One Morning

Derek J. Barbee
8/14/01

One morning, I woke up and I was dead.

It was the strangest sensation. I lay in bed for a little while, just mulling over the lack of feelings and sensations that normally ran over me. Everything looked the same to me, that was no different, but I realized that I had a total lack of sensations. I couldn't feel my body, I couldn't feel the covers around me, or the bed beneath me. I had to look down to make sure I was really lying where I thought I was.

As I did so, I realized that my muscles were quite stiff, as though I hadn't used them in a long while. My neck popped as I craned my head to look downwards, and I winced unconsciously before I realized that it hadn't hurt.

I twisted my neck again, and turned my head to look over at the clock beside my bed. 9:32, it said, the red numbers on the digital readout glowing brightly. I squinted against how bright they seemed against my eyes today.

My mind slowly ambled onto new thoughts, pondering over things in a sloth-like manner. It was Saturday, I realized. I was quite certain of that, and I knew that yesterday must have been Friday (because that's usually how these sort of things worked). Yet, for the life of me, I could not remember what I had done yesterday.

I tried to push the covers back and get up, but then realized that I had failed to actually remove the covers. I frowned and watched myself this time, putting an arm under the blankets and pushing them back. I had never fully realized how important the sensation of touch was until I was completely without it. I couldn't tell without watching if I had done it successfully, because I couldn't feel the blankets sliding off my arm, or the cold air on my arm as it slid out from beneath the covers.

I pushed myself upright, which felt odd. Judging from the speed at which I righted myself, I felt as though I must be strangely heavy. Yet straightening myself up was not a strain on my muscles at all. I came to the conclusion that it certainly might be, but I couldn't feel it, so I didn't know.

Slipping forward off my bed, my feet came in contact with the floor and I once again winced unconsciously. I waited a moment, then smiled again. The floor wasn't cold this morning. How nice. Standing up on my feet, I started to take my first few steps toward the bathroom.

Suddenly, I found myself falling. My head hit the floorboards with a sickening thump, and I stared at the polished wood for a few moments, wondering what the hell had just happened.

It occurred to me that my motor skills must have gone down the drain with my nerves when I lost all feeling in my body. Without watching myself, I didn't have a clue when my leg was fully extended, or when I should lock my knee so I could actually put weight on it without it bending and making me fall to the floor. All of this made me realize something.

Walking to the bathroom was going to be much more difficult than I had realized.

I frowned at the floor for a moment, then twisted my neck so I could see down to my body. I was lying in an awkward pose that certainly didn't look comfortable, so I straightened my legs and arms, until I was lying spread-eagled on the floor. With my head turned to one side, I moved the arm I was staring at over close to my body. I turned my head and repeated the process with the other arm before turning my head to look down at the floor again. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see both my arms resting on the floor, and slowly pushed off, raising my upper body up into the air.

I drooped my head so I could see down my torso to my legs, and made an effort to pull one leg up so my knee was resting on the ground. I paused, then went a bit further, so I was resting on one foot, my other leg stretched out behind me in a position that couldn't have been comfortable.

I consciously used the muscles in my leg and pushed upwards, rising from the floor gradually. When my leg was almost fully extended, I quickly swung the other one forward and steadied myself. Or tried to, anyway. It seemed much different without sensation in my body, and I spent a few moments standing in one place, wiggling around like a deranged person with an invisible Hula Hoop.

Once I felt steady enough, I looked down at my feet. I slowly moved one leg forward and locked my knee so it wouldn't bend when I put pressure on it. I shifted my weight forward and successfully took a step towards the bathroom. Gaining confidence in my abilities now, I took another shaky step, my vision locked on my feet all the while. I paused long enough to see how far away the bathroom was, then concentrated on my feet again as I shuffled into the hallway and into the bathroom.

Shuffling over to the sink, I steeled myself to what I might see and looked in the mirror. Despite my fears, it wasn't that bad. I was just a little pale, but that was it.

Okay, I was incredibly pale.

I also needed to shave.

I clumsily closed my hand around the canister of whipped cream that sat on the edge of the sink and cast about for a razor. I shuffled over to the medicine cabinet (remembering to look down at my feet) and got out a new one, since I couldn't remember what I had done with the one I had yesterday.

