Microfiction: Threshold

"How did it feel to die? The first time."

Photo by Grailify on Unsplash

I am not sure what I expected, but it was certainly not a red T-shirt, faded blue jeans, ratty sneakers. I only had grasp of the rules of this encounter, not the metaphysics. Golden sun-tanned skin, acorn-brown shoulder-length hair, and a face covered in scruff. His eyebrows were bushy and wild, and beneath them his eyes were dark, a deep mahogany. He exuded relaxation, as if once unbound all those centuries ago he had resolved to never be constrained again. He was at home in the world. He met my eyes and smiled, lips parting to reveal slightly crooked teeth. Yes, that was it: everything about him was just slightly crooked. His mussed hair, his squat nose, his clothes a half size too big, his dirty shoelaces dragging on the floor.

He plopped down in the chair in front of me. I glanced at the sheet of paper, an excuse to break his gaze and gather myself.

“How did it feel to die?” I started. Added, “The first time.”

He had expected this one. “I was in a lot of pain—we didn’t know what it was, but each day I got weaker—and the last moments were an anticipation of relief. A weight lifting. I didn’t want to hurt like that anymore, exhausted and…angry, waiting for him. I wanted it. Honestly.”

I waited for more, but nothing came. “And coming back?”

“Like something pure and sharp filtering through me—like all my senses arriving at once, all tangled together. The pain was gone, but the damp darkness, the smell of the spices, the hardness of stone...it was like I was alive for the first time. Like I had never really lived.” A pause. “The grave clothes were unbearable. I was desperate to tear through them…”