Death, in broad terms

Content Warning: Major Character Death, Crude Language

Is that it?, he thought to himself, not so sure if there was such an answer that’d fit the purpose of knowing, in any capacity, be it figurative or literal. Because literally, he felt like a kid who ate his first potato in times of famine, and was left with the imminent disappointment with not only the painfully short lifespan of this simple pleasure, but also with what comes afterwards– the return to the realest of realities, with all its dire consequences. And a lingering taste of raw potato.

He did, however, continue to listen to the deafening silence in anticipation of a response, even if it was some ethereal voice in his head, telling him to start a cult. He had an inkling about what could have happened, but the sky… Oh, the sky. He had never, in his entire life, seen such a wondrous sky. He could almost smell the pale, deep, pure blue hue, and it tasted like roast lamb. He admired that bit of cute pink round the cloud edges, the candy cotton-like texture of the said clouds. He surmised that all the cliches and poetic devices would be present in the description of this sky. He also noted the ultramarine tinge, which made him wonder how the sky could afford such an expensive pigment back in the 19th century? And what about inflation? Riddles aside, he was still racking his head about the complexity of his situation. He decided to begin at the start, in a hopeful attempt of events’ recollection, and it seemed logical to him, given his situation– as it became evident he was very much dead.

The first, albeit unexpected, giveaway was the absence of sound. He could certainly see things unravel in front of him, that’s for sure. He could tell there was someone standing over him, a ginger kid, only yea big. His face scrunched up in what he could only describe as the Munchian Scream, and he could swear he saw the whole world behind the boy scrunch and swell up in a big blast of swirling colours, to the point he was convinced he was tripping the metaphorical bollocks. It was apparent seeing a dead body in the field was not on the little dude’s bingo card this morning.

But alas, he could not hear that scream. Or whatever he uttered afterwards, but it looked rushed and panicky to him. He then could see more and more people appearing from different angles of his vision, literally staring him in the eyes; hopeless, but curious glances. Someone commenced CPR dutifully, and retreated, whilst shaking their head in silent defeat. He averted his eyes from the passersby, it was ruining the view of the painstakingly crafted sky. A fleeting thought entered his mind during this deep moment of admiration, which went– Are lizard people real?

The next telltale sign was the complete, absolute void where his soul should be. And it made him wonder, how is that he was still here, if the soul is considered the core of all consciousness? All that philosophising– Descartes’ ramblings and the deep message of his mum’s “live, laugh, love” shower curtain were immediately swept by this overwhelming feeling of piss-all-nothing (although, if he internalised it further– “nothing” was, in fact, “something”). He thought of some similarities to anhedonia, which he would so often experience during his dark episodes of the mind, but if that was the case, how could he still possibly experience those profound feelings towards this perfectly sky-ish sky? Were they just mere, superficial observations? Oh no, how could he use his eyesight, if everything inside him was GONE? Was the shell of his consciousness desperately clinging onto the remnants of his physical body? Were his kidney stones still there? He realised quickly this topic was well above his pay grade.

The other sign was the infallible conviction of death. If he still felt anything, as he wasn’t so sure of much anymore, he most definitely felt death. He was surprised it didn’t feel quite heavy, it wasn’t filled with darkness nor dread, he was definitely not in the 9th circle of hell. It didn’t really feel like the end, either, it just felt like something that was there all along, like his acid reflux, or a good, reliable houseplant. Or sky, I suppose, he thought to himself. He also realised it would be a mistake to describe it as something that came onto him, like Rachel from Accounting at the Office Christmas Party 2019. It just simply was, and were, and he could only assume it would be. It filled every crevice of what he could imagine was left of him, and that’s when he strangely noticed he was still capable of critical thinking.

So, like, how did I die?, he formed a thought, or rather a question, after the aforementioned realisation. But these thoughts flickered and floated within the depths of his half-emptied mind, like a swathe of glitter found in a petrol station’s last-minute birthday card. If the thoughts could, they would similarly stick to the carpets until the end of all times and haunt every unassuming tenant, who would be finding them in the most unexpected crevices of their bodies.

He managed to hold on to one of these notions, although without any confidence or certainty, and remembered the rough, cheap blanket he brought to the park with him. He remembered the discounted Scotch eggs he purchased, and secretly looked forward to, whilst strolling through the meticulously cut grass, waving to everyone he passed by. He was so excited about the premise of sitting down here, on the luscious-looking grass, filled with people, unapologetically, on his own. He always thought of merely appearing alone in public spaces as some embarrassing, shameful act, and lived through life asking his friends to join him in such activities, without any luck. But that wasn’t the case today.

He slowly, but steadily, continued to follow this memory, and his recollections made his heart extraordinarily warm (potentially, he wasn’t certain). He carefully deducted that this feeling might have been happiness. He then choked on his dry, discount Scotch egg.

He abandoned all the thinking at this point due to the cynical nature of these events, and attempted to wiggle his big toe in a playful manner. Perhaps he did it to notify all these dumbfounded passerbys he was still, somewhat, in there. With a particularly weighty emphasis on the word “somewhat”. Also to scare the living shit out of them, as he did revel in such humorous activities back in the day. He once even went as far as learning some light magic tricks, involving disappearing coins. Assured of the trick’s success, it came as no surprise to him when all the coins suddenly dematerialised the day he performed such a trick for some guy in a pub. He felt sheer pride when he came back from the loo and saw them all gone from the bar top, along with the guy he tricked. This memory then vanished itself, creating yet another vortex of nothingness.

The toe wiggling, in fact, caused quite an uproar within the crowd. Some people took their phones out and started their live reels. Some people looked like they shit themselves, which was his initial aim, so he allocated all the kudos he had left to himself. Some young woman with a handbag and an attitude moved her lips with disbelief, however he could barely make out the words. It could’ve been, ‘goddamn zombies’, or maybe ‘he’s got man boobies,’ nevertheless both statements made him extremely insecure.

What he saw next were bright lights, flickering, which made him feel like a true king of the dead disco. He thought about that feeling of happiness again, although he could no longer grasp it, as it dematerialised like everything else within him. Some woman in khaki picked him up, as he continued staring into his muse– the adorned, precious sky. He also noted she picked him up with ridiculous ease, as if he was but some man-shaped bag of ladybirds. The scenery he could see from his position suddenly changed to a van interior, and then to white walls, and ghost-like people, and mouths moving, and more lights, and then it all kinda wrapped up for the day.

He woke up in a hospital bed, alarmed by the overwhelming amount of feelings rushing through every inch of his mind.. And we’re talking about a very wide range, from pain, to faith, from the sense of meaning to desperation, from knowing and not knowing. Also knowing so little that he knew he should avoid engaging in any debates about it at poker nights with the boys. And all these sensory events, and everything in between, edged his mind dangerously close to imploding. All of the above made him wish he was dead again, but eventually he settled for living. After his near-death experience of choking on a Scotch egg, anything seemed worth plodding on, even if just to mess with the universe in return.

The sky remained blue.