I was 18 when I died.
It was quick, though not painless-- I died in less than a month. Now I continue living, but I am dead. Many people find it strange, but others don’t notice at all.
How they cannot notice a dead girl walking among them is beyond me, but that is not an answer I have. After all, I am dead, not a mind reader.
After I died, I moved into my coffin. My grandparents were kind enough to provide me with it, and although it was extremely small and cramped, it was better than nothing.
Better than a mass grave, or cremation. Much of what I possessed when I walked among the living was not able to be carried over into the land of the dead.
I remember watching from the second floor of the place I once called home as large,
strange men who knew nothing of me or my story emptied the things that once kept me warm and comfortable into a massive, cold steel container to be carted off and burned.
I remember watching as people I considered family encouraged them to take as much as possible, not caring about the many years and stories I had poured into the objects.
I remember wanting nothing more than to beat my fists against the glass until it shattered—to scream, to cry out to them and beg them to give me one more chance at being alive.
I remember staying quiet as they took apart the last vestiges of the world I once knew and tossed them aside like nothing.
I remember watching as they reduced an entire lifetime to ashes. And I could do nothing about it.
I was helpless. I was dead.
People who are living think dying is a quick process. Or that being dead is a single, solitary moment. Like a gunshot, or a tripped switch.
This is an erroneous notion; it is much more like a long, dark hallway that you must journey down. With every step you think you are coming closer to the end.
I learned a few years after I died that there is no end. There are spots of light—candles, maybe a window here and there, but you are trapped, in an endless looping circuit, for all of eternity.