Shuffling back to the sink, I set down the razor and picked up the shaving cream, applying some of it to several fingers. I proceeded to smear it around my face, and began wondering what the rest of my day would be like. Certainly different than a normal day, I realized. I was just glad I didn't have to go to work that day.

Once I looked like a pale Santa Claus, I picked up the razor and started shaving. I found myself staring at my face in the mirror as I shaved, and looked closely at my skin. It was grey, and looked dry in some places, like something on an old wound.

Red mixed with the white of the shaving cream, and I suddenly realized that I had cut myself. It didn't hurt like it normally did, and what's more, it didn't bleed like normal. Turning my head to the side, I looked in the mirror at the cut, a fairly deep one along my left cheek. The only way I was able to tell when the razor was touching my skin was how much resistance I met when I pushed the razor against and along my skin. Because of this, I hadn't realized that I was pressing too hard, and had cut myself rather badly.

I slowly set the razor down on the sink and stood there, staring at the cut. After a moment, I grabbed a washcloth and began wiping the shaving cream off my face. I had just decided that I would skip shaving today.

I looked at my teeth in the mirror, and noticed a considerable lack of plaque. The lack of body heat in my mouth had probably caused all the usual bacteria in my mouth to die out, so I didn't need to brush. My gums didn't look that healthy, though.

Thumping out of the bathroom, I went over to a window that overlooked the street outside my apartment. I blinked my eyes rapidly at the sudden glare of sunlight, which seemed much harsher than it had on previous days. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I watched people walking along the sidewalk briskly, not once looking at their feet. I felt slightly envious, and realized how many things I'd taken for granted when I had been alive.

Turning away from the window, I made my way into the kitchen, noticing patterns in the carpet that I'd never paid any attention to before. I decided not to turn on the light, and let my sore eyes adjust to the dim light again. I turned my head slowly, looking around the kitchen as though I had never seen it before.

Realizing that I hadn't yet eaten this morning, I tried to move over to the counter where I had an uneaten bag of bagels. This would have been no problem, except for the fact that I forgot to watch my feet again, so by the time I realized that I had no idea where my foot was in comparison with the floor, I was already falling down.

Dragging myself up from the floor was a little bit easier this time, as I could grab onto the counter and pull myself up. When I finally made it back up, I took a good hold of the counter, then reached for the bag. Undoing the knot in the plastic was much more difficult with unfeeling fingers, so I finally resorted to tearing the stupid thing open.

I took a bite of the bagel a chewed for a while, looking around the kitchen again. The bagel was harder to chew than most bagels I had eaten while alive, and I got a strange thought. Going over to the microwave, I looked for my reflection in the glass. Once I got a good enough view of my face, I opened my mouth.

Dammit, I had been chewing on my tongue.

I scowled and went over to the sink to spit out the bagel. I tried swallowing what I had chewed, but once I realized that I couldn't feel where it was in my throat, I realized that it really didn't matter anymore, so I spat it out.

Thoroughly dejected now, I walked back to the living room and resumed staring out the window. The weather outside looked cold, but I knew it wouldn't feel that way to me. Looking across the street, I focused on the small cafe that I liked going to so much while I had been alive. To my surprise, I recognized a friend of mine, sitting at a table just inside, sipping from a coffee mug.

I realized that some company right now might be nice: someone to console me in my decidedly dreary unlife. Yes, I would go say hello.

Turning briskly nice, I thumped my way over to the coat rack and grabbed my jacket. I made a point of looking as I tried to get each arm into each sleeve, and once it was zipped up, I picked up my keys and opened the door. Clumsily fumbling with the keys, I managed to look the door behind me and head down the hall to the way out.

As I turned the corner of the hallway, I stopped in my tracks. I had forgotten about the stairs. Damn, and I thought walking on flat surfaces was hard, this was going to suck.

Another apartment owner came up the stairs as I was slowly thumping my way down, one step at a time. A pleasant, middle-aged man by the name of Louis Sweeney, he tipped his hat to me and said hello as I passed. I smiled back to him, and tried to give a hello in response, but all that came out was a strange scratching noise.

Louis paused and turned around, a few steps past me now. "Are you all right, Mr. Underwood?"

