return

it was supposed to be a suicide.

suspended in ice, abandoned in the facility's basement, among the spiders and old medical files. it was the end, in those last blinking moments, eyes fluttering shut, surrendering to the cold. to escape the mundanity of it all, the expectations. there were too many of them, this was the only way to let them go.

it had passed like a dreamless sleep, empty except for a slight silver thread weaving through your mind. your lifeforce, barely there. you had kept willing it to be cut, for the shadows to finally triumph, but it had defiantly stood, alone.

something had gone terribly wrong.

you're awake again.

there's a calender near the corner, parallel to the carpeted stairs. it looks fairly recent, fresh. clashes with the surrounding basement.

it's open to august 14, 2019, underneath a tacky picture of a beach, a red umbrella and bright teal waves.

67 years, then. enough for the world that you once knew to have died.

what does it look like, then? has it blossomed, or withered away?

it's all beyond the stairs.

the facility is dead, like you should be. there's a sign plastered to the frosty storefront windows, backward from your perspective. for lease, it says.

the door handle's stuck, unfamiliar to being opened. it takes several twists and turns to open up into the muggy summer night.

the world is not dead. it is very much alive.

gone are the neat houses, with their even coats of paint in pastel colors. gone are the lush front lawns, filled with children laughing and screaming and playing tag. gone are the croons of a radio filled with hazy static, paired with the squeak of a rocking chair.

gone is the gossip, the lies, the pressure.

it has been replaced with something wonderful.

elongated towers, like black gloves, composed of metal. streaming arcs of neon lights, everywhere. they dot the buildings, the streets, the people.

the people are so new, so beautiful. like they want to be seen. dramatic marks on their faces, flared tops and tight pants.

messages, advertisements, they're overwhelming in a sugary way, announcing strangers, in all different respects. people with names i don't recognize, or buried deep in my memory. things, improved upon through the stretches of years. ideas, new and refreshing, refusing to conform.

you might miss what you once had, there are things that you'll never forget, that are rooted in your existence.

the bundle of irises shoved in the desk drawer. the dock that jutted out into the stream, burbling like whispers, flowing like hours of conversation. the red silk scarf, angry words clustered together into fabric.

they're gone now, scattered in the wind. they've turned to dust. that was your intention. you wanted nothing of yourself left.

but you've been given a second chance. a chance to live again.

underneath the shimmer of the lights, pressing against your skin, you realize suicide was not what you wanted, after all.

what you wanted was this.