Also, in the beginning, this won't sound fantasy at all, so all of you hard-core-fantasy readers, I'm not sure how into it you'll be. Thanks guys, love you!))
On my fifth birthday, my brand new bunk bed collapsed. On my lungs.
Of course, I was immediately rushed away in an ambulance. And despite the EMTs pinging machines and pumping valves and flashing lights, they lost me for only the briefest amount of time.
But still. I was clinically dead for three minutes and fifty-nine seconds.
When I awoke to those anxious hospital strangers in their masks like villains, I told them I’d seen heaven. And they tapped their watches and shot each other looks and somehow convinced me that it was all a dream.
And so I believed them. I believed them for eleven years and I forgot and forgot and forgot. But closing my eyes now, I can still see that blinding, consuming light that shone out of everywhere, even my own pores. I see that white and white and endless white. I see those final marble steps that I wasn’t allowed to climb because no, no, it wasn’t my time yet.
And so sometimes, after everything that’s happen, I picture that heavenly dream and I wonder if I really did make up all of those angels on my own.
