Death's Narratives

Chapter 6

The night watchmen did not even notice the loud thump when she hit the ground due to the northern soul song playing on the radio. Maybe they are preparing to end their shift, and loosening up after a whole night of guarding the establishment. They are different this time. I don't see the ones who were being interviewed the day of the last suicide case, which happened three months ago. They were terminated, obviously. Fortunately, the current guards would not be held liable for an incident without evidence.

After walking a distance, the lady stands still at the rear of the building and leans her head on the glass partition. Unlike me, who cannot process everything just yet, she doesn't look like she is a bit bothered after what happened. Like she is already used to it. Like this had already happened before. That does not make any sense at all.

She scans the surroundings before making a move. Because of the heightened security, cameras are all over the place. And if that is the case, she knows exactly where the blind spots are. The large clock on the wall strikes seven o'clock, the time when the guards are scheduled to end their shifts. This brings me to a conclusion that she had already planned for it to happen in this building. She avoids the reach of the views of the security cameras and gets away swiftly on the premises.

People die easily. Sure, there are instances when their heart and brain stop functioning for a couple of minutes or so. Still, they are alive, preventing the soul from leaving the body. But to get resurrected after they die? Right after their body fell straight from a height of over 70 meters, head first, literally shattered brain, broken bones, and severe blood loss? That is impossible. There is just no way.

This is a completely unprecedented event. And again, I am a witness to it. As far as I remember, there is no single record in the entire history of humanity when someone who had died was able to obtain life once again, let alone getting all the damaged parts of their body repaired in an instant. Am I missing something here? Are my eyes playing some kind of tricks on me? What just actually happened? Is she even a human? I want to know. I want an answer.

I check her hourglass once again and find it containing the sands that vanished prior to her supposed death. I do not see her name together with the details that I expect to be appended here. The falling sand, telling me that she has one more month to live, and her being alive after that fall, are the only information that I have on my end. The rest will be coming from her. Left with something called uncertainty, I follow her to, somehow, aid my growing curi out osity.

Not even a stain of blood is visible. The collar and yoke of her sleeves are not repaired, as I expected. It is solely her body that is regenerated. As compared to some animals which can grow their lost body parts back, hers is better, far greater. She does not even take an effort to get used to her newly-reconstructed body. No indication of any types of injuries. None. It is just her—a lady who died a miserable yet willful death, but awakened with a vigorous body.

I might not consider believing. I mean, who would have thought? Humans do not have that capability. Even with the help of technology in the near future, it is still not as convincing. There are many questions lingering on my mind already, each wanting to be answered but they will have to wait for now because science cannot prove or disprove them yet; science cannot answer everything just yet. I will volunteer myself, a paranormal entity, as an example.

After a long walk through the streets of Albany, we arrive at a house, which I deem is her place of residence. She digs inside the pocket of her skirt and afterwards, takes a key under the doormat with words saying "Go away" instead of a usual "Welcome". Quite fearsome. I bet she does not always have visitors. Well, I am not a visitor right now, just an observer who wants to put a stop to a built up confusion kindled by the phenomena that I saw. And a mere doormat would not impede my eagerness to know someone who has risen from the dead.

Who is she?

Come to think of it, I know every person who sets their feet onto this world. Right from everyone's birth, I was already waiting, watching as the sands of their hourglass dictate the fate awaiting them. And when the last grain of sand falls to nothingness, I will come forth to collect their wandering souls. Every being who ever lived, with their childhood experiences, fears, happiness, habits, favorites, idiosyncrasies, basically all of the things that comprise them, I already know before they even tell.

But she is an exception, a deviation among billions of humans. Her entire existence is a complete mystery to me.

She's not the sixth soul I ought to ferry. I am not sure if she's even on my records. Even if she already resigned herself to death, there was no pause in time as if her fate was not allowing her to die. These bizarre postulations, it is not clear to me if it's appropriate to think about them further. Is it a bad thing that there are limits to what I know about the modern physical world? Or is it good due to the fact that for the longest time, I feel interested again?

Opening the door seems too much of a task for her. The way she grips the doorknob shows that she is having a second thought to go inside, unlike when she jumped off that building earlier without a glimpse of hesitation. She just firmly stands in front of the maple door while I survey the exterior of the bungalow. After a minute or so, she turns the knob and pushes the door inwards. I wait for her to go inside before I make my way in.

