A Deathly Departure

When I became aware of my surrounds I was upright, standing in fact. I blinked my eyes hard two times and proceeded to look around me. There were vases sitting on top of the fireplace and on the coffee table. The rug, one of which I valued monetarily and sentimentally, was sitting in the middle of the living room I stood in. I saw the old wallpaper my wife picked out, I always hated that wallpaper, but it made her happy so it never left the walls.

As I began to walk, the hardwood floor paneling creaked and moaned underneath me with every step I made. I easily recognized everything around me, it was my house after all, but for some reason an uneasy feeling began to build inside of me. Something wasn’t right here; I just couldn’t put my mental finger on what it was.

I peered out the window and saw that the night was dark and stormy. The tree branches periodically slapped the window sill with the wind’s persuasion, as rain poured down and the faint sound of far-off thunder was audible. Every few seconds a flash illuminated what was outside and seeped into every opening of the house, splashing light here and there within.

I moved on slowly to the kitchen, while my fear grew quite rapidly inside of me. I felt as though at any moment some horrible spirit may make its ghostly presence known to me or perhaps a blood-thirsty hell hound may come snarling at me around the next corner and viciously rip my body apart. Just I was entrenched in this last nightmarish thought, I was shaken from my imagination by a loud growling sound. I gasped, “Oh, Dear God!” I said as, I turned to face what I surely thought would be my death. I then breathed a sigh of relief as it was only my dog Max.

“You nearly scared me to death, Max! Good to see you, boy.” Apparently Max was not as happy to see me, as he let off a never-ending string of angry barks. He showed his teeth and gnashed at me as if I were an intruder. I didn’t understand, he never acted in such a way before. I hurriedly left the kitchen, hoping his loud barks would stop if I was no longer there. To my puzzlement they did soon after I left.

I then decided I should go upstairs, to where my and my wife’s bedroom was. I stepped as gingerly as possible on each step, I was hoping the dog hadn’t awoken her and I didn’t want to disturb her myself. I slowly pushed the door to our bedroom, which was already partially open, far enough so I could get through. My wife was indeed awake and standing at the window, apparently checking to see how the storm had progressed. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a white, flowing night gown that I remembered she wore last valentine’s day. Her hair draped down her back with waves that any sailor would marvel at. I noticed in her face a tinge of melancholy, but I didn’t know why she looked that way.

I am not sure if I made a sound or if she felt my presence, but she suddenly turned to face me. I expected a smile to replace the look of melancholy and a warm suggestion that we both get back to bed, but instead I saw shock and trepidation as her lip began to quiver.

“What’s the matter, dear?” I asked, as I was concerned for her well being, but she gave no response and just fell to the floor sobbing. Then I happened to look down at myself. My hands were an odd color, one not so bright or as healthy as I last remembered. My clothes looked like they were in some kind of limbo between existence and non-existence. I barely seemed like I was there, I was more of a mist than a man. Then suddenly, like a roaring flood, it all came back to me. The things that happened the night before; how I had been in a hurry. How that bus driver never had time to hit the brakes.

That thing that wasn’t quite right in my house that night was me. I suddenly felt a sadness unlike I have ever felt before. There was no longer a place for me here, in my own house no less. I couldn’t be here anymore; I knew it would be unfair to my wife. She needed to mourn like everyone else and then be able to move on with her life. How could I possibly continue to make my presence felt here if in reality I was no longer here?

My wife by this point had somewhat gained control of her sobbing and wiped the tears from her cheeks as she looked up at me, her deceased husband. “How can this - is it really you?” she asked with pain and confusion. I knew that if I started to converse with her I would never be able to leave. Just like when I was alive, once I had a conversation with her I didn’t ever want to leave.

I told her, “I’m sorry. I love you more than life. Goodbye.” And with that I vanished from our bedroom. I never would return to that house again, my love for her made me stay away. You cannot properly live when you have acquaintances with the dead. The last time I saw her she was on her knees crying, I hope she didn’t spend too much time like that. Not over me.