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Cloud Nine Run - Chapter 1

Discussion in 'Stories, Fiction & Essays' started by Whitefang, Jan 27, 2014.

  1. Marshmallows – this comical feeling of being soft and solid reminds me of marshmallows. Grey winds and gentle drops of rain rush to my face as I stretch my hands, which are weirdly transparent, to a light I waited for God knows how long. I want to be close. I want to grab that light. I want to get the hell out of this limbo and eat marshmallows. I am inches close now. The light is too much for my eyes. I close them but my hands are still outstretched. Inches close. I suddenly feel a hand pulling me inside but I do not oppose. This is it, I think. I should laugh and linger on the thought that I am saved now – well, to be saved, actually. Then I hear a husky voice.

    Not now.

    The words remind me of the days my mother would use to stop me asking her questions about and bitches. I can’t blame her because I was still a diabetic eight year old Barbie fan girl back then. But I did know a bit of a clue what bitches are – who bitches are.

    Not now, Ellie.

    I think of partially thanking this dude for recognizing me and cursing him for not getting me out of this void. Am I overqualified for being too honest? Why not now?

    Before I can actually curse the guy, his hands let me loose and I find myself plummeting. I once wished of skydiving with friends over the vast Pacific Ocean while sipping strawberry milkshake attached from a tube to my mouth. This right here is a totally different story. And the miasma of mixed elements does not taste milkshake at all.

    As I think of physics and gravity stuff, a thought comes in: I was inches close to that light. I was inches close to heaven.

    The feeling is familiar; more like it was embedded to me eons ago. Yes, the curse of not getting what you want; not getting where you want to be; not getting who you want to be with. The free-fall crushes the last bit of intangible hope I had before that dude decided to let a girl fall off miles towards solid ground. Yay, I’m back to earth. I smirk.

    Yes, I’m dead. And I’m neither in the very least depressed nor in the state of denial. I am having thoughts of enjoying a cup of coffee on one of heaven’s Starbucks branch while gazing at angels chatting on how Peter decides who enters Paradise and who he dooms for eternity snorkelling on fire and magma in hell. Maybe I could go shopping and meet deceased ’s Secret models. Well, that dude busted me out and I’m not coated with magma while hearing Satan’s old school curses at all. I’m transparently confused, I spit. Ha-ha, nice one, Ellie.

    I hope my transparent self will not impact earth and burst out my gore because it will not be a nice sight.

    Before I can think of Peter Parker embracing me before the big splat, the scene in front of me blurs and grotesquely alters the skies. By a split second as I wink, I find myself in a cemetery. I catch my breath, though. I almost died on that one, I think ironically. I’m not trying to be sarcastic.

    The scene before me composes of gray skies, old graves, and wet blades of plain grass flanking tall pine trees. Oh, there’s a man in black suit kneeling on one of the graves. I realize that it is raining as I stare that he is soaking wet. I can hear his recurrent sobs from where I stand. Man, it surely devastates me – not because I know of his loss but the feeling of witnessing grief by my own eyes whispers me cold. And it is not an ordinary chill since it numbs the very existence I have.

    I know it is crappy for me to say how I feel since I’m dead and I don’t even remember the feeling of how stuffs feel. You feel me? Anyway, that’s how it is. There’s a man, profoundly in pain, kneeling on one of the graves while it rains. Should I do something? I mean, should I give him solace and say, “Hey, it is okay” when it’s really not? Or should I tell him to sober up and go home before he will be buried right next to that mud?

    Then I remember the golden truth shining and sparkling in front of me: I’m dead. It means that I can’t do anything. Even if I feel that I should do something, I just can’t. He can’t hear my voice. He can’t feel my hands if ever I’ll go with the crazy idea of tapping his shoulder. He doesn’t know that I’m right here even if I go wild and sing Madonna like a bastard with sore throat. The transparency issues that I have hinder me to do anything, except being here. I’m right here and I’m not. I exist and I don’t. I’m alive and I’m dead.

    Can God be crueller? I am supposed to enjoy the recompenses of being good (while I’m still alive) in heaven, like drink fancy wine, preferably Scotch, with angels. I have this gut feeling that wines are not prohibited in heaven no matter how old you are. I also have this promising feeling that I am going to heaven. I am supposed to sit my on some heavenly golden chair and look down on earth gazing at people busy with their lives. But I am inquisitive on the notion that if ever you are already in heaven, will you still be striving to do good stuff? Like be nice to people and all? God, I forgot your ten awesome commandments.

    Well, yes – and, no. I’m supposed to have chitchats with Michael or Gabriel, or both of them because I think all angels are hot. And I don’t mean to associate the word hot with hell. Satan is literally hot. He’s not my type. And why the hell am I talking about heavenly boys being hot? Anyway, there’s a pun in there I guess.

