I had imagined death to be more glamorous. It wasn’t all that great. In fact, after the belt finally took away my last breath, it just went white. There wasn’t pain, which was great. But, there wasn’t feeling. I didn’t feel guilt, for leaving the mess of a life behind. I didn’t feel sympathy for my parents, who had lost the only child they could ever have. I didn’t even feel anger anymore. It was just a bottomless pit of nothing.

They say that, in the moments before your death, you see your life flash before your eyes. I didn’t ever believe in that. I was wrong, of course, but it wasn’t as quick as most people would’ve guessed. And they never tell you that you see not only your life, but how your actions affected others later on. I saw the three year old I picked on turn into queen bee at her high school, my favorite teacher become ill with cancer and hatred, and my best friend confess a love of me, one I’d never known.
As many people, I had wanted to view my funeral from above. You know, see who goes, see who cries, and hear what all they had to say about me. I walked in the funeral hall. It was crowded, to my surprise and a little to my dismay. There were teachers, cousins, close friends, and then there were relatives I’d spent Christmas with one year, people I had vaguely known as a ten year old, and neighbors who hid behind their white fence and blinds all day.
The service started, and the voices became hushed. The music started playing, and I heard a familiar voice speak. “It’s a shame when a young person tries so hard to find themselves to come to their conclusion that they aren’t meant to be.”

I ran out. There was no way I could deal with this. Eventually my numbness would fade and I’d feel again.

I started wondering why I wasn’t burning, or singing with angels, or being recreated. Was there some world you go after you died? Would I just stay, wondering, until existence ended?

Then I thought about the people I left behind. The ones that mattered to me, anyways. I only addressed my note to two people, specifically. They were my parents, and my closest friend. I didn’t put any blame on either of them, because I knew it’d be hard enough, and it wasn't really their fault. This note would probably be somewhat public, as well.

There was another one. I kept this one hidden. Only one person would find it, and this person would keep it secret. I confessed how I truly felt about everything. I told him about my death, my life, my love, everything. I traced the words carefully, written in his favorite color. When I wrote it, I tried not to rush, because the tears would smudge, and I didn’t want him to know how hard it was for me to write that.

I heard a noise, and tried to hide, only to remember that I couldn’t be seen. He was reading the note. He threw his hand over his mouth. The note fell to the floor.

All I heard from there on out was “My God. My God.” over and over again. I ran out. This time, I went to my house. I tried to cry, but there was nothing. No feeling. So I fell asleep.



“Oh my gosh! She’s breathing! She’s breathing! Oh, goodness, goodness… Someone call a nurse!” It was my mom. But this wasn’t my room. I tried to get up, but I had unknowingly regained feeling, and it hurt like crazy.

“Mom?” I tried to say, but it came out as a groan instead.

As she got out of the room, my eyes opened, and I saw a big blur stand up. It was coming my way.

“So, about this note…” He said, beautifully.