Matters of Fate

Chapter 1

I watched through my world-window, a boy, near my age with fiery amber eyes and a mess of curly hair akin to midnight. His skin was pale, almost otherworldly at first glance...like porcelain. His face sported dark brows to match his hair, and dusted along his cheekbones and nose were small freckles. Resting on his lower cheeks were subtle dimples only prominent when he was smiling, which from the time I had died till now, had happened very rarely.

You could tell from the grey patches beneath his orange orbs and the light shade of red ghosting them, that he had cried for nights on end with little sleep. The sight of it nearly killed me which was ironic considering I was already dead. So, I figured if it was possible to die multiple times, funeral preparations were in order.

I watched his lanky form shift from his position curled beneath his comforter to the edge of his bed. He reached a pale, muscular arm towards his bedside table where he moved it frantically before finally grasping the object of his sadness, me.

The picture he held gently, like it could burst into flames, was definitely my yearbook picture from last year. It was rough around the edges most likely due to frantic strokes of safety scissors. I remembered watching him the night after I had killed myself, searching his room in a hectic state until he found the worn yearbook from the year before.

I remembered watching him open it steadily, and flip the pages, careful not to accidentally rip what might be the page. I remembered him finally finding my picture, one I was definitely not proud of. But he didn't seem to take mind of my wrinkled shirt or bedhead, and instead looked at it with such affection and grief that I could physically feel my heart shatter.

I remembered watching him whip his head to his desk seconds before he abruptly stood up and ran towards it, grabbing the pair of safety scissors from under some textbooks. I remembered studying his every move as he crept towards the yearbook, picked it up, and hastily cut out my picture.

I remembered watching tears stream down his face as he held the picture to his chest.

I chuckled bitterly at the memory and whispered to myself, "you idiot." Why'd it have to be me? Why'd he have to love me?

In case you didn't know how heaven worked, those who chose to end their life were separated from the rest, sent to white cages where at every turn you were just met with white. It seemed to go on forever. It wasn't annoyingly bright or depressingly dull, just white. All the walls covered in this blanket of absent color, all except one.

The one aforementioned wall held a small window. Not an ordinary one, which gave clue as to what the outside of this cage looked like. No. Nothing so beautiful. Instead, it held the image of The One who loved you the most. It was almost cruel, having to watch the person who loved you most grieve and sulk and beat themselves up, asking What could I have done?

But what to be expected from sinning? We did this to ourselves. This was our punishment. I'm not sure how long I had to endure this, but I knew this was definitely not Heaven. If it was, why'd it feel so greatly like Hell?

This brings me to my next dark reverie:

I remember the moments after I had taken my own life. That's a funny expression: taking my own life. I have learned since then that it was not mine to take. It was my mom's, my friend's, the cute boy with the amber eyes' life. I took something from them that they'll never get back, and I've realized now, it's hurt them way more than its hurt me. And for that reason, it was not my life to take.

Anyways, everything was black, and then everything was white. It was that simple. There were no disruptions, no delays, no chance at life again. I was merely alive one second then dead the next. No angels, or gates to heaven or hell.