Afterworld

O Death

I never thought death would be quite like this. I'm not sure what I was expecting, really. A choir of angels waiting to introduce me to life in a cloud palace? Hell fire? Oblivion? To be honest, I've never really put thought into it. My family isn't exactly religious, and up until now, I've never had a real reason to ponder what happens after death. Now dying- that's what I expected. Pain, screams, all-encompassing blackness. It was faster than I thought it would be, too. One moment I'm in school, showing the little sixth graders around, and the next I'm dead. At least... I think I am. It's certainly the only explanation I can come up with for this.

My mind flits back, as it so often does, to the day I died. This, readers, is where our story begins, so pay attention from here on out.

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Shallow breathing seems incredibly loud and abrasive in the opressive silence. My skin contracts with every beat of my too-fast heart, my blood roars in my ears. I'm too terrified to notice the heat of the position I'm in or the sweat beading on my forehead. No one dares to move; all of us are contorted into cramped positions on the floor and are squeezing every muscle to keep that posture. My own legs are asleep and I ceased feeling anything in them ten minutes ago. Stifled sobs crack into the air around me, creating an erratic rhythm of staccato gasps and uncontrollable exhales. Tears prick in my own eyes but a quick glance at Aisha has me forcing them down, down, down, past the fist-sized lump in my throat and into the roiling pit of nerves that is my stomach.

There's no use in crying, anyway, I think.

All forty-some people in the room remain crouched in a huddle for a few more minutes. Hope is beginning to rise that the person outside will pass us by.

We aren't so lucky.

The air is sucked out of the room as the door handle rattles violently. My heart has either begun beating at a speed faster than light or it has stopped functioning at all. We wait, praying that whoever it is will pass us by. They'll leave us alone, they'll leave the school alone. Let us go back fourty-five minutes to when it was a normal day. Someone reaches forward and grasps my hand so tightly I think I can feel my bones grinding together. I squeeze back.

A gunshot slashes through the heavy silence, followed by the sound of a window shattering and screams erupting from teenage throats. Shards of clear glass rain onto the floor, heading directly for those of us crouched in the front of the huddle. I stiffen and whip around, thrusting my arms above my head to protect it. Sharp pieces of the window still manage to pierce my arms and the back of my neck. I don't scream.

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Footsteps crunch on the glass. People are screaming, pleading, praying, crying. People's voices are drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. Slowly, slowly, I turn around to face the shooter.

I never see their face. Really, there are only a few things I see: a.) The sleek barrel of the gun, b.) the beauty of the weapon (a bit ironic considering what's going to happen next), c.) the fact that it's pointed straight at Aisha. My baby sister.

Without a further thought, I wrench my hand out of the other person's and dive in front of her. And then I'm dead.

I'll spare you the excruciating details (how the bullet ripped through my temple, how there was a blinding flash of white hot pain, how I could simultaneously feel every drop of blood and sweat on my body, every blister and callous, and still feel nothing at all. How my vision tunnelled and went red in the span of a few seconds. And how the last thing I saw somehow gave me comfort: the sight of my baby sister, unharmed, save for the blood spattering across her face in slow motion- my blood.). I'll spare you all of that. There's no need to tell you. Suffice to say: I died.

And then I didn't. It's hard to explain the transition, but I'll try my best to do so. I died. And then I open my eyes. Very slowly- agonizingly slowly- I become aware of my surroundings once more. The world around me has a blue tint to it, and all sounds are distorted and warbled. It's like I'm watching everything from underwater. Movement to my right catches my eye. The shooter falls to the ground, cops swarm in. There must be ten at the very least. They move to my left, keeping their guns trained on the body of the shooter. Whoever it is has landed face-down. Diluted crimson color pools underneath them; I look away.

I tear my gaze away from the shooter and look to my left. Shame washes over me for not checking on Aisha first, but the emotion is quickly replaced. In her arms, I see... Me. Me, but not me: my body, or someone's that looks like mine. She has my wavy black hair, olive skin, dark brown eyes opened and glassy with death. She's wearing my black and floral skater skirt, my pink lacy shirt, and my black heeled sandals. Her head's decorated with a bullet wound dribbling blood onto Aisha's hands.

Unconciously, my fingers probe the spot the wound would be on my own head. There's nothing there; I'm completely fine.

Aisha isn't sobbing yet. She's gathered the body into her arms and is patting her face, gaining force and desperation with each slap. Finally, the sobs take over her body. She bends her torso over the corpse of... my doppleganger(?).

"Aisha." No response. "Aisha, I'm right here. Look at me, please, sissy."

The policemen begin attempting to pry Aisha from the body. She's screaming, I think. Sound is still distorted.

Logic attempts to fight its way to the front of my mind: Aisha can't see me. No one can see me, otherwise they would say something, wouldn't they?

Words reach me through my daze. A police officer talking about looking for another shooter. I barely process what he's saying. I'm still staring at Aisha, who is sobbing into the teacher's arms. My brain is very slowly beginning to understand what's happening.

That's me. On the floor, blood on her forehead, that's me. I'm dead. Im still somewhat alive but I'm dead or close to it.

"I... I'm dead?" I ask the air.

Then I feel a hand on my shoulder. My heart skips, whether from fear or anticipation I have no idea. I look at the hand- freezing cold, I now realize- and scream.

The fingers resting on my shoulder are rotting, flakes of skin and drops of blood dripping into my bright pink shirt. The tendons are stretching grotesquely over patches of bare bone. Stretching because... The hand is moving to my face.

Fuck.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hey y'all! This is my first story on Wattpad (not really but my old account is a cause of great shame so we're not going to talk about that). I'll try to update regularly! Another thing I'm doing, apparently: every chapter is named after a relevant song title! Keep in mind: the song, unless stated in the beginning of a chapter in an A/N or in the story itself doesn't go along with the chapter. It's just a cool title. Today's is "O Death" as sung by Jen Titus. Some of you that watch Supernatural may be familiar with this song. Otherwise, look it up! It's badass. :) Thanks for reading!