Suddenly, there’s just silence. Total silence like I’ve never experienced before and it takes me a moment to work out why it feels quite so crushing. It’s because, for the first time ever, I don’t hear the distant sound of my heart beating. My body is frozen, stuck. Dead.
Sometimes realization hits you all at once like a car colliding into your side. Or a pavement hitting your head. Wham. All in one go, panic sets in. The silence is broken as a groaning sob escapes my mouth. I’m confused, because I didn’t even know my body could make that sound. But it’s a passing reflection because my mind is filled with one all-encompassing thought.
My life is over.
* * *
I’ve been working toward this imaginary future where my current slogging away at the bottom of the work rung would finally pay off. I’d get a job that actually seemed to have a point. Violet and I would visit New York together. Eric and I would make his flat our home. But now that future’s gone. All I ever achieved was a moldy flat and a pointless graduate job. Shit.
It feels like someone’s stabbed me in the stomach. I didn’t think the dead could feel pain like this; surely that shouldn’t be possible? And yet here I am. Crippled by the dreadful agony of realizing that I’ve just entered the past tense. Daisy Cooper was.
I find myself stumbling onto my feet. There’s a sudden, desperate need to escape. Maybe somewhere around here is an exit back to my home, my life, my world. I run, straight out of the door behind me.
Before me is a corridor that stretches onward in a long straight line, seemingly endlessly. The walls are slightly off-white, the floors are slightly off-white and the lighting gives everything a slightly off-white quality. It feels like stepping into a blizzard and it certainly doesn’t help with the feeling of dismay rising up my back. The more I stand in this utterly silent, utterly empty corridor, the more I feel like I need to scream. No! Keep it together, Daisy.
One foot moves in front of the other until, ever so slowly, I begin to walk. I have no idea where I’m going; there doesn’t seem to be anywhere to go. This corridor is empty, and the few doors I pass are firmly shut and unmarked. Until suddenly I’m at a junction. There are two possible turnings and a crisp, clean sign on the wall. According to the sign, the left turn leads to “Fire, Alcoholism, and Poisoning” while the right turn leads to “Life.”
Well, there’s only one way to go from here, it seems. I stumble off to the right, where I’m met with a set of lift doors. So innocuous...there’s even a little paper sign next to it with a scrawled message on it: “Please do not press the button more than once, it will break the mechanism!” The mundaneness of this somehow makes me feel even worse. There’s a world up here with people and problems and I’m not ready to be a part of it.
The lift opens as I step toward it, which sort of figures. This whole place has a definite creepy vibe to it and automatic lift doors fit perfectly with that. Inside, I’m greeted by the rather unnerving sight of my reflection. Not usually unnerving, I should add. But when you’ve just been told you’ve died, all sorts of things start running through your mind.
My first instinct is to try and see the back of my head. I have this visceral, stomach-churning memory of the crack it made when it hit the pavement. I really don’t want to spend what is shaping up to be a rather long time with a visual reminder of that. But, fortunately, I’m spared. With a bit of twisting and turning, I can see that the back of my head is just the usual mass of strawberry blonde hair. I can’t help thinking that perhaps the afterlife should come with automatic detangling and antifrizzing...
My tight and rather uncomfortable dress from date night is gone, however, and in its place is a white dress that is loose enough to be comfortable but fitted enough to not look like a dustbin bag. In fact, it fits perfectly.
As I’ve been taking in my appearance, the lift doors have smoothly closed behind me. The rest of the lift walls are covered, floor to ceiling, with buttons. Small, circular white ones, like you’d find in any ordinary lift. Except these ones are devoid of any numbers, or any helpful markers at all. I get the sense that the lift hasn’t started moving yet, probably because no buttons have been pressed, so I find myself pressing a random button near to my elbow. Immediately, the lift shudders beneath my feet, then begins to move downward in a smooth and steady motion. It continues like this for around twenty seconds then stops with a rather abrupt jolt that causes me to grab on to the nearby railing.
There’s a moment of pause, then comes the ding, before the doors slide open.
It takes me less than a second to work out where I am. The faint smell of damp is unmistakable, along with the sight of a sunken blue sofa strewn with enough blankets to smother an army (if that was your chosen method of getting rid of said army). No doubt about it. I’m home.
Stumbling out of the lift, I let out a small sob of relief. Maybe I’m going to be OK. Because now I’m back in my flat, nothing will take me away from it.
I hear footsteps behind me and I turn, grinning at the sight of my best friend. Violet is now swathed in her gray fluffy dressing gown, dark curls peeking out from beneath the hood. Her eyes are glued to her phone, the light from it casting an ethereal glow over her dark skin as she wanders across the weird linoleum tiles that cover our entire flat. I’m about to say her name, preparing to give her the fright of her life then tell her about my crazy trip to get milk. But then she looks up. And she looks right through me.
Rule Three
Love Has Its Downsides
LET’S TALK ABOUT LOVE. I’ll be honest with you, it’s not something I completely understand. Why would I? Nobody loves death. Even those who think they want me to arrive don’t welcome me with the sort of song and dance you see between reunited couples across the world.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not jealous. Do you know what love is? It’s vulnerability. And it is completely illogical when you really think about it. Why would you ever allow someone to become such an integral part of your world when you can guarantee them leaving it, one way or another?
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I must have never experienced love and that’s why I’m so against it. And maybe I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t witnessed it, and the way it can so easily destroy you.
I once visited on the morning of a wedding.
I stood in the corner and watched as the bride meticulously zipped up her glittering white dress, hands fumbling as dizzy excitement stole her dexterity. I watched her soft smile as she took hold of her carefully chosen bouquet, kissed her father on his cheek as they left for the church. And then I watched their car skid right off the road.
I tried to avoid the aftermath, tried not to notice the arrival of her husband-to-be. But some sounds, like the desperate wails of grief, even I cannot ignore.