My mind made its best attempt to think quickly about what just happened, and I didn't respond for a moment. I suddenly realized why I had been unable to produce a response. I didn't have to breathe anymore, and I had not yet taken in a single breath this morning, and barely had any air in my lungs. Without air, the best my vocal chords could do were frog imitations.

Purposefully taking in a breath, I smiled reassuringly at the helpful man. "I'm fine," I said in a more steadying voice, exhaling and then inhaling again.

Louis frowned and took a step back down towards me. "Are you sure? You don't look terribly healthy."

I did my best to wave a hand nonchalantly, and looked more as though I was stricken with cerebral palsy. "No, I'm okay. I just got a bit of a bug that's been going around work."

"Ahh," ahhed Louis, smiling and nodding understandingly. "Well, get some sleep." He turned and continued his way up the stairs.

"I will," I called to him, almost running out of air before I remembered to inhale again. I watched him until he was out of sight over the top of the stairs, and then turned back to my task, thumping down the staircase with all the grace of Frankenstein doing ballet.

I finally made it to the front doors of the apartments, and pushed them open, stepping out onto the sidewalk and looking across the street to make sure my friend was still in the cafe. I saw him still sitting in the same spot and reading a newspaper, so I shuffled over to the crosswalk.

An old woman was waiting for the light to change as well, so I stood next to her. I was almost afraid she would try to strike up a conversation, but she just looked at me funny once, then purposefully avoided looking at me. I tried to do the same.

The light changed, and we both started across the crosswalk, her taking tiny little old person steps, and me taking awkward, stiff dead person steps. She risked another odd glance at me, and then shuffled a little faster, eager to be away from me. When we reached the sidewalk, she immediately scooted off away from me, probably in a different direction than she originally intended to go. I sighed, realized that shrugging would be a waste of effort, and then made my way down to sidewalk to the cafe.

My friend looked up as I walked in, the bell above the door dingling. His table was one of the closest to the door, and he had his feet kicked up on the other chair. He quickly moved his feet off of it as he saw me. Smiling, he waved to me, almost unnecessarily, as I was already heading over to where he sat.

"Hey, Larry," he said as I sat down.

"Hi, Will," I greeted back. I placed both hands on the table and moved my legs over underneath the table until I figured I was probably in the right position for sitting.

"You want anything to eat? The blueberry muffins are pretty good," he said, looking down at an empty plate in front of him.

Remembering my earlier difficulties with consumption, I shook my head from side to side. "No thanks," I said. Not wanting to waste any time, I got to the point.

"Okay, Will," I said firmly, taking in deep breaths before each sentence. "What do you notice about me?"

Surprised by the direct question, Will gave me a thorough once-over, looking from my face to my coat to my hands, then back to my face. "Well, you suck at shaving."

I had forgotten that I cut myself, and touched my face where the cut was. It was useless, because I couldn't feel anything, anyway. "Other than that."

Will pursued his lips and furrowed his eyebrows, appearing to go into deep thought. I knew him too well, and knew that he would never do such a thing.

"I have no clue," he concluded finally.

"Okay," I said, realizing that sighing would just be a waste of precious air. "Something weird happened to me this morning. I woke up, and realized that I was dead."

Will stared at me.

It seemed awfully quiet in that cafe.

"And what caused you to realize this?" he asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"Well, look at me!" I said, raising a hand up off the table for a moment to gesture at my face. "I'm unbelievably pale, my cut isn't bleeding, I can't feel anything at all, and I don't need to breathe!"

"You're lying," he said bluntly. "I saw you take in a breath just a moment ago."

"That's just because I need air to talk," I explained. "I didn't need to take in a single breath this morning until I tried to talk to someone!"

Seeing that he wasn't believing me, I was forced to try to give him proof. "Here!" I said. "I'm going to close my mouth and not take in a breath. Hold my nose shut until you're convinced that I no longer need to breathe!"

Will stared at me. "I don't want to do that, Larry," he said after a moment.

I scowled, but knew there had to be a way to show him. "Here!" I said, stretching my hand across the table towards his. "I have no body temperature! Feel my hand!"

Will gave me the same blank stare again. "I don't want to sit in a cafe with you, holding your hand for any period of time."

"You don't have to hold my hand! Just touch it, dammit!"

