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go figure.

I died at around 3.41a.m. on November 5th. My death was uneventful, I had gone to sleep the previous night and never woke up again. I went peacefully. So peacefully that my cleaning lady, who came later that morning, thought I was asleep and only realised that I was dead when she hoovered the rug around my bed and I did not stir. She finished her work nonetheless and picked up her money from the kitchen table. However, after some hesitation she dropped the key in the mailbox when she left. It took my cat about an hour to accept the fact that I would not feed her. She jumped on my bed, made noises — a lot — tapped my face a few times, then skipped over to the neighbours’ to get her snack. It’s a shared cat. And basically, that was that. As my hair and nails slowly started to stop growing and my muscles turned stiff a certain sense of accomplishment enveloped me. I remembered I always wanted to be called Arthur, but never had the courage to change my name. Suddenly, I was one with my mistakes, my wrongdoings and my errors of judgement. It was quite a ride. My most acute regret was that I had left the bathroom door open the night before and I could hear the dripping of the shower hose. Very annoying, indeed. How was it possible that I still had my hearing? No idea. Perhaps it was my memory making that sound in my brain. How was my brain still having enough juice to run memories? Beats me. That dripping sound was a killer. Day one of being dead was upsetting.

tibor

Enthusiastic photographer. Loves stories too.