Death Feels Like

That face, that figure. The writer believed he had seen it somewhere, but he wasn't sure "where".

Around him, a bokeh of greyscale rainbows and palettes of confusion fanned in a swirling motion, encapsulating his falling body. His ears were being fed chunks of air fleeing from his freefall. His limbs wiggled like a frog stuck in an electrostatic trap. His eyes were peeled open taut with tension, previewing the bleak shadowy sky from a new parallel angle.

Who was that stranger? How did they get in? Questions bombarded his stationary mind. His friends had perished from the clutches of a global pandemic decades ago; none remained alive who could've known about the location of an author so underrated.

Time soon began crumbling away underneath his position. Time refused to keep his lifeline alive, it seemed.

With the last pinch of hope sprinkling away from his desolate fingers, the writer braced for his inevitable demise waiting to engulf his being into a dinner wrapped for Death.

To die.

He wondered if he would've been happy if only certain factors behind his solemn life had been any different.

"Would it really change anything?"

Indeed, the purpose of life was paradoxical.

"We live... to die..."

The writer contracted the curtains of his cold eyes - perhaps for the last time on Earth. On the bright side, if at all, he slightly felt excited to finally be able to smell and taste life's greatest recipe - death.

"Dear world, goodbye..."

Darkness. A void. Engines of silence.

"..."

A black so blue, it burned beautifully beyond any shade of white. His tongue felt a sharp pain, as if an insect suddenly lodged into his mouth.

"..."

Without any context of what was happening behind his shut eyelids, he simply spat out the object disturbing his oral premises.

Something was wrong.

Previously the writer had read trunkloads of books - from textbooks to novels to research papers - on the topic of 'death'. Scientists great and small were a prime vendor of inspiration redder than cherries and riper than strawberries. He had read nearly a hundred anecdotes on near-death experiences from survivors of heart-stabbing disasters, doctors of philosophy, Nobel Prize winners and the like. None of them proved to be useful in judging the quality of his own death. It seemed peculiarly 'different'.

Should he wait a bit longer? He was confident his apartment wasn't very high. A neighbor had once accidentally dropped a turkey outside their kitchen window; it morphed into a gory mess of blood and meat within a minute after the asphalt below greedily grappled it with an arm of gravity before licking it through its surficial organ.

Should he part his eyes? Opening them may not be a problem. His journey would lead him to die anyways. He almost felt a sense of pity for the healthcare personnel who'd need to clean up his entrails on the ground afterwards.

Without hesitation, his paranoia handed over the baton to his impatience in their little relay race.

He opened his eyes, immediately stunned and speechless by the scenario in front of him.

"Am I... in Heaven?" he asked out aloud, to his utter embarrassment. "Am I dead?"

White wispy particles hovered peacefully atop his body. Gemstones of foamy perfection they were, sparkling with a wishful aroma of bliss. He was lain down on a bed, he noticed, soft enough to seduce a person to sleep for eternity and yet keep begging for more. A quilt rested and enveloped him from navel to toes, woven from fluffy feathers and petals of an exotic flower he couldn't recognize.

A crown of calmness strangled the nerves in his head, rapidly easing his shock and converting them into wonder.

Instantly his vigilant focus darted in the direction of the object that rolled down from his mouth. Looking at it with his own conscious eyes, he couldn't help but grimace.

It was ACTUALLY a bug - the size of a bluebottle, now resting in the valley of the blanket over and between his legs. But the most elegant of insects he had ever seen! Unlike the anatomically-awkward arthropods creeping and crawling on Earth, this beetle-like creature was adorned with gold. Feathered wings in place of the typical translucent.

The first consciously spoken sentence broke free from behind his teeth.

"What... the... fuck..."

Curiously curious and covertly impressed, the writer ordered his legs to slide gently off the bed, making sure not to disturb the other person.

'Wait... the 'other person' ?!' he exclaimed in his mental cave.

Indeed, his gaze fell upon another living being that involuntarily made him blush out of shyness and an internal guilt.

Facing the other side, still entranced by sleep, lay a female creature far superior to any human women he had ever ogled. With skin radiating a sheen of prosperity and the possibility of a wealthy background, auburn hair that hypnotized his human eyes to believe it was tidy no matter how bizarrely tangled it seemed - scintillating in threads of satin - and owning a well-defined body lustrous with maturity and spiritual purity, the writer had never imagined that such women existed. Atleast not on Earth.

'This has to be a dream,' he concluded in his own psychic court. 'Or maybe this IS Heaven.'

Still not having cast his eyes upon the woman sharing his bed, his hands suddenly revolted and began issuing commands of their own. They proceeded to slowly, carefully caress her cheek.

'Wait... NO! I don't know who she is. Nor what relation she has with me,' he quickly fished out a stone of logic to hold back his desire. 'I may need to investigate a bit more before I approach her. Woe to me for being so hasty. Let me go find a mirror to observe my own body first.'

With caution and respect, he tenderly debunked himself off the prize of a bed. For reasons unknown, he grabbed the beetle-like critter off the resting platform.

The floor, tiled by a conglomerate of foreign rocks, comforted his feet,. Every footstep absorbed a flavor of pleasure that made him want to stand on the floor all day long. Slightly flustered to admit even to his own mind, the writer felt like a newborn; every object that crossed his line of vision invited new questions.

The room was well-lit. Pitching his head up to inspect the source of the lights, his brain got overloaded with eye candy.

A vaulted ceiling loomed atop the bed chamber, sieving rays of light so white it almost attacked his eyes' retinae. A row of tiny windows were engraved into the dome, with a few left open for dozens of touring birds and insects to liberally pass across each.

From another room unexplored, somewhere inside the building he was nested in, an aroma of crisp herbs and eloquent spices drifted around a corner. The scent reminded him of his favorite Earl Grey tea back home. This new smell, however, brandished attributes that could clap his old preferences to the face. A champion of pleasant smells.

'Is this what death feels like?' he wondered quietly.

"Death?" a voice slithered into his ears so cute and pristine, the writer was scared the sensation may kill his vulnerable heart. Turning back, he discovered that the woman just woke up from her insoluble slumber. "Um... why would you be bringing about the topic of death?"

Their eyes contacted.

He wasn't sure if this was what he had expected about her appearance.