Beyond The Grave

•One•

I don't remember dying. I don't remember feeling any pain, or anything at all. All I know is what is happening right now; right now, I am watching my funeral take place. I can't cope with the fact that I am dead when I still feel very much alive. I can feel the cold chill of this room, the gloom that washes over everyone's faces, but I can't feel my heartbeat anymore.

I spot my boyfriend of three years, Nikolas, choking back his tears as he holds my younger brother close to comfort him. My brother was an absolute mess, and it broke my heart to see him this way, a way I have never seen him before.

I run over to them and try to wrap my arms around my baby brother to console him. My eyes widen as my arms slice through him as if he was made of air and not flesh and blood. I stare down at my arms, half confused and half worried. I try to touch Nikolas this time, but the same thing happens. My arms can no longer hold my boyfriend, my brother, or anyone that I love.

"Nick, Ben, don't cry! I'm right here!" I shout and wave my arms around like a maniac in an attempt to get their attention, but of course, neither of them respond. I'm invisible to the world around me.

In a moment of panic, my eyes dart around the room. There had to be some way I could communicate with someone.

I spot my parents beside a portrait of myself. It was my yearbook photo from when I was a Junior that sat above the fireplace on the mantel. I always hated that photo, I didn't look happy in it. My mother is sobbing and my father is grief stricken. People walk up to them and give them their condolences, but I barely recognize anyone in the room. Everyone here seem like complete strangers to me, so why were they here? I stumble over to my parents, waving my arms in front of their faces.

I was right in front of them, but they did not flinch.

"Mom? Dad?" I never thought I would be able to see my own funeral. I wonder if everyone sees their funeral when they die. I'm not super religious, but I don't recall the bible saying anything that alluded to being able to see our funerals. I always thought I'd wake up in heaven, looking down at the world through a golden telescope that can show you anything you want to see in the world. Of course, I was only guessing that existed.

Right beside the portrait was a coffin, an open coffin. I slowly approach the coffin and peer over the edge. There I lay, my eyes sealed shut and hands crossed over my body. I look oddly pale, like I had seen a ghost and died of fear. I'm dressed in a long, white dress that I don't remember owning. My firey red hair is loosely curled and rests on my shoulders. I have makeup on, something I rarely put on when I was alive. The fact that someone had dressed me, done my hair, and plastered on my makeup made me nauseous.

"Can anyone hear me?" I shout out in defeat, fighting the urge to collapse to the floor.

"I can hear you." Came a soft voice from the back of the room. I turned my attention to the voice and see a boy who looked around my age dressed in a black hoodie. He leaned against the wall casually despite the fact that we were at a funeral. My funeral.

His face was concealed under the shadow of his hood, though I could make out a small scar forming at the left edge of his lip. The scar gave the illusion of  a sinister smile, even though he has a neutral expression plastered on his face. He held a shiny silver scythe at his side which looked as if it could slice through a person's skin in two seconds flat, bones included.

"Who are you?" I ask in a frightened tone. I have no idea what is happening or why I'm dead, all I can feel in this moment is the surreal feeling of watching my friends and family mourn for me.

"My name is Mortimer." The boy replied, taking a step closer to me. I take a step back in fear that he will bring the scythe down on me and kill me... Again.

"What do you want?" Was what I was trying to ask, but it came out in a stutter. It was kind of difficult to keep my cool when I just woke up at my own funeral and the only person-or thing-that could see me was this creepy looking boy.

"I have come to collect your soul," He replies. A shiver rolled down my spine. I always thought you couldn't feel anything at all when you were dead, but now I know I was wrong to assume that. You can still fear for your life even when it is gone. Mortimer continues, "I'm on a strict time limit today, so if we could hurry this up that would be great. I know it's a lot to take in, but it is time to go." Mortimer speaks sharply, which causes me to leave my trance-like state. My stomach, however, still hurts.

A million and one thoughts zip around my head. The shock of it all causing me to go silent for a fleeting moment. But that moment was ruined by the impatient tap of Mortimer's scythe against the ground.

"Will I ever see... my family again?" I asked. Suddenly, nothing seemed to matter anymore, I was dead. I wouldn't be able to talk to my family, boyfriend, or friends anymore. I hoped I could at least see them, even from a distance, but something in my heart told me I probably won't ever see them again, at least not until they passed.

"Perhaps... Somewhere down the line..." Mortimer sighs.

My head continued to be clouded with varying thoughts and questions I wanted to ask. One question surfaced more frequently than the rest. I could barely bring myself to ask because I was having a hard time believing it, but with a shaky breath I ask: "How did I die?"

Mortimer sighs, again, and snaps his fingers. A large black book floats in front of us. There was no title on the cover, nor any indication of what it was. It was a strange site, I wasn't even sure how it worked. At the very beginning of the book there were stone slabs with names etched into them. As the book continued, the stone slabs went away and became some sort of paper. These pages seemed to be ancient, they were yellowed and grimy, possibly written on papyrus at one point or with a quill and ink. If I wasn't so freaked out, I would have found this book fascinating.

"Penelope Anne Roosevelt." Mortimer starts. The book slowly turns to the more recent pages without Mortimer touching it. This was where the pages were modern and a pearly white. There was a monumental amount of other names typed in a cursive font in the book. "Age eighteen as of today," he grimaces, his face turning paler than it was already. (As if that were even possible given his skin was as white as snow), "You were born in North Carolina, but moved to California because your mother's job as a writer required it. Your father stays at home and writes thriller novels. Your first word was dog, despite being attacked by your original pet dog, you were quite fond of them. You were a straight A student throughout high school and were applying to Ivy League schools all across the nation..." He taps his index finger against his chin. There was my entire life story sprawled out in front of us. I had no clue how he was reading it, though, as the lettering was microscopic. "Oh wow, you even won the national spelling bee when you were eleven..."

He was stalling. Clearly.

Growing increasingly impatient, I snapped at the boy "I know all that! I want to know... how did I die?" Mortimer grimaced at my question, then, he gave me an inconsolable look as he waved his hands in the air, the old book disappeared into space.

"If you cannot remember--I'm not supposed to say."