Death was nothing like I had imagined it. I had hoped for a calm, dark, silent respite, devoid of thoughts and worries. Instead, it felt as if the cold, hard concrete floor was still pressing on my cheek. My ears even kept ringing from the bang of the gunshot, all the way into the fucking afterlife.

I could feel the little droplets of blood, gray matter, or whatever the bullet had splashed over the room, run down my face. And I could still see the silhouette of the man who’d shot me, leaning over my dead body, seared into my mind like the shadow of Death.

As the ringing faded, a fucked-up symphony of wailing girls grew crescendo in my ears. Ana screamed ten times louder than the others. She sounded as she was being scorched alive, flayed, as if her beating heart was being ripped out of her chest. It was awful. Yet, in a horrible way, it comforted me.

Her inconsolable cries told me how deeply my death had hurt her and how much she would miss me, which reassured me about how much she had loved me.

I’d always wished I could be at my own funeral, to see who would be there, who cried and who had lied about ever caring for me. To know, to confirm that Ana still cared was a nice ending to my life - and I almost started to regret I had died.

It was like an out-of-body experience. As if I stood by the man’s side, I watched the three girls writhe in pain and fear, and I saw my own body, laying on the floor with its eyes wide open as it was picked up by the armpits and dragged to the staircase.

“Take that upstairs,” said the man who shot me, as he pointed at my cadaver. “And you, clean up that mess.”

For a dead person, I felt quite conscious. It bothered me a little, actually. I could feel each one of the concrete steps thumping the back of my head. It was no wonder ghosts were so fucking cranky, if they could feel everything that happened to their body.

Once we got to the top of the staircase, just as I caught a glimpse of the blue sky outside, the man with the mole on his hand put my hood back on. Someone else, who must have been about as tall and wide as a fridge, flopped me over his shoulder and carried me away.

Silly men, I thought to myself. What’s the point in putting a hood over a dead person’s head? And why wasn’t there more blood? And what if the reason I could hear, feel, and see everything around me was that I was still alive?

“Am I dead?” I asked meekly.

“Shut up,” answered the man carrying me.

“I’m not dead,” I whispered, as I tried to jolt up. The man adjusted me on his shoulder like a heavy sack of potatoes, and grumbled with a thick accent:

“No, you’re not, but move again and I’ll kill you myself.”

The man kept on walking, and I tried to stay as limp and silent as possible. He carried me for a long time, into a building and up a staircase. Long enough for me to lose feeling in my legs, but not long enough for me to even begin to comprehend how I’d survived a gunshot to the brain.

Finally, the guy dropped me onto a thick, springy mattress, which was a massive upgrade from the basement’s concrete floor. He flipped me over, face down on the bed, and although so many horrible thoughts about what would happen next crossed my mind, all he did was cut the zip-tie that held my hands in my back.

“Sit,” he told me.

I sat up and massaged my sore wrists. My ears were still ringing from the gunshot, and my head still spinning from the idea that not only had I just narrowly escaped death, but I now had no idea what would happen next.

“You can take the hat off when I close the door,” said the man’s low, deep voice.

“The hood?” I asked him. “Are you sure?”

His heavy footsteps moved away from the bed, and the door slammed loudly just a few seconds later.

“Can I take it off now?” I said.

Again, no answer. I hesitated for a moment, but if I had just narrowly escaped death for having taken my hood off, maybe I could be a little more patient about wanting to remove it again.

It only took a few minutes of sitting confusedly on the bed, blindly feeling around the sheets with the palms of my hands, for me to start longing again for the light of day.

“Hello?” I said.

“Yes,” sighed the man, whose voice now sounded a little muffled, as if it came from the other side of the door.

“O-Okay,” I stuttered. “Uh, thank you.”

I slowly lifted the hood, and took a quick peek around the room to check if there was anyone near me. Although it was quite dark, it seemed like I was alone. I held the bloodied, sticky, crusty piece of fabric between my hands.

This little hood alone, as small and gross as it was, could have been enough to save my life, had it been on my head at the right time. I crumpled it up and threw it into a corner of the bedroom.

It was a small room, although it was clean and quite pretty. It had lavender-colored walls, an intricate ceiling trim, pristine wooden floors, and a faint smell of green apples in the air. There were some worse places in the world to be locked up in.

