Picture Me Perfect

One: Picture Me Dead

          There’s only one thing I remember clearly about dying.

          Darkness.

          It completely consumed my last living thought. I don’t remember where I was, what was happening. But I remember hoping for light, hoping it would end. But it never did.

          That is, until, I woke up.

          Waking up after you’ve died is a hard thing to comprehend. I may not remember dying, but I know it happened. I know my heart stopped beating in my chest. That’s a hard thing to not realize, even in complete darkness.

          There’s also this weird feeling once it’s happened; once you’ve died. You feel very light, very free. Like an entire galaxy has been lifted off your shoulders and, ironically, you can finally breathe, really breathe again.  I remember feeling like I could float away into the nothingness, get caught on the breeze and soar.

          But then, I saw the light.

          It’s truly magnificent. Something so unexplainable and surreal, so breathtaking, your brain just can’t quite fathom it. No word could ever do it justice.

          When standing in front of it, you have only one mere thought: go in. That’s all you can think about. How fast can I run into it, where does it lead, can it take me where I want to go? It welcomes you with one glance, taking hold of your everything.

          I’m about to go inside, I need to go inside, when my feet come to a halt. I look down at them, fear spreading in my gut.

          I’m not moving. I can’t move.

          All I can think about is stepping into the light, feeling its warmth around me. But I’m stuck, my legs rigidly held to the floor. I look around me, desperate for a way to break free. I lash out at my legs, hitting against my thighs and pounding on the backs of my knees, trying to get them to bend. Nothing happens. The light begins to dim, my body utterly immobilized. I scream and focus everything on trying to move. I cry, no actual liquid escaping my eyes.

          It’s fading away. It’s leaving.

          Then, suddenly, I’m in my room. Just like that. No more light, no more anything. It’s gone, and so is the want to be inside it. I’m home, in my room, facing the mirror above my bed.

          Surprisingly, I can see my reflection. I’m wearing a yellow t-shirt, my favorite color, and some cut-off jean shorts. My wavy hair is perfectly framing my face, something I could never quite get it to do when I was alive, hitting just past the shoulders. I look down and see my favorite black converse sneakers, Kevin’s handwriting on the nose of my left shoe: November 2nd, our anniversary. I inspect all over my body, looking for any wounds that could help explain my death. Warily, I wonder if these are the clothes I died in.

          I wouldn’t really mind dying in these clothes. I’d have a piece of Kevin with me, something to always think of him. Not that I’d need something to remember him by, exactly. That’s ridiculous. He’s always on my mind, no matter what shoes I wear.

          I look back down at the sneakers, wondering when he wrote it. Was it on a date? Was it at school? I turn around to face the opposite wall of my bed, hoping a picture will bring back the memory.

          Memories are a funny thing when you’re dead. They’re there, all neatly tucked away in your brain, but you don’t have free reign over them. They just kind of demand control at random occasions, taking over all senses and transporting you into a moment to relive it. Obviously, I remember who I am and who I loved and how I lived. It just gets a little hazy sometimes. Death didn’t take my memory; it took control over it. I think that’s why I can’t remember how I died, and also why I’m still even here in the first place. I need to find out what happened that day; find the missing piece.