Wednesday, July 10th, 2013.
Today, I died.
At around 3 PM today, I was outside, dancing in the rain that I so passionately loved. It was a full blown thunderstorm, with dense grey clouds that seemed to have absorbed all the world’s grief. For me, however, the blue grey streaks that split the sky into fragments were well wishers, old friends. I felt ecstatic, comfortable, safe.
And then lightning struck.
How ironic that something I loved with so much devotion just destroyed me in half a second of blinding brilliance? I felt a current ripping through me, smelled my flesh charring, melting off my bones and being reminded of a roasting fowl in a fire pit. Ridiculous thoughts streamed through my mind: lightning wasn’t just white, it was all the colours of the rainbow and then some; would the blisters that were opening in folds along my skin ever fade?; would I ever be able to wash out the stench of human skin, muscle and sinew clumping, singeing, dripping?
Two days later, the mourners arrived. Clad in deathly black, from their clothes to their expressions to their moods, they came. Swiftly, some walking in groups, huddling against each other for support, some alone, braving it out. My father was there, his face a wretched mask of pure agony, his expression paying tribute to the sanity that had been lost two days ago. My sisters, their blank faces staring at the casket wherein I lay, trying to reach me. And my best friend, trying to stay strong, supportive, but being given away by her trembling lower lip. My cousin, making his best effort not to do anything rash. And my mother, arranging the event, being the supportive, solid barrier, needed sorely.
In actuality, this was a dream I had. When I woke up, the horror I had seen made me realize one vital thing: I never never want to die.