This is my first short story, so be gentle with me. I literally wrote this in under an hour - the idea came to me from a conversation I had with my friend. My writing style is a bit all over the place, I enjoy going off on tangents or throwing in the occasional film/TV reference into my work and at some points it can seem more like a stream-of-consciousness rather than prose. Any comments you have would be most welcome.
OK, so I'm dead.
I can't really remember how it happened, but all I know is that I'm dead. It might've been a knife or maybe a bullet but I'm not sure. You think I would be able to remember how I actually died but sadly I can't.
I think I'm lying down.
I've seen enough movies and TV to know that I'm supposed to be 'at peace' with the world and that all my troubles should float away, like theyre being carried by some angelic helium balloon up out of existence. But I'm not. I don't feel peaceful. I ache. I'm restless. I want to stand up.
I'm definitely lying down.
You know, this really isn't how I thought dying would be. Not that I've thought about dying a lot. I'm not one of those tragic teenagers who aren't 'understood' by the world around them. I mean, sure, everytime someone died on 'LOST' I'd think to myself 'I wonder how that feels' but I never thought about the actual logistics of death. 'Logistics of death': that makes it sound like some great big warehouse in the middle of Nevada where they ship dead bodies. Who knows, maybe they do?
A man is shouting at me.
It's weird to think that everything will carry on without me: sure, I won't be there to enjoy it but nevertheless life will continue. And people will grieve - at least, I hope they'll grieve - but they'll get over it. And in twenty years time I'll just be a candle that gets lit on the night of my death; a small smile on the faces of people that knew me.
My foot is itchy.
There are a million and one thoughts rushing through my brain right now, but I'm only focusing on one tiny question: what photo are they going to use of me? Now that may seem like a daft question, but think about it: my death will be on the news (or at least the newspaper), so what picture will they put next to my obituary? It can't be a baby picture - I mean, how morbid is having a picture of a baby in the obituary section of the newspaper if the guy that died is like 70?
I think I'm being carried away.
Oh God, it better not be a photo from Facebook. Please, please, please don't let it be a photo from Facebook. Could you imagine, the last thing people seeing of you is a drunken photo taken on some forgettable night out with a forgettable bunch of strangers? Because that's really all that Facebook is: a dumping ground for pictures that make you seem like the most popular guy in the world; a virtual mask that we all put up to shield others from who we really are; one giant ego trip on a computer screen for the whole world to see. If there is a God, he'll make sure they don't use a photo from Facebook.
I was in an argument.
Or worse, it could be my school picture. That's just what everyone wants to see - a 12 year old me in those hideously dorky glasses and that ridiculous tie, painfully smiling just so that Mum has something to put on the mantlepiece at home. Oh, and to send to all the relatives too of course. That year she outdid herself though, she went and bought a keyring with my picture on it. A keyring. So now, if she ever gets mugged again, the thief may take pity on her once they see the kind of dweeb she has for a son. You're welcome, Mum.
Mike didn't want to leave, but I told him we had to.
Maybe a passport photo? No, I haven't had one of those taken in about 6 years - I like to think I've become a little more handsome since then. So what are my options? Either some artist's impression of what I look like - that makes me sound like some criminal that's on the run - or a photo of me at death's door, with a knife sticking out of my head. There! Told you I'd be able to remember how I die!
I've been stabbed in the head. Who stabs someone in the head?!
Me and my friend Mike once spoke about what our last words would be and how awesome it would be to say something really profound just before you popped it. Or said something really mysterious like 'The treasure is buried in the...' the died. I cannot remember what my last word on this Earth was, for the life of me (no pun intended).
'...diamond.'
My mind is figuratively sifting through all the pictures of myself that I can remember being taken and deeming whether or not they would be worthy as my 'last picture'. What about one of the ones from holiday? Nah, I had the worst case of sunburn known to Man that week.
They put up a fence. To keep us out? Or in?
I think I can see a tunnel. As clichéd as it sounds, I genuinely think I can see some kind of tunnel up ahead. A tunnel of light. Now this part is like the movies. Or like that book that the gave to me in primary school when my Grandad died. We called it 'The Death Book' because they gave it to kids who had family that passed away; you know, to help them come to terms with it, or something. Yeah I can remember it now, it was about an old badger that knew he was going to die (lucky sod, if you ask me) and he needed to say goodbye to all his woodland friends. So most of the book (not including pictures) was him telling his friends not to be sad, because he's going to a better place. And then right at the end of the book, the badger goes to sleep and he is stood facing this tunnel of light. He walks towards the tunnel smiling, knowing that everything will be alright. Load of bull, I reckon.
It was supposed to be our last night.
I'm moving towards the tunnel, yet I can't feel my legs. Come on Jacob, you can't worry about the mechanics of dying - you're living it, boyo! I can feel myself getting warmer, the light from the tunnel is warm - like slipping into a warm bath. Crap, I need to think of something - my last thought on Earth has to be a decent one. It can't be a classic 'Oh no, I'm dead' or a 'So this is what happens' or even 'I'm coming to see you Grandad'. I'm almost there. And all I can think about is what picture they'll use for the newspaper. I'm literally at death's door, or rather, death's tunnel entrance (doesn't have the same ring to it as 'door') and this is where the panic sets it. Not panic due to my imminent death, but panic because I still haven't thought of anything profound to think. Maybe the meaning of life will present itself to me? It better not be 42. I'm halfway into the light, trying and failing to stop myself from going all the way in. I'm slipping. I feel warm all over. I'm going. I'm going. I'm gone.
I hope they use that photo of me and Alice.
