"Wouldst thou like a last ache to linger in thy heart?"
I didn't understand what she meant by those words.
That's what she said next to my death bed. Though, I first felt nothing. That was someday ago when I was alive and suffering, cursing all that could remind me of the livings. At that time, I was hospitalized due to a grave complication with my liver because of my cirrhosis; I sure drank a lot, but I couldn't particularly enjoy it. I guess some drink to escape from reality, and I was one of these fellow escapists. However, it only brought more agony on my already miserable [and thus despicable] self, since my end would come each and each time nearer. I was on the verge of dying.
The doctor had announced that my life could end anytime between the instant he uttered these words to the following week. I was too anguished to show some sort of worry as listening to this news. But I've always well-hidden my pain throughout my life and almost nobody noticed it [or me], so I think I appeared hopeless to the doctor. Anyway, he didn't seem to care more and exited my room to let some space to the deafening sounds of the machines that were keeping me alive. I peered at my surroundings to encounter a very normal hospital chamber; the white walls enclosing an 8 or so meter-squared place, a table with pills and other drugs on it, a catheter carrying the serum injecting its content through my veins, the frantic machines, my bed which scented like death and a clear window. As for me, I was of course laying on that bed, spiting all my resentment against the world because I had nothing better to do than that; I found my pleasure in these "moans". But not literally, I just kept enlarging a list of all the people I hated, which was [un]surprisingly almost everyone.
Then, I remembered her.
The list I've mentally made had very rapidly vanished to allow me to recall her (more likely to respect her). But that now void space loathed her arrival in my mind, and soon became nothing: not a space, or something else, but nothing. I understood that impulsive decision since I myself, consciously, was about to throw the little I wished to remember concerning her. Moreover, all my previous attempts all led to that cursed day which particularly made me not only miserable, but sorrowful and mourning what I've metaphorically killed by my own hands. I stayed apathetic for the entire day just to not remember that, before seeing the sun deeply sink unto the reddened horizon. But she was still somewhere inside my mind, always, trying to mend the ruins there like she used to do; I laughed for the first time in some months as realizing that I was the puppeteer behind that ghost who lived in my head.
I kept torturing myself.
She was already gone, because I couldn't bear her presence.
She was kind enough to listen to my mean wish which not only wounded me, but also her.
So, I closed my eyes and pretended to never have these thoughts.
Around midnight or so, a sharp pain reached my abdomen's right side and I woke up. I was somehow accustomed to these aches, but this one was exceptionally bad; usually, I would literally throw up blood amidst the anguish. It began and the white floor soon became crimson under the shining moonlights entering through the windows.
I was dying.
This continued until all possible volume of blood could escape my body and I fainted with an immeasurable agony.
But not even an instant later, I was still laying on my deathbed with the same pain at my right side. I felt extremely overwhelmed.
"Wouldst thou like a last ache to linger in thy heart?"
I glimpsed at the place where that sentence leaked, and in the corner of my room, there was a very pale woman. Everything about her was awfully pale, more than a dead corpse, and so was the robe she was wearing. The moonlight incredibly reverberated well upon her skin or her clothes, while the other part of her face was hidden through shadows that were oddly dark despite the chamber's brightness. But there was an obvious mischievous smile hanging on her face. Her tone was cold and yet full of amusement.
"Thou hast not answered mine query."
"Who are you?" I distrustfully asked.
"That is no concern to be made. I give thee an astounding invitation. Wouldst thou care to watch the living at thy death?"
"Watch the living?"
"Thou art at death's threshold, why not peer beyond it? Wouldst thou like to see thy obsequies? I shalt allow it."
"And what do you even mean by seeing my obsequies? I'll be dead anyway."
"For I am the mistress of the dead."
Then, she moved away from darkness to let me apperceive the left side of her face; murky decaying flesh with dried blood here and there. My impression of her as a corpse was not only true, but it was far from reality; it was as though her flesh was beyond normal decay, as if it had reached the state when it only falls off and let out bones but didn't, only to rot more. It would've been a revolting sight to anyone. So, she hid it again amidst the darkness, where that aberration would belong.
"I am Death," she added.
That sentence infinitely echoed through silence and the muteness which followed only made the atmosphere heavier.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Nothing more than to admire another miserable man. Well, thy answer doth not matter; I shalt execute my schemes no matter what. Hast fun while thou couldst."
She retreated back her entire body in the shadows and thus disappeared as blending with them. That odd scene made me forget about my current anguish, so I shouted as feeling it again. The same act earlier, which happened before my encounter with "Death", occurred.
I died.
