Worlds Apart

Sitting at my own funeral is a strange, out-of-body sort of experience. The only thing, I think, that would make this any weirder is if I could actually see my body. But, unsurprisingly, my parents have decided to keep my ceremony closed-casket. I expected this because I know that my body is all but unrecognizable from my accident. I remember how you and I once spoke about how we wished we could hear what people would say at our funerals. Well, now I can. I just wish I could tell you I am listening.

I cannot tell if this is a dream. I also do not know if I want it to be one or not. Part of me wishes it were, so I can wake up and everything will go back to normal. But there is another part of me that hopes it is real, because this is what I wanted all along.

But as hard as I try to convince myself of this, when I look at your tear-streaked face I cannot help but think otherwise.



You have barely left our room in two days. Once, when mom decided she’d had enough and tried to drag you out, you threw such a fit that she left in tears. I wonder if you know I saw that. I wonder if you can feel I am still here. I watch as you lay on your bed for hours on end, staring aimlessly out the window. Are you thinking of me? All I want is to tell you I am sitting across from you, still on my unmade bed. But my efforts are useless. I cannot make an impact on this world anymore.

Suddenly you sit up in bed, and I experience a flicker of hope that you saw me playing with the edge of my comforter. But that slim hope is snuffed out quickly, as I realize that you are not even looking in my general direction. You leap up off your bed and across the room to turn on your iPod. The music blasts so loudly that I wish I had the ability to turn it down. You turn away from the speakers to apprise my half of the room.

My bed has been left unmade from the last morning I had woken up. All of my pictures and posters and newspaper clippings are still clinging to the wall with Scotch tape. Half of my desk is scattered with unopened college brochures mixed in with unfinished homework. The other half is covered with clothes mom had carefully folded but I had not been bothered with putting away yet. I had been planning to put them away eventually, but I never got around to doing it. Some of them have fallen from the desk onto the floor. I can see my favorite sweater crumpled at the foot of my bed and I struggle to remember if it is clean or dirty. The outfit I had almost worn on that last day is still spread out at the foot of my bed, one last testament to show that I had indeed once lived.

We both stare at my things for a long moment. I try to read your face to figure out what you are thinking. Are you hurt? Angry? Confused? I cannot see anything from your carefully crafted expression. Suddenly you are attacking my things with such a cold, determined deliberateness that I am too shocked to move. You throw my clothes into the hamper. You sweep papers and college brochures into the garbage can on the side of my desk. You drag our crap box, filled with unflattering pictures and bad memories, out of our closet and begin to tear down my pictures from the wall and shove them in with the rest of the things we wanted to forget. Your actions hit me like a brick wall and I am stunned into immobility as I watch in horror. After a moment, I snap out of it and I jump up from my bed.

“What are you doing?” I scream into your ear.

You do not even flinch.

“Stop!” I cry. I am shocked to discover that I am literally crying. “Stop! You can’t do this!”

I try to take my things out of the crap box, but unsurprisingly I cannot lift them. I hit you, but you do not feel it. I tantrum and cry and throw a fit in the stupid hope that you will realize I am standing right next to you.

As quickly as you started, you stop destroying the evidence that I ever existed. Your sudden stillness causes my own meltdown to cease. You look around the room and my now barren desk, wall, and floor. Your gaze shifts from thing to thing until it finally falls on me. It is chilling to watch you stare right through me - to know that I have almost been completely erased from the world already, and partly due to your hands. Your eyes drop to the floor and the mask you wear to hide your emotions crumples. You sink to the floor and cry.

I sit down next to you and cry too. For a moment it is almost as if we are together again, and not worlds apart.



A week later and I still cannot bring myself to look at mom and dad. You finally start leaving our room though, so I suppose at least one of us is starting to move on. Still, you have not worked up to leaving the house yet, but I guess I cannot blame you for that. I do not know what I would do if I were in your place. And I cannot imagine that I would ever forgive you if our roles were switched, so I try to refrain from judging you.

The doorbell rings, and we both look up in surprise. You have been eating peanut butter from the jar while channel surfing, and I have been sitting next to you, hoping you would pick a channel already. That had always been one of my biggest pet peeves with you – you could never stick with a channel for more than ten seconds. I guess you could not stick with a lot of things though, now that I think about it.

I wonder idly at who could be visiting. I wonder also whether or not you are going to get up and answer the door. You simply stare at it though, clearly with no intentions of getting up anytime soon. I sigh in exasperation, and almost answer it myself, but I am halfway to the door when I remember that I cannot even touch the door, let alone open it. I can hear mom slamming pots around in the kitchen while she prepares to start cooking dinner.

“Are you going to get that?” she yells to you in exasperation.

“No,” you mutter to yourself, mashing up the peanut butter with your spoon.

I roll my eyes. You are being ridiculous, acting like a child even. After a moment I can hear a cabinet door shut with a loud bang, and mom’s angry footsteps as she storms into the living room.

“Thanks,” she throws at you sarcastically as she whips past me without even a glance in my direction. I suppose I should be used to being ignored by now, but there is still something unsettling about it.

“Welcome,” you say back half-heartedly.

