Refined Sugars

Death & Afterlife || Supernatural

It is strange being dead.

Many religions promise a sort of heaven, hell, or, even purgatory. And, perhaps there is. I, however, have not found them. I am not alone, either. A handful of my friends and acquaintances roam the Earth like me, in intangible, floating essences. Unlike them, I have taken a fondness to linger at the last resting place of my body. It's still a graveyard after all these centuries.

My companions visit me on occasion, blabbering nonsense about their great-great-great-great-great-oh goodness just shut your mouth-great grandchildren concern themselves with. They speak to me about words I do not fully understand such as cell phones, internet, and airplanes. I have never taken it upon myself to learn these as I suppose I should.

No, I prefer the solace of the pines that encase the old, weathered country graves. I often said to my parents I could spend an eternity here and, now, I am. Even in death, I feel the need to prove something to them. They have not appeared around here searching for me. I entertain myself with the idea they made it into one of the three I spoke of earlier. How I fell through the cracks, though, I may never know.

Today, I decided to spy on a funeral happening despite the cloudy, rainy dullness.

People watching had always been a horrible habit of mine, one I still caress and cling to as I look over the collection of stone and grass. I listen to the words whispered in between sobs of the mourning. I tend to the flowers left behind, ensuring they stay in place amidst the strong winds of the plains. I wish I could wipe the tears off the faces of the parents who lost a child. I want I could tell them it is better on the other side even if I don't truly believe that.

Yet I never see another rise up after being planted six feet under. I have not seen such since Lydia's great-grandchild. But I may know why or, at the very least, an assumption which may be affecting the chances, a hypothesis as to why those buried here have become sparser.

I may not fully comprehend the changes that have transpired since my death, but I can tell you with certainty that fewer people live out here. The fields have become more substantial. Settlements are left abandoned or removed. Lydia speaks of towns and cities so large they fit millions of people. Perhaps that's where they are. Perhaps that's why mourners come less often. Perhaps that's why no other person had been buried here for decades until today.

The coffin was small, a child's I assumed. They would not be the first youth buried. I watched the procession, a large wake. Nothing too out of the ordinary besides a young man standing on the fringe of the crowd. No one interacted with him besides a shoulder squeeze by an elderly gentleman while some passed by him with a look of disdain in their eyes. Curiously, I kept my eyes on him as the others dispersed into noisy machines.

In truth, I could not make out what words this man began to mutter to himself as he started pacing around the fresh grave. I cautiously decreased the gap between us. With great fervor, he reached into his coat pocket, retrieving a black box, and hurled it onto the ground. A small shattering sound punctuated the end of his rant. He then ran into a red machine and disappeared down the road.

Enraptured by the whole scene, I took it upon myself to retrieve the now broken object. Cracked glass covered one side while the other was a smooth surface. A picture of a bitten piece of fruit was in the middle. The sides had buttons and the front of a circle. My parents had warned me about the allures of boredom. I would have listened, but the dead pay no mind.

Pressing buttons lit up the cracked glass with a color picture of a man holding a girl. The man was the young man who had left, only his auburn hair was shorter and more kept. Not to mention a lack of the old five-o-clock shadow. The girl was a negro with a halo of curly, untamed hair. Her smile spread to my own face.

"That's my dad's phone," a small voice broke the silence.

I dropped the object and spun around. There, in front of me, stood the child in the picture, notably older than in the toddler in it. I froze. It had been such a long time since another spirit had joined the land of the living. The girl tilted her head, hair bowing to gravity's weight.

"He left it here. I was only looking at it. Here, do you want it?" I asked. The girl lifted her hand and began stretching her fingers then hesitated.

"I have no knowledge of how to use it. It is best suited with you." The girl slowly wrapped her hands around it, pressing a button on the side, illuminating the glass once more. Her eyes began to water. Tears spilled out. I knew not the full story but, for once in this ethereal existence, I reached out and wiped away the falling droplets.

The weight of death takes minutes to process then rushes over a person as a tidal wave sucking a sailor to the depths of the old sea. My previous friends had ignored this, clinging to their progeny, refusing to cry. They never talked about nor acknowledged such a pain when crossing over.

But, for once, I had someone who understood.