The Choice

I woke in darkness to the familiar sound of my mom's alarm clock. That shrill, shocking sound, audible through my bedroom walls. I kept my eyes closed, not giving in to the demands of an alarm that does not belong to me.

The noise continued, but as my mind started to stir, I realized how faint it sounded. As if a wall of water separated my ears from the noise rather than the thin walls of our 1970s home. My eyes shot open, something was not right. I blinked a few times, trying to clear my vision. Instead of the ceiling of glow in the dark plastic stars in my bedroom, a decade old but still there from my teenage years, I saw my mother laying in her bed below me. It was not a clear image but was as if hundreds of spiderwebs clouded my vision. I gasped, then tried to scream. I could not move, could not speak, could not make a sound at all as the alarm continued its shrill ringing below me.

There are no physical feelings that I can pinpoint in this moment other than a slight chill, but the panic is active in my mind. I stare down in silence and watch my mother stir, turn off the cellphone alarm as if everything is normal. A light turns on, and suddenly I can feel my limbs slightly. I move my hands in front of my face, reach out towards my mother. My fingertips graze against the grey veil between us. The light flickers slightly. I glance at the clock on my mother’s bedroom wall, 3am. She works as a nurse, so this was not a surprise. I focus on moving, stare at the floor and suddenly I’m upright, standing rather than floating above the bed.

I try to get my moms attention, but it’s as if I do not exist at all. Every time I reach for her the light flickers, she stares at it for a second, then allows her face to drop into her hands, sighing heavily. My mom, the vibrant and ever cheerful woman, looks exhausted. I slowly make my way out of the room as she gets out of bed and ready for work. I don’t feel thirsty, hungry, or much of anything. Yet out of habit, I head to the kitchen.

 Realization hits me then, as I see a folded booklet laying on the kitchen countertop. My smiling face is on the cover, with my name, birth date, and another date printed directly below it.

October 1st, 2026.

If I were able, I would have vomited. How long ago was this? What day is today? Heading back to my mom’s bedroom, I try to turn her phone on as she takes a shower. Nothing happens. I cannot grab it. I can hardly touch it. I wander around trying to find some sort of calendar to mark the day, the task soothing my anxious energy. I avoid my bedroom, the thought of entering it overwhelms me. Eventually my mother comes out of her bedroom, dressed and ready for work, her hair still slightly damp. Lights flick on around me, followed by the tv in the living room. I felt a small burst of energy that grew with the electricity in the room. The routine is familiar, comforting. Mom always watches the news before work, an old fashioned habit that I have teased her about. Today though, I was grateful.

I moved closer to the tv as the cheerful newscaster noted today’s date: October 23rd, 2026. I died 22 days ago. But what happened? What was I doing? With the electricity of the lights and television moving through me, I felt more physically present than I had just moments earlier. The grey veil of web-like fog became less opaque, sounds were clearer. Without thinking, I moved quickly to the kitchen a few paces away from the tv, reaching for the small booklet with my face on it. This time, I could feel it slightly. Just enough to flick it open and peek inside. Despite the lengthy and flowery description of my life and personality, there was nothing about how I died. I let go of the booklet page, and watched it slowly flutter closed, like a small wind had opened it and not my ghostly fingers. Lost in my thoughts, I did not notice when my mother turned off the TV, then the lights. Grabbed her lunch, and headed out the door.

I was alone. The home was dark and quiet. I could feel the electricity leaving me depleted, the burst of energy gifted to me by lights and electronics fading, the veil became opaque again. I felt myself lifting like a balloon towards the ceiling, extreme exhaustion, then nothing at all.

Every morning at 3am this happened, for what felt like weeks. Occasionally I woke before my mom went to sleep, hearing her chattering away on the phone to her friends. Growing up, her nightly phone calls annoyed me. But hearing her voice talking about her day was now my favorite thing in the universe. One night, I was sitting beside her, energized by the low light of the tv, staring at her face as she watched a hallmark movie. Her phone rang, it was her best friend. And that’s when I found out how I died. A car accident.

“I just can’t stop thinking about Anna, I miss her so much,” my mom said, her voice cracking. “Every time I drive my car all I can see is the accident.”

That was all it took for me to re-enter the trauma of that morning, speeding off to work. Music blaring, coffee in hand. I did not hear the other car honking as they ran a red light, then into me. It happened in an instant. I do not remember pain, just the noises of the collision.

I felt myself fading as I remembered my death. I had a choice. I found what I was looking for, should I move on? But I did not want to go. I ignored the warmth I could feel as my soul begged to leave. I stayed in the cold glow of the television, existing for these small moments with my mom for as long as I can.