The Collection

The Dead Don't Rest

I can't remember if I went to Heaven or Hell when I died.

A weird feeling comes over you in the end, when you are supposed to see that tunnel of light.

My AP Biology teacher told us that when we die, our brains release endorphins, pain-inhibiting hormones, right at the brink of death. That when we die, a surge of neurological activity sparks in nearly every part of our brain, producing an effect never experienced by a living being.

I guess I proved Mrs. Avery wrong.

The exact events leading up to my death have not been collected from my memories yet, but I'm hopeful.

I woke up surrounded by a forest of skinny trees, my breath floating out of me in the frigid air.

Almost all of my memories were fragmented, disorganized and without any meaning. I remembered it was winter, not just because of the cold, but because I remembered a meteorologist on the news saying how this would be the coldest year Clearwood has ever seen.

But the TV or the room I saw it in, escaped my thoughts.

Once my eyes opened, the first thing I saw was the dying light of the day, and the empty blue skies hidden behind curved branches. I sat up, breathing in and out, getting used to it again. My heart wasn't pounding like before, it wasn't breaking against my ribcage or threatening to burst. Like it was when I was There.

I looked around me but there was nothing but brown leaves littered on the uneven grounds and the white bark of the trees. I slowly stood up, my legs numb like they haven't been used in a while. I still didn't know how long I was gone.

One step forward, then a next, each movement ordered by my brain individually.

The leaves crunched beneath my feet-- I was wearing shoes-- and the empty wind weaved its way through my wool sweater.

I crossed my arms and tried to collapse into myself in an effort to escape the grueling temperatures. I closed my eyes, squeezed them shut, trying to piece some semblance of a functioning memory together, but my mind was flooded with these random and warm images: a silver car, broken glass on a wooden floor, a blond girl laughing hysterically on the shores of a crashing beach, the impact of me falling onto the cold dirt.

But nothing was connecting, no image having connotation. It was like one of those bead bracelets you make in summer camp, each bead representing a memory and the string connecting it all is you.

When I died, the string was yanked away, spilling millions and millions of beads on the floor. And after coming back, I've been trying to pick up the pieces.

Maybe an object or place or person can help me, trigger my mind and fix my thoughts. Until then, I was nobody. I cursed at myself and picked up the pace. Daylight was fleeting and the temperature was falling drastically.

If night came I wasn't sure what would happen if I died for a second time.

If I ever do find somebody out here in the middle of nowhere, they will ask questions. Many, many questions. But it's not like I don't have a few of my own.

Given that I woke up in the woods, there is some obvious foul play regarding how I 'passed'. But thinking of my death in that way is useless without a working memory to evaluate any possible suspects.

God it was cold. Freezing. My fingers were numb and my nails felt pin-pricked. The trees started disappearing one by one, leading me to more flat and drier lands. I walked and walked until the ground began to slope downward. I was at the top of a hill, and at the bottom, as the land turned in another direction, was a house in the corner.