The Truth about Dying

I can vaguely remember my mom’s drunken friends telling their drunken stories of how they’d catch their boyfriends drunkenly cheating. I can vaguely remember thinking, “That won’t ever happen to me,” like a drunken idiot as I sipped on my Sprite or sparkling wine, because I loved you then and you loved me too.

But then, it all changed and that drunken dinner party situation was real life, right in front of my eyes. Except I wasn’t drunk and neither were you, my sober boyfriend, who was fucking the seventeen-year-old girl who worked at the sandwich shop down the street in the bed we shared.

After that, though, I turned to alcohol and became the drunken friend. I was alone and alcohol was alone and we were all alone, except for you; you weren’t alone, because you had the sandwich shop girl and the Fed-Ex lady, and the pornstar in 24B down the hall.

I remember the pornstar best, because I walked in on you two when I came to get my things from our room. She was bent in this awkward position and I could hear her moans from all the way down the hallway and her boobs were bigger than watermelons. I remember her the best because after I opened the door and saw you two, I died.

I ran down the hallway and my eyes were watering and I was starting to cry, and then I tripped down the stairs. I hit my head on six different concrete steps and bent my shoulder completely behind my back. I didn’t feel it though; I died after the third step completely mashed my skull.

There wasn’t any of that hesitation, where you don’t know whether to go to the light or stay in the In-Between and meet all sorts of ghosts who are stuck, I just died. I died and my spirit stayed around to watch the aftermath.

My eyes tore away from the large pool of blood draining furiously from my skull only after you had ran out of the room, with my navy blue sheet tied around your bulging belly and your love handles. Your mouth was kiss-swollen and your hair was all sorts of messed up. I could already see the bruises on your neck from where she’d bitten and sucked.

You looked upset, sort of. Almost like you wanted to cry, but couldn’t remember how to form tears. You watched me bleed for a little bit and winced when you saw my shoulder twisted at its impossible angle, and then you turned and headed back to the room. I floated behind you.

I wasn’t any sort of shape. I wasn’t me anymore and I wasn’t an angel. I was only this little thing, sort of like a second trimester fetus, but with wings. I had tiny fingernails and feet and an oddly egg-shaped head with feathers protruding from my back.

“You need to leave. I’d recommend the fire escape if you’ve got a week stomach. Go now, please.” Your voice was rough and unattached and it excited me. The girl on the bed opened and closed her mouth before standing and slipping into her slutty clothing. You called the cops, then got dressed, and then went back into the hallway, where I was still bleeding.

“God,” you mumbled and ran a hand through your dirty blonde hair and just stared.

I wanted you to be upset, I wanted you to cry, or punch a hole in the wall. I wanted a reaction that showed that you still cared. I wanted you to know that it was your fault that I was dead.

You didn’t. You haven’t. I’m still watching, though, waiting for you to break down. Maybe on the drive to work, in the shower early one Saturday morning, maybe 3 o’clock in the morning before a big, important meeting, when you’re reminiscing, thinking of how I used to coach you through your nerves.

It has to happen because I know our one year, seven months, and eighteen days can’t not mean anything to you. You have to care. Someone, somewhere, has to care and I just want it to be you.

I’ve learned a lot about life since I’ve died. I’ve learned a lot about death, too. Nothing matters anymore, but the truth is, love is a lie, angels don’t exist but you do get wings, and everyone always ends up alone.