i always imagine myself dying.
the nothingness of nothing, the other side, the darkness behind eyelids without the steady rise and fall of my chest. i imagine the world around me, engulfed in a quiet chaos; a select few's lives will be shortly flipped upside down to be a scabbing wound in a few years, while the rest of the world continues their day to day. it's always night. i'm draped unceremoniously atop a cold shiny table in the emergency room, a silent nurse uses two fingers to solemnly close my bloodshot eyes. she exhales, walks a few feet backwards and tells a colleague that she needs a cup of coffee. a blue material is pulled up to the crown of my head, my mother covers her mouth with her hands as she watches me, my grandmother lumps against a pillar in the the hospital hallway to save herself from falling. my sister's hot tears are angrily wiped away. my uncle hastily walks into the nearest men's bathroom and does what he does. and i'm on the shiny table. unmoving and unfeeling. happy? sad?
who knows.
my hair is in braids. i am wearing a black jacket that's unzipped. i am emotionless. i wonder now if maybe the authorities would look through my phone after my mother gives them my password - if she remembers - and they search it thoroughly for a suicide note of any sort? anything to relive such a... grieving family. my mother mutters from her wheelchair that she was supposed to go before me. jehovah is a blurred line in her mind. my sister grips and ungrips the handles of her wheelchair. i am on the shiny table. the world slowly spins.
i imagine that i keep being thought of. that i am a lasting memory and not just a simple occurrence. i am a repetitive thought — a repulsive thought, bringing bile to the back of your throat because of all the what ifs that pertain to me. the regrets and the nothing we can do about its.
i imagine a funeral home and a casket bereft of flora. i imagine people i called friends staring at my preserved body with shocked and unwavering eyes. not one tear. not a second thought after they leave those heavy doors. the repast food better be good they think, nodding sadly to my family members. saying they went to school with me when questioned. the sky is gray as i am set to flame and reduced to ash. the box i am in weighs heavier than the earth in my mother's hands. i get placed right next to my great grandmother on the shelf. perhaps a little more to the right to catch some sun.
i always imagine dying.
