Chapter Text
Death isn’t as described in books, or John’s stupid movies.
Death isn’t a bright light.
It isn’t your life flashing before your eyes.
It’s peaceful.
Pulling you down into a pool of black tar,
every worry, amount of stress, or thought melting away from you.
I seem to be standing over my own dead body, which makes no sense.
I feel lighter, happier, faster, then I ever have before.
My corpse lays half against a tree, a sad expression painting my face, blood stained down my torn and dirtied white dress shirt.
I reach down, a hand moving to touch my cheek, touch the bullet wound in my chest,
but my fingers ghost through.
And I feel an electric shock rush up my arm, knocking me away.
I begin to question my reality, my mind sorting things far more efficiently than usual. I’m dead, or dying, or alive. This could be the bodies final attempt at resuscitation. Though as much as I try and reconnect with my physical form, I’m constantly pushed away by an electric force.
If this is an attempt at resuscitation, or a coping mechanism produced by a slowly dying brain, perhaps I should make the most of it.
It also becomes aware to me that I’m free. Free from the torment of the last six months. When I turn, I see my attackers walking away from my corpse, with a sense of achievement written across their confident stances.
My war is over.
It might be time to go home.