I move closer to the door as mom opens it, curious as to who came over. The long flow of people with flowers and condolences and lasagnas had dwindled down to practically nothing a few days ago, and I hope it is not about to start up again now. I am surprised, however, to see four of our best friends standing on our front porch looking extremely uncomfortable.

“Um, hi,” Zack says to mom.

Mom stands in shock for a moment. She clearly had not expected this either. I was starting to think our friends would never visit, that they had forgotten all about me as well as you. Maybe they just needed time to work up to this though. I guess this whole affair is strange for all people involved.

Finally, mom gains her bearings. “Zack! Wow, come in guys. I wasn’t expecting to see you…” her voice trials off and I can fill in the blanks. I know she had not expected them to come over ever again.

You sit up a little straighter on the couch as they file in one after another. Zack, Brant, Kayla, and Aubrey – everyone is here, in one way or another, with one glaring omission. I wish I could ask them why he is not here, but I can guess. It breaks my heart, and it suddenly feels as if I am dying all over again.

I listen to your awkward greetings as everyone settles down on the couch and the armchair near the television. I hang on their every word, hoping to hear the explanation for why he did not come with them, but for a while you guys just sit in silence. Mom, who had rushed into a kitchen after letting them into the house, returns carrying cups and a pitcher of water with slices of orange and lemons floating in it. She seems overwhelmed to suddenly have company over again, and overly excited to ensure that they are comfortable.

“Thanks,” Zack and Brant say to mom as she passes them glasses filled with water, and Kayla and Aubrey smile appreciatively at her.

They watch mom as she returns to the kitchen, subtly wiping at her eyes. I cannot imagine why she has started to cry, but I suppose it comes with the territory of being the mother of a dead child.

When she can be heard moving around the kitchen again, Zack looks up at you. “How are you?” he asks softly.

You shrug indifferently without looking up at him. I can see that you have something you want to say, but you hold it in. I can also tell by the looks on everyone else’s faces that they are not fooled either.

“You want to talk about it?” Aubrey asks tentatively.

You shake your head, a single tear rolls down your cheek but you quickly wipe it away. Everyone pretends they did not see it, though we all did. I suddenly realize that I had unconsciously made my way over to perch on the armrest of the couch next to Brant. I feel the same frustration that I felt a week ago with you. Though I now realize that I cannot make you see that I am here, I suddenly find myself trying to make our friends see me and feel my presence. It is a futile effort, of course.

“Where’s Jason?” You suddenly ask.

I sit up a little straighter, anxious to hear the answer to your question. Zack and Brant exchange a knowing glance and I try to discern the meaning. The seconds spent waiting for the answer are agonizing.

“He didn’t think he could handle being here…” Brant starts.

Zack runs a hand through his hair and glances around, clearly feeling severe discomfort. “I don’t know, I guess I understand. There’s a lot of bad memories here, especially for him.”

I can see the anger that flares across your face, but it is hidden behind your mask quickly. You look at anything but their faces, and they do the same. I have not taken a breath in over a week, but in this moment it feels like my chest is caving in on itself in a terrible sensation I have never experienced before. The truth hurts – Jason does not want to be reminded of my existence.

For a while I stay in my place on the arm of the couch, but then I decide I cannot take the awkward, painful silence anymore. I have not left your side since I died, but now I find myself climbing our stairs and heading towards our room again. It feels like I am fighting against a magnet that pulls me back towards you, but I resist it and continue up the stairs away from you. I do not know how much longer I can take your moping. If I could hit you and snap you out of your funk, I would. But I suppose that ability would be redundant, because it would mean I would still be around to be able to do so, and my very disappearance is the cause of your annoying behavior.

It all goes back to the accident.

But was it really an accident? I have not heard you or anyone else question it, but I know that everyone is thinking it. Mom and dad have barely been in our room, and I know you have not looked for a note, but that does not mean you have not entertained the thought. I know I would be thinking it, if I were you and you were me. I think you are afraid to look, because if you start looking it means you might find something you never wanted to know. When I was alive we told each other everything, but I do not blame you for doubting that now. I can tell that you are starting to think I did not tell you everything. Do you feel betrayed? I would not blame you.

Everyone seems to be so shocked that I died. Adults are always talking about how teenagers think they are invincible. But it is not just us teenagers that think it. How many of them stop and think, “Today could be the day that my daughter dies at the age of seventeen.” I know the thought never crossed my parents’ minds. They never saw it coming. Maybe teenagers learn the feeling of invincibility from the adults that surround them. Humans learn by example, monkey see monkey do. Well, monkey hear monkey think, too. We are taught that death is something that should never touch the youth. Why are we blamed for believing that by the very same people that taught it to us? It never made any sense to me.

I also never understood, and still do not understand, the way people always react to death, like it is this awesome thing that they never saw coming. It is especially strange, because life can be thought of in much the same way. Think about all the events that it took to get you to where you are today. All the chances that had to be taken to make you the person you are. The decisions that other people made, the timing of it all. If anything is amazing, it should be life, not death, because the amount of things that could go wrong outweighs the amount of things that could go right. But for some inexplicable reason - though not by a lack of trying to define it - life is created on a daily basis by things going right, instead of things going wrong. People cannot really be shocked when something finally does go wrong. It is inevitable. I think I am the only person that sees this. Maybe it has something to do with dying.

Or maybe I am just strange.