Young Writers Society

I open my eyes. I look around wildly, seeing the world in only a mess of colors. It feels like only a second ago, the guard lady stabbed me. Then, I see a man. He isn't like a blur like the rest of the world. He actually looks like an older me. Same auburn hair, same hazel eyes, same sturdy build. He did have a fuzzy beard and thick eyebrows, though. He's wearing flannel cargo pants, a red plaid, long-sleeved shirt and brown leather shoes.I just then realize he was my father.

How could that be? I think in alarm. He's dead. Unless... I push the thought from my mind. How could I be dead? I still feel conscious.

"Dad?" I ask.

"Jay!" He cries. He runs over to me. Then he frowns. "Wait a minute." He says. His eyebrows furrow. "If you're here, then..." He trails off. "Oh no." He puts his head in his hands. It seems to just be dawning that I'm probably dead. "I look away for one minute..." he mumbles to himself.

"Wait, were you somehow watching me?" I ask.

"There's not much else to do here except watch people live and talk to other people who are already dead. I'm known for my quote: Youth is wasted on the living. It's a big hit among the dead. Anyway, here we are. Any questions?"

"So, I am dead." I feel my heart beat faster. I am dead! I feel like I want to scream or run or do something but I feel paralyzed in place. I could hardly find the will to talk. "Can I interact with the living in any way?" I squeak.

"Nope." My dad says bluntly. "But wanna see something?"

I force my head to nod. My dad cups his hands and slowly pulls them apart. An image forms between his hands. A person I recognize was in the image. It is a torn up me! I stare in awe at my dead body. It's being carried on a stretcher. My shirt was off and there was a most horrifying sight. There was shredder skin along with blood and pus coming out of a deep gash in my back. The bandage was taken off my arm and I felt as though I could puke. My arm looked as though it was almost torn off. Bits of skin hung limp and the whole section was stained with blood and still dripping.

"Why do I have to watch this?" I say with disgust at the image before me.

"Because if you don't, you will loose all memory of who you used to be. Then you will be taken to the house of reforming and turned into a brainless slave for the dead so that nobody escapes into the living." Dad explains.

"Fine" I admit. "That seems like a pretty good reason."

I watch as my mangled body was thrown into a hastily assembled wooden box. Two people then lowered the box into a hole with a large stone by the top.

"So this is what happens after death." I say, trying to make conversation.

"Well, in a way. When you die, before you are brought anywhere, your good and bad deeds are weighted against each other. If they are relatively even, you come here. If your good out weighs your bad, you go to a sort of utopia and is the bad weighs more, you go to hell." Dad says

"Ugh. I would have more fun in jail." I say.

"Complaining won't do you any good." My dad says. "You can still talk to others who are dead.Now go find something constructive to do with your death."