Reluctantly, almost gingerly, he reached over and rested a few fingers on my hand for a second or two. He retracted his fingers and stared at my hand for a while before looking back at my face.

"Cold," was his conclusion.

"Yes, of course it's cold," I said, exasperated. "I'm dead! I have no need for body heat!"

Mulling over this, Will nodded slowly. "That's kinda weird, you know," he said.

I nodded, bobbing my head forward and back. "Yes, it is." I stopped to consider the big picture for a moment. "When I thought about what life must be after death, this is definitely not what I pictured."

"Me neither," agreed Will sociably. He stared at me for a moment, studying my face. "You know, this'll kind of put a damper on your social life. Not a whole lot of chicks would want to go out with a dead guy."

"Thank you, Mr. Optimism," I said, regarding him with what I hoped was a nasty glare.

"Just trying to be helpful," he said unhelpfully. He stopped and looked down at his watch, then sighed. "I gotta go," he said, folding up his paper and draining what was left in his coffee cup. "My sister is expecting me in a little bit. I have to help her move into her new house."

I felt a little gloomy as the only person I had to confide in started to leave. "All right," I said. "See you later, hopefully."

Standing up and brushing muffin crumbs off his lap, he nodded to me and walked to the door. "Okay. Don't you start rotting, or anything." The bell above the door dingled as he left.

What a pleasant thought.

I sat alone for a few moments until I decided to leave before the guy behind the counter could ask if I wanted anything. Swinging both legs out from under the table so I could see them, I pushed myself out of my chair and steadied myself before walking to the door, ignoring the disgustingly cheerful dinging of the bell.

I stood on the sidewalk for a moment before deciding to go somewhere, anywhere but my depressing little apartment. Looking down at my feet, I stumbled off down the sidewalk, not really knowing where I would end up, just wanting to be elsewhere.

As I walked, I began thinking about life. It was a lot different to do so then, since I was no longer in it. A living person thought about life as a time to do all the things they wanted to, something to enjoy and live to the fullest. Most of them didn't end up doing everything they want to, and all that joy and happiness they strove for was interlaced and surrounded by obstacles and peril that they never really considered until it hit them.

A living person thought about death as finality. Whether it's a final nothingness, with nothing beyond it, or a final state of being, with heaven or the afterlife. Death was feared by so many people, many because they didn't want their time to end yet. They realized that they really hadn't done all that they wanted to, and how their lives hadn't been pure happiness as they had hoped they would be, but moments and times of happiness, side by side with the gloom and dreariness that came long with the whole package labeled Real Life.

If you went around expecting life to be a dreamride, I realized, then you'd be let down the moment things took a turn for the worse. On the contrary, if you went around expecting life to be nothing but suffering, then that's all it would be, because that's all you expected and, as a result, saw in it. You could be sad because you lost a loved one who had cancer, or be happy because they weren't suffering any more. Your enjoyment of life came from how you looked at it.

On the same note, it might change how your death was. Whatever followed it, that was. A man could enjoy having a job at a company because it got him the money he needed and allowed him to apply his skills in an area he enjoyed, while another man could despise the same job because it didn't allow him enough free time. One man might dislike the idea of an afterlife, and just prefer that it all ended when he died. Another man might love the idea of a never-ending after-life, full of things that he enjoyed.

But wouldn't an afterlife full of things that you enjoyed get boring after a while? Part of what made life life was having the downs as well as the ups. You couldn't truly appreciate how good your life was until it had been the total opposite at some time. There could be no beauty without ugliness. There could be no hate without love. There simply could not be something that strong and pure without having something to compare it to. There needed to be a polar opposite: another end of the spectrum.

In such an afterlife, full of total joy and nothing else, I would slowly cease to be happy, I realized. There would be nothing to compare the joy to, and the happiness would slowly melt into apathy.

And an eternity of apathy would be worse than an eternity of suffering.

I stumbled, falling to my knees before I could catch myself. I had stopped concentrating on walking, lost in my thoughts. I lifted my head and looked around, realizing that I was by the city cemetery. I looked back down and pushed myself up and to my feet, then began walking into the cemetery, my footsteps crunching on the gravel driveway.

