This was a short story that I wrote for English last year and have been wanting to share for a while. Feel free to share any thoughts you have (or at least let me know you read it? ). This had to be copied over from my phone, in case you were wondering about the formatting Enjoy *It may require two read-throughs ~~~ From Within Death Tears poured down their faces and scorn lit up my complexion. Even in death, everyone who mourned me just milked my demise for their gain. They skipped work and neglected school with claims to be too sorrowful to function, as if my passing had even shaken them. Never caring to notice my throws of despondency or isolation, my family only cared for me when it benefited them. Small tugs wrung out my wrists as mourners attempted to gather bits of my spirit to commemorate. My mother weeped as if she had a monopoly on the loss of my life. A hiss escaped my lips and I tore my hands back from their grips, sneering at their fabricated anguish. With the reaper alongside me, the death boat drifted gently over a sea of cries which sounded out from those of my past life who were chosen to carry me over. My old teachers stood solemn beneath me, hoisting the death boat with plain ease as they guided me towards the afterlife. Just here to pass the time, the reaper twiddled with his cloak of shadows and gathered up the parts where it draped on the floor. He seemed uneasy but did not speak. This limbo between passing and true death seemed as if it were here to mock me. Perhaps it existed as a chance to say my goodbyes, but these people had no care nor concern for me. From beneath me, the boat convulsed. It shook back and forth like the shoulders of a sobbing woman. My fingers found their way to the confines of the vessel and clamped on, keeping me steady as I peered over the edge of the rocking boat. The cries were louder down here, almost oppressive. I had just noticed that no faces were truly visible, although I felt as if I could recognize the vague shapes as humans through instinct and intuition. Each bawl belonged to someone specific who I had a different reason to loathe. The crowd of mourners seemed to grow. Surely I had not met more people since passing? I spotted some of my classmates, my lockermate, a barista I had often ordered from. Surely they did not care? A monumental chatter began buzzing, leading me to lug my face back into the comfort of the death ship. The crowd grew. There was my principal standing next to the awfully young boy who’d asked me to be seeker at the park as he hid. Why didn’t I bother to catch his name? It seemed wrong now that he was here. A child of his innocence did not deserve to mourn. Leisurely sitting beside me, the reaper twiddled with his scythe as idly as if it were a cigarette at ease between his fingers. Shockingly nonchalant, the clamor that was sending tremors through our boat didn’t phase him. Noticing me glimpsing at him, the reaper raised his eyebrows but remained silent. I could no longer ignore the piercing howls. My ears cursed at the deafening scream that filled the air. One would go insane if they remained in the presence of this thunderous mob for long. They howled for me, overflowing my head with a walloping headache. The crowd had increased tenfold and a sense of regret washed over me. My knees buckled below me and I crumpled into myself. I felt weak. Bursts of tears cut gashes through my slender cheekbones in the realization that I had been wrong. My place belonged with the living and I had never felt more out of place on my way into my permanent grave. These people weren’t due affliction, nor did they unrightfully feel it. Coming to a pause, I stopped shaking and realized that I was abruptly rocking more than the boat was. The crowd was diminishing, reducing to nothing. As if the mob was filing through a small trapdoor below the ship, there was not a single soul left to maneuver the vessel I rode upon. Did my breakdown lose their attention? The reaper was eyeing me sideways. He took precaution in deciding upon his words, as if speaking would cause him great exhaustion. His lips parted gently and his words spoke more to my spirit than to my ears. “Go,” he breathed, while guiding the boat rearwards. My head spun, witnessing a dull ache. It was much more powerful than the agony to ever come from an overwhelming scream invading your thoughts. As if my body was being warped, I could feel every thread of my existence being stretched far beyond their limits, but not being able to take the plunge to snap into pieces. A roar escaped my lips from the harrowing pain and in an instant, I was being forced back into a single piece. Never a different person, but a changed perspective entirely. And so with his “go,” I went. Back to my room, where I held a gun poised to my head. I swiftly brought it back down to my side and slipped it into its case, locking the monster within its rightful cage. Relief cascaded down my face and tasted salty when it reached the bend of my lips. Sometimes it was better to not let go.