    The rain never stops. His sobs never stop. And I’m still transparent. In case you give a shit why I’m using the term transparent over invisible is that I can see myself. Really, I can see my hands but they are transparent. It’s far from being invisible and I am grateful for it. I mean, imagine being not visible. Aside from others not seeing you, it means you can’t see yourself. How the hell can you do things if you can’t see yourself? Like Oh, shit I can’t see my hands. My grasping reflex is officially over.

    I take two steps forward closer to the guy. The only thing I can see is the back of his wet suit. I gaze over to my right and see a little park just over the street blending with the hazy sunset. The skies are starting to get dimmer with rage. I don’t know if I smell caramel all over the place or it’s my fetishes over anything caramel that is starting to take over me. I take a glance at him again. I try to ignore his sobs, walk forward facing him now, and divert my attention to the tombstone. His left hand mostly covers the name but I can barely read Parker from where I stand. It surely rings a bell. Parker, Parker, Parker. God, I can’t remember. Maybe the ring lacks the exact amount of decibel for my brain to excite and starts to remember things.

    “It’s you, Ellie Parker.”

    The voice rattles me and I can sense that it’s coming from my rear. I turn around and see a man in black suit. It’s a tux, I confirm. He wears a long, round red hat that does not in any way complement to his attire. I look down to his shiny, pointed shoes and I can clearly see my reflection. He has a weird violet tie that somehow blends to his crooked smile. Black, red, violet, I think. I realize that he just spoke more on a French accent a while ago as I glance at his long, European nose. I try to laugh as I spit the idea of European nose. What’s the big difference in continental noses, Ellie? Anyway, let me tell you about his eyes. But catch this. I am really trying my best to give you the best description of his eyes but his stare vanquishes every possible thought that comes in. If there’s anything that happens to the hair after goose bumps reach their limit of anxiety and fear, it is what I’m feeling now. I look down by reflex since I can’t absorb that entire negative ambiance from him. Then I realize something—I’m having more realizations these past minutes than for the rest of my life—He can see me.

    “It is peculiar, I suppose, Miss Parker, that you haven’t remembered everything since you died,” he says.

    I am starting to get stiff as his voice blends with the rushing of rain. It has a gloomy tone. I’m also starting to think that he’s not one of those nice guys that come in unexpectedly on films. I’m staring at the mud that coats my sports shoes avoiding every possible eye contact with him. I’m about to make a joke out of me wearing sports shoes when I died when the not-so-nice guy coughs and speaks again.

    “And it is more peculiar that you don’t remember him”, he adds and points to Mr Soaking Wet While Sobbing guy at my back. He, the sobbing guy, is still in melancholy, obviously. I turn again and my eyes catch the epitaph that reads, “Death is not oblivion”. Of course, I can see the letters upside down but I managed to read everything in that tombstone.

    Rest in Eternal Peace

    Elizabeth “Ellie” Parker

    December 7, 1995 – December 7, 2013

    Death is not oblivion.

    I should smack the hell out of the person who put that epitaph but it surely agrees with me—with what situation I am now. This is not oblivion. I’m dead but I’m still here. Anyway, yes. I am more concerned about the hell-of-a-crap epitaph than the realization that I died on my eighteenth birthday. But it stings. And it is the kind of sting that projects a slideshow of my life over the eighteen years then POOF, it turns black. I don’t exactly remember how I felt that day. Maybe I was excited by the thought of turning eighteen, thinking that I could buy a pack of cïgârêttê with an authentic ID, and party with friends until everybody is stoned and drunk and got laid. Or maybe I was the gothic girl type and I decided to spend that special day of my life scribbling poignant poems about hemorrhage and razorblades. Maybe nothing particular happened. I don’t know. I don’t have any goddamn idea how I felt that day. And I don’t have any goddamn idea why I’m mad of not knowing how I felt that day. But one thing is for sure, I had hoped of a new day I now know didn’t come. You really need to relish the hell out of everything that is fleeting. Aside from regretting like a douchebag dispossessed of dough he lavishly spent on a Mary Go Round, you will be struck by the heavenly discernment that you can’t call heaven’s customer service and ask for a discounted extension of your life. And I feel like regretting even without my memories.

    The sobbing guy now stands. Maybe he just realized how awful a sight it is for a man to cry in front of a lady. Anyhow, we are facing each other now. I know he can’t see me but I’m frantic. He’s a fine man, I realize and I guess he’s just as my age. I admit that he is familiar but it is still blurry. His fresh wound on the left cheek distracts me. I know it is fresh because of the blood that fades with the rain on his face. It’s a minor cut but it makes me worry.

    He keeps on staring at the tombstone but his sobs are waning now. I must be someone so special to him that my death made him like this. That thought confuses me more. I hate not remembering anything when I need it most. I step closer to him. He stays, completely devoid of all happiness. I step closer again. He stays, completely devoid of all hope. I am inches close to him now. He stays, completely devoid of life. I can now hear his breathing as he starts to speak.

    “I love you, Ellie. I’ll always do”.
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