This is what it felt like to be dead.
The inside of the coffin was plushy. It’s surprising after
long enough, eyes adjust.
He could sort of make shapes in the folds. This one part
looked like a face.
For a while he entertained himself by feeling sorry for
himself. It was a vague feeling and didn’t require recalling any specifics. He
decided to hold off on recalling any fond memories or pondering any regrets. It
was sort of like holding off on the last popsicle in the fridge you never know
when you will need it.
He knew from his studies that memories are a precious
commodity. Every time you pick up a memory and play with it in your head, the
more you shape it. Certain details get left off, the edges get smoothed. How
long could he sit here remembering before the pictures in his head would bare
little resemblance to the life he had lived.
But eventually, he would have to look back on his life.
Self-pity would only last so long. And he needed to feel something, because on
the other side of these emotions was a tremendous blankness. An intolerable
nothing.
He spent some time creating stories on his own. He cobbled
together what he could from TV shows and video games, but quickly found himself
in a rut, going over the same few plot lines over and over.
How long had he been in here? Years? Minutes? It’s hard to
tell where in the decomposition process one is. But it felt like time. Time to
look back. If he waited any longer something could be forgotten.
He decided he wasn’t going to free associate – that’s how
memories get lost. He started by going back as far as he could. The day his
baby brother got home from the hospital.