A few years ago, little Sarah Kennedy would have adored it, and thought it was fit for a princess. Although now I knew it would probably be the only place I’d see until the day I died, it didn’t take too long for me to start disliking it.

It only had one small window, a little too high off the ground for me to see through it from where I was sitting. Just a little porthole, a tantalizing piece of the outside for me to stare at, long for, and know I’d never be able to reach.

There was barely any furniture, too. Just an old, wooden vanity table, painted white, with a mirror on top and a matching chair, along the wall between the window and a door around which shone a little ray of sunlight. In an opposite corner, in front of a bare wall, about five feet away from the bed, was a single lamp, with an ancient-looking foot and a broken shade that hung slightly askew.

The bed I was sitting on was larger than a one-person bed, yet a little too small to fit two. Its white satin sheets were soft and light, albeit a little tacky and they reminded me of the ones my Mom had inherited from my grandma.

And then there was a clock, hanging on the wall above the bed, staring down at me like an evil eye. And it ticked. It ticked, and tocked, and ticked again, and with every tick, it seemed to drill a hole into my brain. The ticks grew louder, and closer, and stronger, and echoed in my head like in an empty chamber.

How long? I asked myself, How long would I have to survive in this hellish bedroom? How long did I have left before I lose my mind? I wanted to scream, and run. I wanted to rip apart the ugly satin sheets and knock over the broken lamp. I wanted to throw the fucking clock out the window and maybe myself too.

I stood on the bed, grabbed the clock off the wall, flicked out the batteries in the back, and hung it back up. The sudden sound of silence was enough to make the world a little less unbearable. There. Easy. And I did it myself. With a satisfied sigh and a slap on my thighs, I got off the bed and walked over to the door.

I pressed my hand on the brass handle and turned it slowly. It clicked, and I tried to push softly, then pull. The door didn’t move. It was locked. Obviously. I almost felt stupid for trying, but if you never try, you’ll never know. Imagine if it was open– I scoffed at the thought. I would have gone crazy, grieved my life and my freedom, and all this time the door could have been wide open.

There was another door to my left, which was slightly ajar. It led to a small bathroom, with avocado tiles and pink accents, an old-fashioned sink, a toilet, and a bathtub. As I walked in, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the rose gold-framed mirror that hung on the wall above the sink.

I had a black eye that was almost swollen shut, and a huge gash cutting through my eyebrow and the bridge of my nose, just where my head had hit the edge of the door. I’d never felt particularly pretty, or ugly for that matter, but I had to admit - the girl who was staring back at me in that mirror, whose hair was matted and glued down by a mix of blood, sweat, tears, and dust; whose only open eye was devoid of life and emotion; whose thin, trembling lips turned downwards into a pathetic frown; whose ghastly white skin turned green under the cold neon light–she was repulsive.

I peeled off my dirty clothes and stepped into the shower, hoping the boiling water would be enough to wash off the filth and the pain. As I stepped in, the water under my feet immediately turned a dark, murky shade of brown, soiled by a mix of various bodily fluids that was covering me from the knees down. I’d been through shit. Literally.

Showers had often been a safe space for me. A place where I could sit quietly in a corner, unbothered, embraced by the warm stream of water that took away the grime, the tears, and the worries and flushed them down the drain. But this bathroom was unsettling, almost threatening, and felt more like a slaughterhouse than a hammam.

It was as if someone was watching, through the cracks between the avocado tiles. As if at any time, a hand could creep through the cloud of steam and grab me by the neck. Although that didn’t stop me from crying in the shower. Not like the girls in the movies, who lean against the tiles and weep softly. I cried uncontrollably. I sniffed, and sobbed, and screamed. With snot, and drool, and hunchbacked wails.

I mourned for Sarah Kennedy, who did, in fact, die on the cold concrete floor in the basement. Because even though the bullet may have missed my brain, no one who ever knew me would ever see me again. Ana, Kait, and June would go home, and they would tell everyone ”Sarah died.”

They’d tell my mother, who may or may not react, and most likely would end up in a hospice anyway. People, neighbors, and colleagues might cry a little, my ex might think ”well fuck“. And then, with a single tear, a sigh, and a good ol’ Southern slap of the thighs, they would all collectively say, ”anyway" and move on with their lives. Sarah Kennedy would slowly be forgotten and erased from everyone’s memories.

