The Dying Story (Chasing Illusions #3) | A Novel

Chapter 8

When Vena fell into the raging waves below the bridge, she didn't give a thought to what the end would be, despite desiring it above everything else.

The waves overwhelmed her, quickly snuffing the life out of her, bringing her into its depths. Vena didn't fight, letting the waves carry her to the bottom. There was a certain peace in it, a sort of letting go.

It was life she let go of, letting nature take back what it had once given her. Her life never once flashed before her eyes like how some people seemed to say, but she didn't need to see her life—her life was nothing to talk about, nothing to admire about. It was a mundane life among the billions of people on earth, a meaningless one among all those who had constructed meaning.

So this was how Vena ended, with a jump down to the raging waves of water, while letting go of any possible regrets in her mind. Her story ended here—if she was truly to die.

Because even if the mortal bodies die, the soul did not. Vena's soul remained, while her body disintegrated, eaten by the fish, then fish eaten by its predators and its predators finally dying, succumbing to nature's laws.

——

It didn't feel like sleep when Vena opened the eyes she shouldn't have, stretched her limbs that should have been gone.

"Where am I?" Her voice echoed, even when she should not have her vocal cords.

Didn't I die, she thought, as she stood up and gaze down on her body. The same dress she wore on the day she jumped over the bridge. Clean and pristine. Nothing amiss and nothing that suggested she had killed herself.

A black circle appeared in front of her. She jumped back in a startle, before realizing somebody was coming through it. For a moment, she envisioned a reaper, but out came a grotesque creature.

"Another one of this type of human?" Its voice boomed, and a shiver went down Vena's spine. She didn't really know what to say except blink and watched carefully.

Out came a voice from somewhere that Vena cannot identify. "This one died by jumping off a bridge."

"Typical. All humans seemed to never have creative ways of killing themselves."

"What's going on? If i killed myself, why am I still alive?"

The creature turned to her. "Oh why do you think you are alive? You're dead, that's for sure."

"But I don't look dead."

"Of course not. Your body is dead. Your soul isn't."

For a moment, Vena didn't know how to respond. Then she decided to ask, "Then why am I here?"

The voice from somewhere replied, "People who die using your way go here."

"For what?"

"For work." At this moment, another creature appeared, this time seemingly humanoid. He had a mask on, something similar to what she believed a horror movie villain once had. She gazed at the two holes where the eyes were supposed to be, but the two holes were too low for it to be where human eyes were.

Somehow, it made her shiver at the knowledge that she was in a place where creatures of unknown origins were surrounding her.

"What work?"

The creature seemed to be taller when it started to talk, "You have killed yourself. For that, you cannot go to heaven nor hell. By the decree of the Creator, you are to company us in persuading souls to accept their untimely death."

———

I stare at the writing, already feeling tired at what I've read. Out of all things Charlotte could have written, she wrote this? It doesn't make sense to me. Plus, what's with the "Creator" part? Charlotte never believed in God. Towards her, God was more or less a construct than an actual thing.

Furthermore, Charlotte never really loved stories that were in the fantasy or paranormal genre. Her taste in books tend to be more in the literary genre and realistic fiction. Towards her, fantasy never held any appeal whatsoever, preferring her stories to be grounded in reality. She had always complained about stories when they aren't realistic. Even with the smallest of details. Sometimes it's a pain to watch movies with her—she's like the real life nitpicker from Cinema sins, who just can't stop ruining movies.

I scroll down to read any possible stuff, but there weren't any left. Wait, that is all Charlotte have written? It is barely a premise and the beginning! I don't even know who Vena is! I then decide to open her notebook once more.

In her notebook, there are more details about Vena's story. Vena is a twenty five year old woman who is dealing with depression for almost her whole life. Vena had a mother who was in the old folks home, and a sister who she was not close with. A description was placed in one of the pages, and I read tentatively, not sure what she was going to write about Vena.

It reads:

"Vena is a person who has found no reason to continue her life, who despite trying all ways to live, she couldn't continue on. But as she continues her job, she will learn what she had lost from her death and come to regret."

I blink. I read again once more.

I flip to the next page with more notes about Vena.

It reads:

"First person she has to persuade: a mother who is trying to live on despite her grave illness.

Second person she has to persuade: someone who had met an car accident.

Third person she has to persuade: a vengeful ghost..."

I frown, feeling a sense of unreal ness here. This story is completely out of the left field. It feels like something written by a completely different person, somebody that Charlotte isn't.

But then, I remember what Charlotte wrote in the letter. "To understand Vena, you must understand me. You must understand the side of me that I hid from everybody." Maybe this is what she meant. This is the part of her that I never knew.

I sigh, as I place my head on the table with a thud, feeling exhausted at everything that had transpired. What more surprises does Charlotte want to give me? Even though a part of me want to know more about why she killed herself, a larger part of me felt like I knew the answer to begin with, that there isn't a point of doing all these.

The rest of me is afraid to know.

I'm afraid to know what is beyond those pages of journals, what she plan for the story, why she stop writing it and why even though she hadn't finished it, she still chose to die.

But more than anything, I wanted to know why she called me that day, the day she supposedly decided to kill herself. At the same time, I'm afraid again.

Because if she called me then for help, then it can only mean one thing.

I had the chance to do something, but I failed to.