Regrets? I have no regrets. How can one regret death? I am not sure one can. It would be pointless to regret it; for even regret cannot undo the deed. I can see my earthly body. I hover over it. It lies there beside the barren street. It is early, and my body will not be found for another hour or more.

The knife will not be drawn out. It is now frozen in my breast, which is blackened with frozen blood. The snow is red around my corpse. It is not a sight for weak eyes.

Then, if that is my body down there on the street, then who am I? Am I me? Is that my body? Surely I am not a ghost, am I? A spirit, then. Could I be a spirit? I am not in my body; that I know. I can not feel my limbs. I cannot move my arms. If those are my limbs. If those are my arms. I am floating above the street. This is odd. I can see. I can hear. But where are my ears and eyes. I look down where my body should be, and there is nothing there.

Morning is coming to the horizon, dying the clouds pink in its cheer. The butcher on the corner is now opening his shop, and the bakery, two streets away, has its fires lit, and the smell of bread has come to my nose. Wherever my nose is. The butcher comes out to breath in the air as he opens his shop door. He seems to be a nice man, but I have seen him drunk.

He sees my body, lying cold in the snow. He calls for Peter, his son. Peter! What a good friend he was to me. I forgot about him. Now I wish that I had said goodbye. Does that count as a regret?

Peter and his father approach my body, lying there on the frosty snow. They whisper words that I can't hear, and Peter runs into my building, the building where I once lived. I sill hover over the scene, my not-eyes taking in everything. Early risers now crowd my pale, bloodied corpse.

Now I have regrets as mother comes out of the building, weeping over my body, in nothing but that white nightgown that father gave her last week for her birthday. Father wraps a blanket around her shaking shoulders, turning her eyes away from the scene.

If I had eyes, they would now be crying. All that I have left, all that I have hurt with this simple act. That grave, sad, wondering look on father's face. Those tears on mother's cheeks. That kind concern for my parents on Peter's face, and those prayers for my safety in the after-life on everyone's lips. What have I done? Oh, God, what have I done?

Regrets. As I was doing it, I had no regrets. It was the right thing to do. Now, though, now I have regrets. I cannot undo the action. It is irreversible. I have regrets, though, so many regrets.

What is to become of me now, though? Where is God? Has he forsaken me? I had given up on God when I found that knife, but where is He now? I silently drift away from the scene, with the memory of mother's tears fresh in my mind. Wherever my mind is. It smells like any other morning. Smoke mingles with the smell of bread. People open their shutters to the day.

There is a light. No, not a light of the sun. A different light. It is blinding, and white.

"Hello, child," says a voice. The voice of God? It is deep, and kind. I cannot put a face of any sort to that voice. The city is gone. I don't care. I want to go to that voice. Be loved forever by its owner. The light. Oh! How I long for it! Angel voices ring from its depths. It is a place of love and caring.

A fire is beneath me. It is hot, and it cackles with hatred. I know what that is. Hell. Cruel, detestable, vile, loathsome. I don't want to go there. The sound of whips rises from the bowels of that fire, and screaming. Screaming. Pain and suffering. The place reeks of it. It seems to draw me in, refusing to let me go. Refusing to let me be loved by the light.

The light! I am so close. If I had fingers, they would be reaching for the light. I am the rope in a tug-of-war between Heaven and Hell. The heat of Hell is on one side, drawing me in, sucking me away from the light that is on the other.

So close. So close…