Start It was midday on a Sunday, and Johnathan Urbez was driving his dream car, an RX7. The engine was modified to be even faster; the tuned machine used a racing transmission, special brakes, suspension, and tires. The body was covered in all kinds of paintings and designs. After five years of hard work, dedication, and a lot of money, this beast was ready and John had to take it out for a ride.
The engine was roaring, and the feeling of going over two hundred kilometers per hour was exhilarating. The tension on his arms from handling the wheel, his brain —aware state—this must be what a professional race driver feels; then the curb came, he misjudged his skills and the brakes didn't work as they should. The car got out of the road, took off and flew for six meters in the air, crashing into a centenary old oak tree. The engine passed through the cabin, twisted around and crushed his chest; he didn't even feel the pain.
Then a blinding light shone above him; it was beautiful, warm and calming. Suddenly, an incredible force pulled him at high speed. He passed through the car structure and kept flying for about 10 seconds, passed through a building door, fell to the floor, and stood there looking at the lamp on the ceiling. Slowly, the shock came to pass, and the realization hit him. He had a car accident; the engine went through his chest. He should be dead.
John was about to go into panic mode when a woman dressed in a blue uniform guiding a wheelchair passed through him. It was a rather psychologically unpleasant experience, but not physically damaging.
"We have a newcomer." A feminine voice yelled.
A fat man in his fifties with green eyes, a beard, a greasy shirt, and a Barcelona Football Team cap tended his hand towards John to help him get up and said:
"Welcome to the Green Pine nursing home for the elderly; you are dead and trapped in here like the rest of us."
"Oh, come on, Ramon, let him recover at least," said the female voice.
Actually, the people talking to him made him doubt he was dead. John took the fat man's hand, but there was no feeling of touch; if he weren't looking at him, he would have never realized they were in contact. John got up and looked towards the owner of the female voice. She was a black woman with short, curly hair, brown eyes, a friendly face, and a sweet voice.
"Hello, handsome, I am Shana; what's your name?"
"I'm Jonathan, I think... I just had an accident; the car flew into a tree. I saw the engine hit my chest." Johnathan looked down; his chest was fine; there was no blood, ragged clothes or anything.
"Oh dear, sorry, but you are dead; you died and... well, you are a ghost now." Shana explained.
"Just like I told you," Ramon chimed in.
"But I feel fine; I don't feel anything strange," Johnathan retorted.
"Yes, I know. Come here and try to touch this chair." Shana's hand went through the chair like it was not real.
Johnathan tried, and the same happened to him. He was unable to touch anything except the walls. When he tried, there was no feeling of touch, but his hand could not pass through it.
"Walls are an exception, and thanks to God for that," said Ramon.
"So, this is hell, heaven, or purgatory?" Asked Johnathan, he seemed to accept his dead status easier than expected.
But Shana knew it was not true; she had been dead for almost a year now. At the beginning, most people were not amused; death seemed just like life. After a while, however, it dawned on them, especially those trapped in this nursing home. The space was limited; there was no need for sleep, food, use of toilets, changes of clothes, or bodily functions of any kind. They could touch one another, but there was no feeling to it. After a while, death was really boring and exhausting. The television or the radio helped, but still, after a while, even that was boring.
"Come, I will show you around, Johnathan"
"Please, just call me John."
"Ok, then John, follow me." Shana turned around and just walked through a nurse that was coming towards them; John avoided her out of reflex.
"This is the most important part of the building; the entertainment room, not because of the games for old people, but because of the television, it is our only form of entertainment beside workers gossip." Shana explained.
"Why don't you guys just leave?" asked John.
"We can't; try it yourself."
John turned around and walked to the main door, but of course he could not open it; he could not turn the handle; it was locked with a key anyway; some of the patients at the home had dementia; they might wander out and get lost if the door was open. John changed his approach, went to a window that was partially open, tried to put his hand out, but couldn't; it was like if the air outside was solid stone.
"See, even if the door is wide open, you can't leave. We all tried. Come." Shana tried to nudge him down the main hallway.
It was weird; her touch had no feeling to it, and her pull seemed to be dulled out and weak.
"There are thirty rooms in total, all of them along the main hallway; each room has its own bathroom and a closet. To the right, there is a secondary hallway that leads to the nurse station and personnel bathroom, and then there is the storage room. Under it is the machinery room, boiler, and other equipment. And that's it. This is home." Shana said, opening her arms.
"I see, so how long are we going to be here?" john asked.
"As far as I know, forever if we are lucky," Ramon answered from behind.
A few meters away, the nurses and nurse assistants were chit-chatting.
"If we are lucky?" It made no sense to John; all of this was hard to accept and believe.
Even though he had just seen his chest crushed by the engine of his car, he didn't feel like he was dead. This felt more like a dream.
"There are some rules, does and don'ts to survive here," said Shana.
"Survive? Are we not already dead?" John was losing his patience.
"There are things worse than death, kid." An old man, over eighty, white skin, bald, no teeth, and one bad eye, jumped into the conversation.
"John, this is Professor Martin. He was a physicist back in his day, was one of the residents here, and died just a few years ago," introduced Shana.
"This is the weirdest dream I ever had," John let out, tired of all of it.
"But it is not a dream; I know what you are going through; we all did. For the moment, just humor us. I will keep introducing you to the rest of the guys and teaching you the ropes." Shana walked ahead and signaled John to follow; she didn't avoid the nurses or the old people walking around; she just passed through them.
John got close to one of the residents, who was a petite, skinny old lady. She had a hunchback, white hair, and walked really slowly using a cane. He stood in front of her, but she still kept walking and phased through him. John went back in front of her and waved his hand in front of her eyes. The old lady's face just passed through his hand. Shana, Martin, Ramon, and a few others were just there watching him try, like they did back in the day. When he was already sure that no one of the patients could see him, he walked to Shana.
"How do you know who is dead and who isn't? they all look the same to me" He said the word dead with a tone of doubt.
"You just have to desire it; if you want to tell the dead people apart from the alive ones, you just try to. Some people see them as transparent beings; others see a shine around them; and some others see no colors on them, like a black and white movie. It is just that you still don't accept the fact that you are dead. Take your pick."
It didn't make much sense to John, but still, he tried to imagine that the dead people were different; he settled for the black and white theme, no colors for the dead. Like if some switch clicked in his mind, half of the people around him turned into monochromatic characters. The hard part was when he looked at himself and saw his own skin in a gray tone. That was too much. John started feeling bad and hyperventilating; however, it didn't go beyond that.
"You are dead. You don't need oxygen, there is no CO2, there is no heart rate, and there is no need or way to have a panic attack. Your breathing is not necessary. Hold your breath and see." Martin explained.
John did as instructed. He held his breath and watched the clock. Five minutes passed, ten minutes, and that desperation for air that forces you to breathe never came. After that, John started to breathe without thinking; he was just used to it. He still had some doubts and still refused to accept it totally, but slowly John was starting to believe the fact that he was dead.