When I was twenty-nine, I died. It didn’t come as a surprise to me, as so many deaths are wont to do. This death came with advance, and it was I who invited it. It came as I hung from the banister over my hallway, calmly, my eyes closed. It came because I wanted it to.
And when I opened my eyes again, I felt neither regret nor remorse. For once I knew I had actually the made right decision. After years of bad choices and guilt, this was actually right.
It was the day after my last day at work. I had picked it specifically so that people wouldn’t find out. Some would probably feel bad about it. The vast majority had no way of communicating with me after, and some had taken precautions to ensure they wouldn’t. This way, most people there would never even find out.
I was dead, but still here. A spirit. I wandered, and looked at the world through eyes of someone who isn’t really there anymore. I noticed that if you don’t answer your messages, people assume you’ve just ghosted them. The resolution of an unfinished game you used to play doesn’t matter. There are other, better stories to be experienced. Only one person ever read the start of the novel you were writing, and they had stopped caring about the ending before today.
It’s amazing how many smiles you can see when you’re not actually there. In my death, lovers I had been holding back in life flourished. A woman I loved never seemed happier. Friends lived and loved far more than I had ever witnessed.
Not a lot changes when you die, I noticed. Grief is what happens when you miss somebody’s presence. There is no word for when you don’t. Worth is measured by what an item brings, and I have never seen worth measured by what has been taken away. For once, I could see my worth.
This would be a good memory. It’s nice to have a good memory.