One never expects to be told they’re dead not even by God himself. Is it not supposed to be a quick transition, a passage from light to dark to light again? Yet there I was lying in my hospital bed when a figure dressed head to toe in flowing black robes bent low and whispered those very words. To say I was taken aback only scratched the surface of my indignation.
“Oh, am I?” I’d returned, then felt more stupid than a goat eating chicken wire.
The figure nodded to a cracking of bones, scooped me in his steel-like arms and carried me out of the place; nobody saw us go.
Once unconstrained by roof or wall Death, for it had to be he, sailed into the sky like an obsidian schooner. I closed my eyes until I thought us stopped.
It was odd to see Death floating there. He hung like a pinned rain cloud whilst I fell away. There was no such sensation as speed, for I was beyond such things, just him getting smaller and smaller and smaller.
As I levelled with the mountains, then trees, then long grass, a cold voice cut through my madness. It said, “You weren’t dead enough.” Then I hit the ground and knew I was.