If it hadn’t been for my body at my feet, it would never in a lifetime occurred to me that I would find myself seated before, well, ‘Her’?
On opening my eyes to the darkness, her loose blue rinse perm and the pink old lady dressing gown she wore gently glowed. Had I a pulse, it would have raced, the sound of it thumping in my ears. Sweat would have coated me head to toe, and I am sure I would have had at least one wet sock. The chill that should have run up my spine would have matched the goose bumps on my arms. My mouth would have been dry, and I would have shaken like the cliché leaf.
But, I did not.
I am dead.
Death is staring at me, my body is a tangle at my feet, and blood, so much blood, is everywhere. Sitting in darkness all is consumed, nay, enveloped by it, and yet I can see clearly through it. When Death spoke, her voice was not one of the crypt nor the grave, it was, however, that of an irritated old lady, a veritable prune of a woman, and she was telling me to “keep bloody still boy!” and then “if you think I’m scary, you won’t believe your eyes when you get to the hot place.”
With one deft swoop of her secateur filled right hand, (I had always thought Death carried a long handled scythe, but it is apparently too phallic for a woman of her age?) she sliced through my necrobilical cord, severing soul from mortal remains.
Five feet two inches of gnarled old lady turned on its heel without another word; her back facing me as she stepped into a clapped out, beige, 1960 something VW beetle.
With a pop she was gone, and then all at once, everything became very, very hot.
Click the picture above. Mazzy Star is there, and doing it well, fading into you.
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