Come Back With

She supposed dying wouldn’t feel so…detached.

If she hadn’t known, for a sheer fact, that the car had hit her, that it had been going rather fast, and she was only wearing the armor of her own t-shirt and jeans with the added help of a bag full of grape juice, she would have thought someone else was dying. She looked at her numb fingers, twitching without her control. The nails were dirty from the asphalt and they were bleeding from where she fell on them.

There was also an excessive amount of grape juice everywhere, for it seemed to have exploded when the vehicle hit her. She wanted to sigh morosely, but her lungs didn’t seem to be working right. How she loved grape juice, she could drink it all day. And now it was wasting on the dirty street, mixing with her own blood. She wondered why there wasn’t pain, for pain and blood seem to mix rather nicely. But she had never died before, so perhaps it was only normal.

She wanted to close her eyes. That would be nice, to go to sleep. She hadn’t had enough sleep for the past week, working overtime to pay the rent. But it just ended and she finally had enough extra cash to go buy something to eat. Or, in her case, drink. She felt so satisfied when she bought her grape juice. So excited that she wanted to drink them all before she got to the register.

And now she couldn’t, and they were dribbling out of sight. She wishes she could sigh, she felt so pitiful. Why couldn’t she get her mind off of the juice current surrounding her? Perhaps because, if she was inhaling, she would be breathing it in. That would be a nicer death, drowning in grape juice; at least she would have tasted it as she died.

But there is nothing to do about it now, at least she is pretty sure. She really doesn’t know what she is supposed to do. Pray? Repent? Scream? Curse? She didn’t feel like doing much at all, except perhaps sleeping. But that seems impossible, especially when she can’t even close her eyes.

Did she deserve this? That is a good question. Did she do something wrong? Another great point. But she couldn’t bring the strength to even consider these very important questions. They didn’t seem to matter much. For the first time, she realized that there are questions for the living and questions for the dead.

She wanted to frown. Then what is a question for a dead person? This suddenly seems very important and she forces her tired mind to comprehend it. Where does she go from here? Heaven? Hell? Limbo? Resurrection? If she could, she would shake her head. No, those are the right words. It doesn’t matter what she believed in while living. For the sheer reason that she isn’t living anymore.

To her intense relief, someone finally closes her eyes for her. She wants to desperately thank that person, though she has no idea who it was. Did they even close her eyes? Or did she simply stop seeing? Hm, that’s a good question. What is seeing, really? The answer should be poetic and artistic sounding, but she knows it should be simple. Something that doesn’t require much thought or carefully chosen words.

She feels arms around her, but she isn’t really considering that now. Someone is cradling her, whispering soft words to her and she tries to tone them out. To her displeasure, her eyes open again and she sees someone above her weeping. She puts her question aside and dredges up a new one.

Why are you crying?

There seems to be very little to cry about after all. Except, perhaps her wasted grape juice, but it was only ten cans, there is always more that can be bought. She would offer money to this crying figure, if she could only remember how to move her arms and find her wallet. There wouldn’t be much money, but it was better than nothing, surely.

The figure, she can’t tell whether it is a boy or girl, man or woman, only a figure. And they are rather hard to focus on, she decides. And she wants to blink, but she can’t. She is starting to dislike this whole dying procedure, it would be much improved if she only had a way of moving.

“You shouldn’t have died.”

The figure bawls, and she is swiftly missing the feeling of frowning. Well, that is a simple statement. It would be better worded that nothing should die. There is little reason to care whether or not she was dying. Or is she already dead? Is there a difference? No, that is another question for living and it is banished from her train of thought.

“You were so bright, so alive.”

Another odd statement. Of course she was alive, otherwise she couldn’t have died. Then again, can inanimate objects die? What an odd concept and it is almost worthy of more thought. But it passes through like all the others. And she almost feels remorse. Can questions die? That would be most depressing. Especially since they only exist for an answer and if they die, they would never hear it.

Maybe I am a question, she muses. That’s why it didn’t hurt, that’s why everything is so confusing. She needs an answer, now. But the figure above her doesn’t seem to be inclined of saying anything besides for obvious phrases. She wants to ask. So she does.

What am I?

The figure smiles and it feels better than any smile ever given to her. She wants to smile back, but she can’t. The figure ceases weeping. But, of course, it is almost impossible to crying and smile at the same time. Unless it is tears of joy or mirth. But that isn’t crying or weeping anyway.

“You are seeing.”

And, she decides, that she really was a question. An incomplete statement. And this figure, this wonderful figure above her. Who wept over her body and opened eyes and is holding her so closely.

Is her answer.