What the Water Gave Me | Ruby da Cherry

My Dress Hangs There

Telling the bees is an English tradition that states that bees should be told of any important news such as births, marriages, and deaths. If the bees aren't "put into mourning", they may stop producing honey or leave the hive. Bees are thought to be a bridge into the next world.

"Hey," a voice said. I felt a sharp pain in my hand before the voice repeated itself.

My eyes fluttered open but I couldn't comprehend what was in front of me. Instead of a hospital or my bed like I would hope, or even the temple, I was on the bank of a small river. It didn't even look real. There was a pinkish hue to the light, not unlike the early morning during spring. A faint rainbow laid across the waterfall at the mouth of the river... it looked peaceful but a knot in my stomach told me to run and never look back.

With another sharp pain, I looked to the source of the pain to see a small Xoloitzcuintli, the Mexican hairless dog, nibbling at my hand.

"You shine like the sun. Why are you sad?" it chimed next to me. Its voice was high-pitched, almost like a child's, with a robotic cadence behind it, like talking into a fan.

"You're talking." I quickly scrambled myself upright and away from the leopard. "Why are you talking? Dogs don't talk."

"Good thing I'm no ordinary dog then, huh?" it said, rubbing its head against my leg.

"Who are you?" I asked as it played with the hem of my dress.

"The name's Luz, thanks for asking," she chirped. I started to ask questions but she cut me off with a soft bark. "You have other responsibilities. This is not the end." Before I could respond, she ran off into the woods.

"Wait!" I screamed to the dog, but she continued to run away, leaving nothing behind but a sparkle among the trees.

For the first time since I awoke, the throbbing in my stomach took over my thoughts. Shaking, I reached a hand up to the source of the pain.

It was wet.

My hand was covered in bright crimson. A fuzzy memory flashed through my brain but I couldn't link into anything that made sense. I looked down at my stomach and my entire shirt was covered in carmine ink. I was scared to see if there were wounds underneath.

"That'll go away," a voice behind me said. It wasn't Luz this time. No, the new voice was deep with an alluring rhythm.

I spun around to greet the new entity. I half-expected another talking animal but instead a man only a few years older than me stood in the bank, the waves kissing the bottom of his feet. Despite the pinkish water lapping at the sand, his shoes remained dry.

He stuck out his hand to shake mine. I rubbed my bloody hand off on my pants before touching him. His hair was deep brown, like mine but not as dark, and curly. But his eyes stood out to me, being a beautiful hazel with a thick row of eyelashes.

"Mine went away after a few hours. The blood will fade too..." he paused. I didn't know what to say so I asked him what happened to me. "I don't know. Do you not remember?" I shook my head. "You'll remember eventually...It's been a while since I've seen anyone here."

"How long have you been here?" I asked. I had so many questions. He asked me what year it was. "1995." He pondered for a minute.

"Well, when I died it was 2014. Time doesn't really work here. It's hard to keep track. A hundred years out there might as well be a thousand here."

"So I'm...dead?" I asked, baffled at his nonchalant attitude toward the situation.

"As a doornail," he said casually. "I'm Aristos. Aristos Petrou, but Ari is fine too," he said. He guided me towards a bench I hadn't noticed before. "After a while, I started to be able to, I guess, conjure things. Not big things, at least not yet. But sometimes I can just kinda will things I need into existence. What's your name?"

"Guadalupe," I said simply. "But you can call me Lupe, if you want." A million thing were racing through my mind to say anything else. He asked me where I'm from. "Mexico City." I thought of my little home that sat against the background of the cityscape and it pulled a few tears to my eye. "What about you?"

"New Orleans," he replied. He turned to me, batting his copious eyelashes and pulled me into a hug. "It's okay, Guadalupe. You don't have to cry."

But I did anyway. As my family will mourn me, I grieved my loss of them. Soon, my memories of them will fade and be hazy flashes of the idea.