I concentrated intently on my feet this time, but slowly let myself drift back into my thoughts. How had I gotten like this? Why was I dead, but still conscious? What had caused this to happen? What the hell had happened last night?

Most of all, what in my life had led up to this? Had I done something to deserve this? Had my thoughts on death and the afterlife put me here?

I fully realized then, just how pointless this unlife was. I couldn't go out and do so many things that I had disdained in my normal life, that I had passed by or ignored. Every single thing that I had taken for granted was now beyond my reach, and no matter how much I wanted it, I couldn't reach out and take it.

What was the point of a life where you never extended yourself? Never put yourself at risk? Never even tried to do something out of the ordinary, just to see what it felt like?

I stumbled again, and this time I didn't care. I fell to the ground against a grave plot, the cold cement of a gravestone beneath my torso. Angrily and impulsively, I reached both arms high above my head and slammed them down as hard as I could against the gravestone. The old stone splintered and shattered beneath my fists, cracks arcing out like spider webs from the impact of my fists.

Lifting my hands and unclenching them, I gazed at their disfigured form sadly, realizing that I had undoubtably broken countless bones in each hand. The horrible thing about the situation was the fact that it didn't matter. I didn't feel a thing.

What the hell was the point of going through life without feeling a thing? It was a waste of a human life that could have been lived much better. I realized that no one should seclude themselves that way, too afraid of feeling sorrow to truly feel the rest of what life offered. Someone who is never hurt can never truly feel the extent of happiness.

I looked out across the graveyard, and realized my vision was blurring. The cells in my eyes were dying, just as the rest of my body was, now that the cells in my body were deprived of oxygen supplied by an active bloodstream, an active body.

An active person.

I stumbled to my feet, almost falling again. I made my way down the gravel road, past grave after grave. My mind was slowing, and words no longer sprang to mind when I tried to think of them. The gravel beneath my clumsy feet was blurry, merging into one solid stone path that crunched beneath me.

I cried out and fell again, my head crashing into the rough gravel on the ground. Despite the overwhelming sorrow, my eyes did not cry, and I realized my tear ducts probably no longer worked.

Stubbornly I raised my head again, trying to focus my eyes as I looked out over the graveyard. After a moment, they focused halfheartedly, but I didn't think they had, because something was still moving even though my eyes were not. I squinted and pushed myself up higher, ignoring the crunches from my ruined hands as I did so.

A human-shaped form was not far from me, standing amongst the gravestones, making repetitive motions and holding something. I tried to make the figure out clearer, but failed. I pushed myself up with my legs and fell against a gravestone. I yelled an incoherent noise at it with the small amount of air left in my lungs and stood upright, stumbling off in the direction of where the figure was still moving. I tried to concentrate on my feet, but it was getting more and more difficult as my vision deteriorated at an increasing pace.

As I neared the figure, I saw that the item it held in its hands was a shovel, and it was digging, of course. The form stopped its motions when I neared, and turned to face me. I was fairly sure it was a man, and when I got close enough, I realized that it was a priest, dressed in traditional clothing.

"Hello, Larry," said the priest, in a voice I'm certain I should have recognized, but didn't.

I inhaled deeply, but my breath caught in my throat. "Do I know you?" I asked, finding it hard to form my words now.

"You did," replied the priest simply. He paused before adding: "You look troubled, my son."

I actually laughed at the understatement, the remainder of my air departing from my lungs in a feeble croak. "You could say that."

The priest said nothing, just stood still in front of me, holding his shovel. I focused on him and tried to stop weaving from side to side.

"Father," I slurred, inhaling and exhaling raggedly. "I have a question for you."

"What, my son?" came the soft reply.

"What did I do last night, Father?" I asked.

The priest did not respond at first, and when he did, I had to strain to hear his soft voice over the rising winds that I couldn't even feel. "Well, Larry. Last night . . . you died."

An overwhelming feeling of peace and understanding came over me, and I think I smiled. "Yes," I whispered, not even bothering to inhale anymore. "I died."

The figure before me came and grasped my hand, pulling me gently forward. I stumbled on obediently, and the priest led me to the grave he had been digging. I lay down in it, vision almost totally gone, and brain deteriorated so far that I could not even form the words to thank him with. "Yes," I thought to myself. "I died."

I didn't even feel it when he started to shovel the dirt over me.