And here I ended, above my coffin and watching my funerals while pondering what was said to me before resting forever. I was floating above my dead corpse, observing it very meticulously to confirm it was mine; it certainly was. It was like a failed astral projection; you can see your body, you fly amid the air, but you can't go back in. I felt kind of uneasy before such a peaceful me; I always seemed to have a grave face, or at best, an apathetic one, so a neutral face was a weird nuance of my expressions. I noticed as well how my eyes were deceiving me when I was watching my chest; one is used to see another living, so breathing is a natural thing that we apperceive in the latter. But even before an unmoving cadaver, the eyes trick you by pretending to have seen these movements.
I was already surprised that I had decent funerals, but I found out who did it. The culprit was my friend Terence Longworth. He was one of the few that I called a friend even though everything about him was somehow contemptible. He was your average forty years old office worker, with a starting baldness and a corpulent body (quite a euphemism). I met him in a pub where I used to lurk; it is always better to be miserable with someone else. Terence was indeed escaping reality, or more precisely, his wife; I couldn't understand why she would still be with such an awful husband. But we were friends against the odds, surely because we were both miserable.
I never asked him to prepare my obsequies though, nor in one of our conversations, nor in my last wills. This might've been the kindest thing he had done in a while, but I'd preferred he dedicated that determination to his wife. He invited a bunch of relatives and such, but none was really that mournful, rather, they were indifferent. I cared little of people, and people cared little of me; that was my behavior. The guests sat in the small hall that Terence had rented, and as though there was no dead body in front of them, they spoke of random and casual things as if my death was a little detail of the world; it's not like yours isn't, but some would esteem that detail more important. In my case, it was a small one by unanimity. Some of the people I was in class with came as well, but they couldn't tell a single story featuring me or just simply describe my personality. While listening to them, I desperately waited for her to come and honor my departed existence.
But she did not come; of course she wouldn't, I asked for it.
The vermillion rays of the sun were scattering across the almost empty hall, with only my friend sitting on the front row of chairs, before my coffin. As for my father, he didn't come; it would've been too bothersome for him to show some illusory affection for his deceased son. Returning my sight on my friend, it was the first time I've seen him that serious; he neither seemed drunk, nor cheerful, nor smelled like booze. He was rubbing his forehead, often passing his hands through the remaining hairs he had, and all that as seeming troubled. My corpse was stabbed by his anxious glances every once in a while, and he would very rapidly ignore what he had seen. I could understand; I too would be resilient to watch a friend's cadaver, and being alone with it would make me uneasy as well. Throughout the different visits I (my remains) received, he only greeted them by the entrance and led them to a sit; he didn't utter some sort of elegy nor engage in conversations. However, he perfectly understood my wishes; the people coming couldn't care less of my good side, making it seem good would only tarnish my name.
"Shit, look at you now Eddie," he muttered. "I know it's too late, but sorry for not visiting you at the hospital. You would've died anyway but fuck, you died awfully. These are not things to say at a funeral, I know... We've been friends for five years and I still can remember how we met. I was about to kick your ass 'cause you spilled some beer on my poor shirt but you took my glass and poured it on yours. Then you asked how about another one since we both spattered our drink. I laughed and thought you were some mad man.
"Fuck, you were the best drinking buddy. And our conversations about my wife; how much you used to scold me in your cool tone. She'd have loved to invite you at home; I'd have come without problem to that diner even knowing how much she despises my gut. We'd eat and compliment my Maria's cooking before listening to her to not drink too much. You were some kind of son to me... No, that would've been a complicated relationship though. You deserved better kid, but you convinced yourself of the contrary.
"That's why I invited Hermione McCartney, so that you can see from above how much she loves you. Each time you were talking about that girl, you seemed happy but you suddenly stopped and finished as fast as possible your drink... Then, you'd get drunk to death to forget.
"But she didn't come, huh."
Terence finished that monologue and finally took out a can of beer from his suitcase. He raised it and added:
"To my dear friend, Edward Graham! This will be the only alcohol I'll drink today to honor you, kid."
He rapidly gulped the content and sighed. I was kind of glad that there was at least a man who had respect for me. Though, the fact that she hadn't come was still stinging the back of my mind; I couldn't consciously admit it, but I craved for her presence. I desperately wanted to see her one last time to erase and replace that one thing I did.
Then, the door opened.
My ghostly body began to shake as seeing her ginger and curly hair which was almost floating amid the air. The sight of her freckles on her lovely face reminded me of how much I loved her. I looked up to encounter her hazel eyes which I sank in for what seemed to be an eternity. The pendant shaped like a four-pointed star I offered her, she was still wearing it and she was still strongly clenching it as when she was agitated.
It was my beloved Hermione McCartney.
"Wouldst thou like a last ache to linger in thy heart"
I understood what she meant by those words.