Smoke

Always check your pockets

And that's it. That was the day I met Death. I miss her sometimes- not  a lot, I'd only spent less than  day with her, but I miss having a conversation with someone other than myself.  What's funny is that Old Martha would have despised Death if she had ever met her (Talking hypothetically here), and  I'm not really sure if I had liked her because no one else had been able to acknowledge my existence. 

Anyway, what does it matter. I can't seem to understand what Death had told me. An act of self realisation? What does that even mean? I think about it all the time. I think about my death all the time, it's constantly on my mind. I can't seem to think about anything else lately, and I'm tired. My mind hurts, my hypothetical heart hurts. I am so tired of feeling this way, feeling like smoke, feeling unwanted, feeling like something that just blows away into the wind and is gone. They say if you want something badly enough you'll get it, but if I wish any harder I feel like I'll explode. I keep going over and over what happened the night I died, looking for a clue, an answer, something  that might help me. I thought that Death was my answer from the universe, but it turns out that I was wrong. My only hope is the night I died. I spout all this crap about not caring, about liking being dead, but in reality it sucks. It's a noose that keeps tightening over time, except I'm dead, so there's no end to the pain. 

And suddenly, I'm walking. I'm walking through my hometown, faster and faster. I just want to get away from it all but I can't because I'm stuck here, haunting this fucking city. 

But really it's me who's being haunted. Haunted by a night I'll never remember, a night that I'm not sure I need to remember but it's the only choice I have left. 

Oh, I'm sick of it. I just... I want to let go.

I come to a wall covered in flyers, plastered on every inch of granite, bright and colourful. I look at them, advertisements for circuses, and shows, and therapy sessions. One sticks out though, it doesn't look quite right. Pitch black, a stark contrast from the pinks and yellows and other hues.

"Letting Go. Playing at the Railbird club, this Friday." 

Letting Go.

That's it. I don't need to remember. I don't need to look for anything. I need to let go. I've been searching in all the wrong places, in fact I've been searching. I don't need to.Death was right, I've been pretending I'm a human, that I'm alive. Watching people, throwing a birthday party? That isn't what the dead do. In face, I'm not even sure what the dead do. Isn't time to find out? I didn't want to leave. I was scared missing all that I had, but in truth I didn't have anything. 

Across the street I hear a banging. As I look over, I can see someone doing the weirdest thing. They're hammering a black door into the granite wall, and dust is flying everywhere. It's settling on the ground in mounds, covering the person's shaggy black coat. 

Wait. I know that coat. 

"Death? DEATH!" I scream, running across the road, straight through a white van. The figure turns to me, and I catch a glimpse of black hair and sharp features. A devilish grin. 

"Killing people's not my only job you know!" She yells, "I'm supposed to help them too." Then she begins walking. 

"No, Death WAIT!" 

"Good luck Martha. "  She smiles, and waves, then starts to turn away.

"Oh, a piece of advice," she turns back around, "Always check your pockets!"

I blink, then she's gone. 

I approach the door. It's old, ornate, and has a brass knocker in the shape of a leering skull. I pull, hardly breathing. Is this is?

And... it's locked. 

Nononono. Are you kidding me. Wait.

Always check your pockets. 

I feel through the pockets of my jacket, and my fingers grasp something. A key. 

I slot it into the keyhole and twist- it's a perfect fit. I pull, and the door swings soundlessly open. As I step inside, I can see it's dark. But I don't care. 

I don't care about anything anymore, I realise, as I close the door behind me. 

I've done enough worrying for a lifetime. Well, deathtime.