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vote or i'll eat ur hair
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Green turns to white rather quickly.
It's a little confusing at first. It's all white, like my eyes are closed but I'm not seeing black instead. It's all white. I try to lift up an arm, feel my face, kick a leg maybe, but it's like I'm not there at all. I'm part of the white nothing, a faint buzzing sound near the back of my head. Or maybe that's silence, so deafeningly loud. Not like the kind of silence when it's the dead of night and the house is still. The kind of silence where there's simply nothing, no house, no night, no air, no me. I simply don't exist, and then I wonder, if I don't exist, how can I think?
My vision slowly clears. Everything is still white, but I can make out shadows, the outlines of some objects. I'd squint if I could, but I'm not even there, and then—
It's like I come crashing.
Suddenly, I can feel my feet planted on the ground. I can feel my finger tips brushing against the sides of my thighs. I can feel my curls, knotted and a wreck, tickling the back of my neck. I don't feel my heart pumping in my chest. I don't feel my blood rushing. I bite down on the inside of my lip and feel nothing.
I'm sitting in a bakery. It's all white, every little detail from the tables and chairs to the ceiling and floor to the baked goods inside the display case. It's entirely empty, entirely white, and entirely familiar. I realize with a start, gasping softly, that it's the bakery, the one in France that my father and I would sit in for hours on the days he didn't have work. We'd order cakes and pastries and read books and talk about anything and everything that came to our minds. And the days that he couldn't sit in there with me, I'd sit there anyway. They had a special booth in the back reserved just for my father and me, a perfect little corner with a window for me to see the lazy street outside, feel the sunset wash on me, and pour through books while my coffee gets cold.
I'm dead, I realize.
And I don't gasp, I don't jolt with the realization, I don't crumple over and descend into a great fit of tears. I don't despair over all the lost time, all the lost opportunities, all the lost adventures. I sit there blankly, staring at the little wooden signs, white instead of brown, that typically have printed on them the daily specials.
The silence hurts my ears. I lift my hand up, knowing I'm brushing it against my ear. I barely feel it, a whisper of a touch. I bite my lip again. This time I feel it, but only hardly, like I've had an Anesthetizing Spell placed over me.