After about half an hour under the shower, the runoff water seemed a little clearer, and my mind felt quite the same. I stepped out of the shower and grabbed the baby pink satin robe that I found hanging on a hook on the inside of the bathroom door.

As I walked into the bedroom, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the wooden floor, the front door unlocked and crept open. The man who’d shot me earlier walked into the room with his head held up high, and a proud grin on his face.

“Can I come in?” he asked, as he slowly moved towards me.

“You’re already in,” I answered as I hastily tied the belt on my satin robe and backed up into a corner of the room.

He stood still, with his back straight and his hands shoved into his pockets. His gaze, however, kept following me as I shuffled along the back wall towards the bed. The man never even blinked.

“I came to give you a tour of your room, but it seems like you’ve already found the shower,” he said calmly.

I kept my silence and my arms crossed above my chest. He broke eye contact for a second and sighed. “Can I sit?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “Can you?”

He scoffed lightly and took a step towards me.

“I won’t harm you,” he said, holding eye contact as his eyebrows frowned ever so slightly. “Not anymore.”

I swallowed down the lump in my throat and took a second to consider my options. There weren’t any objects around that I could use to smash through his skull and attempt an escape through the unlocked door. So, I just decided to sit down on the bed and hide my belly with a pillow.

“Why did you miss the shot?” I asked

“I’m a great shooter. Trust me, if I–”

“I know it was on purpose. But why?”

He sat down on the bed opposite me, backing me into a corner between the bed frame and the cold wall. My toes curled up on the edge of the mattress as I recoiled away from him. He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly.

“I guess...” he mumbled, “it was a gut feeling. It felt wrong. Unfair.”

“So, pity then?” I asked with a sigh

“Yeah,” he answered as he shrugged. “You could say that.”

I tensed my jaw and licked my teeth. It felt bittersweet. Sarcastic, really. In my mind, pity was the feeling you felt when you put down a sick dog. Or, for most people really, it was when you see a sick dog and pray someone puts it out of his misery, and then you just walk away. And for this one idiot with a silly mustache, pity was to put the sick dog in a cage and watch it die slowly.

“I don’t like being pitied,” I told him.

“Okay. Let’s just say I like you then.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“You don’t know me, yet you like me,” he answered with a grin.

“What?!”

“Come on, it’s obvious,” he laughed. “Just by the way you looked at me when I walked in the room, I could tell I blew you away.”

He leaned back on his elbow and smiled naively at me.

“The only thing you blew away was chunks of my fucking eardrum,” I complained as I rubbed my right ear, still sore from the sound of the gunshot.

“Yeah, well, I tried to tell you to cover it, but you didn’t do it. Sorry, I guess,” he shrugged.

“You could have, I don’t know, fired the shot a little further away from me?”

“But then they would have seen I wasn’t shooting at you.”

“They were blindfolded,” I said in disbelief.

“Huh. Clever girl.”

He laid his back flat on the bed and looked up to the ceiling. I stared at him, intensely, as if he would eat me alive the second I broke eye contact.

“You must be exhausted,” he sighed before he sat up. “I’ll let you rest a bit.”

In a dramatic fashion that almost seemed rehearsed and perfectly planned out, he dusted off his knees, readjusted the collar of his shirt, and walked to the door. When he got halfway across the room, I said:

“Wait!”

He turned around and looked back at me, with one eyebrow raised and a curious spark in his eye.

“Can I have something to eat?” I asked.

“Wow, that’s disappointing,” he scoffed. “I thought you were going to be polite and ask for my name or something. But yes, I’ll get you something to eat.”

I nodded okay, but he stayed in the middle of the room, staring me down as if he expected more.

I sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Pablo Antonio Juarez Molina,” he answered almost immediately, with such pride and confidence that it was clear he had rehearsed and was waiting for this moment. “But you can call me Daddy.”

“Ew,” I said softly as my forehead wrinkled in disgust.

He smiled at his own joke and finally walked out. As the door locked again behind him, I let out a deep breath and let my pillow drop onto the floor. I sat frozen for a while, still shaking in fear from my face-to-face encounter with my would-be murderer.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the door, dreading what would happen when it opened again. And although I was exhausted, and despite the soft mattress and the clean sheets, it was impossible to fall asleep.

It wasn’t even midday yet, and today had been the first, the last, and the strangest day of my life.

The Day I Died

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