.

I was so close.

Just two more months. But truthfully I'd rather have gone now than held on and been sick on the sidelines as the other seniors went on the class trip, danced at prom, graduated, and then partied to celebrate it all.

But that's changed. I duck under a prop staircase and reach the door. I look down at my functioning body, and think of how ironic it is to feel healed and whole in my death.

My hand twists the knob, and it's like I'm emerging from a cocoon out into a new life. I want to run, jump, dance, anything and everything. I'll sort out all this dead girl stuff later. Right now I have to move.

The first year of middle school, right before I was diagnosed, I was the best sprinter on the track team. I'd leave everyone else in the dust, and I loved it.

If they see me, these people will think I'm weird as hell, but... fuck it, I'm going to run around the track.

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