6
They lied to you.
When you die, you don’t see a light.
Actually, it’s the opposite. It’s a darkness that creeps in, bit by bit, like pixels on a broken laptop screen, blazing into technicolor for a brief, vivid moment before sputtering out, one by one.
The green carpet went first. Then the bottle of spilled vodka, the stacks of old birdcages, the lacy curtains, the sewing machine . . .
Cookie’s barking faded along with Kyle’s shouting and the frantic thump of my heart.
Pain sticks around for the longest. My lungs burning like I’d inhaled acid, my mouth gaping in a silent scream, my throat collapsing inward, crushed and broken.
The last thing I saw wasn’t Kyle but what was behind him. Four dolls, sitting on a bookshelf, eyes staring, feet hanging.
A cowgirl, a ballerina, a schoolteacher, and a bride.
When you die, there’s a brief moment where you become unstuck from your body. A splintering. If you’re quick enough—and desperate enough—you can re-stick yourself to an object in the immediate vicinity.
In hindsight, I should’ve picked the cowgirl. Blue jeans are easier to move around in than layers of unhemmed lace, and I reckon I could’ve come up with a use or two for that lasso. However, on the spur of the moment, I chose the bride.
I guess I’m just dramatic like that.