MONO ISSUE 1 PDF FLIPBOOK - Flipbook - Page 10
you told anyone your desire to be cremated, but now you can't be sure.
For the first time you ponder the possibility of your death. What if they're right and you actually
are dead? But, your mind counters, if you are dead how come you're not floating above your body?
How come you didn't leave your body to hover over the scene of your death? You've read all those
accounts of people who have supposedly died and then been revived. Where's the tunnel and the
white light? Where are the guardian angels and the dead relatives who are supposed to greet you?
You'd even settle for Aunt Margaret, although you weren't too fond of her when she was alive.
You feel cheated and frustrated. What's the deal here anyway? Is it that you don't deserve that
wonderful experience of "going into the light?" Is that it? Suicides excepted. Was this some kind of
cosmic retribution visited upon you for taking your own life? You can't accept this. You were a failure
and a fuck-up in life. Nothing was going right. You were getting into more messes all the time. Can it
be that you're no more a success in death? How can anyone screw up death?
You always thought death was an end. Oblivion and peace in equal measures. But if that's not the
case, and some kind of energy or soul exists after death, how come that's not happening here? Why
aren't you a ball of light or a wisp of ectoplasm? You are trapped, plain and simple. Maybe there's a
password or secret code you need to break free. If only you could talk to someone, maybe you could
figure it out. The ride to the hospital seems to stretch forever. Finally you're whisked into the
emergency room. Through the body bag you hear the paramedic say, "This one's a jumper. DOA."
The bag is unzipped and you stare into the face of a young resident. She looks tired and pale, the
result of endless hours on duty, no doubt. You try frantically to signal to her as she examines your
body (corpse?), but you should know by now that it's futile.
The look in her eyes says it all. You're dead, all right. Stone-cold dead. She runs a hand across her
haggard face as she signs the death certificate. "Take her to the morgue. We'll hold the body for the
next-of-kin. Family contacted yet?"
"Don't know, doc. The cops are working on it." The resident nods and disappears from your line of
vision.
You're getting bored of this situation really quick. Then again, boredom is preferable to fear, an
emotion that threatens to smash the carefully-constructed barrier set up in your mind. You're aware
of it relentlessly lapping at the dam, inching forward. It's only a matter of time until the dam erodes
and the fear engulfs you like a raging tide.
Helpless, you feel tears of frustration form behind your eyes. But no tears fall. You'd give anything
to be able to feel something, even if it is only saltwater, course down your face. It's ironic, you think.
You killed yourself to escape your feelings and now here you are, wishing you could feel again. The
fear you could do without, however. What's the point of being afraid, anyway? It's not like anyone
can help you. You thought you were lonely before--when you were alive. For the first time you
wonder if it's possible for a dead person to go insane.
As you listen to the silence of the morgue drawer that houses your remains, the silence that is so
deep around you, you try not to think of the time ahead. You don't want to witness your parents'
grief, their shock and horror when they come to identify you. Your mind cringes from the imagined
scene, but you're caught in the trap of hateful lucidity. There's nowhere for your mind to hide, no
diversions at hand. A bitter wave of despair washes over you. Death was supposed to be an escape,
deliverance from the litany of failure and broken dreams. But now, too late, you recognise a
fundamental, awful truth.
Death is even more disappointing than life.
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