I remember waking up in a panic. I could hardly catch my breath knowing that my biggest fear is what I had dreamt of the most; death. Not just the fear of dying, but the fear of never waking up again. I fear about the way I die on top of the pain I might feel. What if there is nothing to welcome me after I pass? No afterlife. I worry most about bringing misery to those who love and care for me, Death is what scares me more than anything living.
When I awoke, I recounted my dream as if it were reality: I was young again, say seven or eight years old; back when we lived at the dingy yellow house with the bright red door. My brother and I were playing in the front yard; tag was the game we both preferred most. He was it. I remember him chasing me around the decorative pile of shrubs my parents had plastered into the lawn just a few summers before. He'd inch clockwise around the stones so I'd do the same until he sprung at me. I ran like the wind, not a worry other than "don't tag me!" As he got closer and closer, I ran farther and farther. Mistakenly running into the street where they had never inserted a slow down sign, or one that monitored the speed of the driver. The only warning ever being a "Deaf Child" sign that was placed there long before we moved in.
My life was in slow motion, bounding into the street with each passing moment wondering why I never stopped to look both ways. In one of those moments however, I did look to my left, seeing bright yellow headlights and stopping dead in my tracks. The impact was painless, seeing as how this was a dream, and I was gone in an instant. The truck that hit me was nowhere to be found; a hit and run.
As if from a movie, I recollect a ghostlike figure rising from the remains of my dismembered, frail body. I was that ghostlike figure. Looking around for someone to notice I was dead, my brother had vanished, running inside to tell my parents the news. All three of my family members ran back out and began weeping. Inaudible, their sobs were that which I would never get out of my head. My spirit saw the misery and torment that my death had brought my loved ones.
It was hopeless and desperate the way I tried to force myself back to life; I tried to pick up the pieces as if I were Humpty-Dumpty. Knowing there was nothing I could do and no way that I could return, I wept there with my family, hurt that I could never actually comfort them. Hours passed and there was no bright light. No sign of heaven or hell, but limbo which I would never grow accustomed to.
When I awoke, I recounted my dream as if it were reality: I was young again, say seven or eight years old; back when we lived at the dingy yellow house with the bright red door. My brother and I were playing in the front yard; tag was the game we both preferred most. He was it. I remember him chasing me around the decorative pile of shrubs my parents had plastered into the lawn just a few summers before. He'd inch clockwise around the stones so I'd do the same until he sprung at me. I ran like the wind, not a worry other than "don't tag me!" As he got closer and closer, I ran farther and farther. Mistakenly running into the street where they had never inserted a slow down sign, or one that monitored the speed of the driver. The only warning ever being a "Deaf Child" sign that was placed there long before we moved in.
My life was in slow motion, bounding into the street with each passing moment wondering why I never stopped to look both ways. In one of those moments however, I did look to my left, seeing bright yellow headlights and stopping dead in my tracks. The impact was painless, seeing as how this was a dream, and I was gone in an instant. The truck that hit me was nowhere to be found; a hit and run.
As if from a movie, I recollect a ghostlike figure rising from the remains of my dismembered, frail body. I was that ghostlike figure. Looking around for someone to notice I was dead, my brother had vanished, running inside to tell my parents the news. All three of my family members ran back out and began weeping. Inaudible, their sobs were that which I would never get out of my head. My spirit saw the misery and torment that my death had brought my loved ones.
It was hopeless and desperate the way I tried to force myself back to life; I tried to pick up the pieces as if I were Humpty-Dumpty. Knowing there was nothing I could do and no way that I could return, I wept there with my family, hurt that I could never actually comfort them. Hours passed and there was no bright light. No sign of heaven or hell, but limbo which I would never grow accustomed to.
the way you go into detail like the dingy yellow house with the red door is great. the concept of not knowing what happens when you die just blows my mind. speechless...
ReplyDeleteWow, I never really thought about what happens after death. Now that I think about it, It also scares me a little. This was very well written.
ReplyDeleteThis is a very descriptive story. If this wasn't a true story, then you are one hell of an artist with your words. You paint a vivid image of your story; it was almost as if I was living in your shoes and playing tag with your brother in front of your house.
ReplyDeleteBut if death is your worst fear, then live your life like everyday is your last. I'm not very religious, but Tyrese Gibson, one of my famous actors, said something in a vlog. He said that if you are still alive, then God is not done with you. If you are still breathing, then God still has a purpose for you. He did not put you on this earth to do nothing. He did not put you on this earth to be average. Keep that in mind.
There is some really good writing here. Thank you for sharing, and so glad it was a dream.
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