The view of a messy living area crops up. Everything is all over the place. Unwashed dishes on the table with scattered bits of leftovers, junks like cigarette butts and cans of beer are on the floor making a rabble, clothes are piled on the accent couch, flickering table lamp lying parallel to the laminated wooden flooring. I think it has been this way for quite some time because of the coffee stain that is left on the white furry carpet. Of all the things that are in disarray, the broken coffee mug bothers me the most because it means none other than wasted coffee.

If the accommodation area is already this disorganized, I wonder what I will see on the other parts of the house. Well, I get the picture. For the people who want to die, concerning themselves to do things like keeping everything on fleek is the last thing to do because every effort is already exerted on willing themselves to live. At any rate, she is the same as this living area. Chaotic and confounding.

She goes straight to a room where she takes her skirt off. Surprisingly, the room is neat and tidy. The bed is made, fitments are in place, even the color palette of the room is wisely chosen. Light blue to dark gray is a nice touch of combination. I just hope she added some thoughts of putting more hues of black into it. In contrast to what I saw in the entrance that would definitely make someone feel unwelcome, this room has the ambience for them to feel that they are home.

After some time, she removes her collared sleeves and another revelation is unveiled. Her body was immediately mended after a devastating fall, so indications of self-harm are out of the question. I thought that she has an overall flawless body considering that her cells quickly regenerate giving her an invulnerability to any kind of injury. But I am mistaken when I see the long scars across her back.

She literally died but not even a mark on his skin is noticeable. No one would suspect that the ground just cracked her head open because there is no sign of it, not even a scratch. Just how grave a wound should be for it to form a blemish on her body? What are the stories behind it? What secrets do she and these scars share? After being brought back to life, what could possibly be running on her mind right now?

Ah, questions just keep on coming. I cannot just approach her using my human form and strike a conversation the way I usually do. If I do that to her with a limited amount of information, she might consider me a creep, which obviously I don't want to happen because the chance of completely knowing her might slip. There was no state created at the time before she died, no pause in time that would apparently give us a chance to converse and give each other answers we deserve to have.

She takes her undergarments off, revealing her bare body while staring at herself in the mirror. I can distinguish that behind her impassive expression is a being who is abhorring the person in front of her, the person she has become. It seems she is fully aware of what happened and is currently covering this by acting indifferent. No extreme emotions are being shown but her dead eyes do not lie. As black as a void, as deceptive as that of a raven's, as disturbing as that of the hospital hallways', a dreary passage through the personage hiding inside of her.

These eyes also epitomize the crippling fact that she is also dead inside. Even though she is insusceptible to physical damages, her emotional and mental state tell another story. And I am sure that it is a sad one. A tragedy waiting to happen.

She walks the hallway to the bathroom stark naked which gives me some kind of tension. I see people die every day while having a bath, while pleasuring themselves, while having an intercourse, while all of their skin is exposed. The difference is that I have known all of them since they were born. Like a parent to a child, a friend to an outcast, a savior to a damned, or for the most part, simply an overseer and keeper of their hourglasses. But her case is something that I don't understand. Good thing that her hourglass doesn't tell me that she will die while taking a bath, so I will just make myself feel comfortable.

Because of the living area, I did not notice how laudable the house is. Other than the mayhem it frames, every place in this house is pleasing to the eyes. The fixtures and furniture complement the minimalist interior design. Maybe she purposely made the accommodation area appalling so that no one would ever want to come in. One should not always believe what the doormat says.

I continue roaming the house, hoping to get some clues about her. Even one is enough to be used as a lead. As I make my way back to the bedroom, a protruding door by the hallway catches my attention. Another room, possibly. This house is bigger than I thought. The door fits the shade of the wall, making it inconspicuous in plain sight.

My intuition tells me to go inside. The darkness in the room is thought-provoking and intriguing in many ways. I could have passed through the wall easily, but a loud familiar song disrupts me. This is the same song the watchmen was playing.

She comes out of the bathroom, diverting my heed away from the room. I can't blame her for dancing through the song because, in my honest opinion, the song is lit. Syncing using a remote and jiving all the way to her bedroom, like a completely different person has emerged. Within that amount of time, she was able to emanate a facade that no one would ever know that she is living through the most dreadful days of her life.

She is a human after all.