I had heard that the life flashes by your eyes when you die. Well, it didn't. I would know, I was dead a chapter ago. Yes, the very same Saba. Or not. Is it the same ship? Whatever. Your opinion hardly matters. It is hard to tell what does. After all, what is left when you experience that final goal of life?

Countless concepts pour into me, the new me, that is of this world but not. Like that time in highschool. Prom was the milestone event. Or graduation for some. For years, we waited, living the student life, doing student things, planning student plans, being student. And then one day, with such fanfare, we celebrate the death of the student. He is no more. The school becomes static, as do the teachers and the facilities and the memories, rigid and remeniscent. No one makes students memories when the student dies.

Yes, that's what this is like. Except, I have stopped being a person. To be fair, I could behave like a person. Just because one graduates, they don't stop behaving like students. Most adults are children in a fancy meat suit. No, no, that would be a waste.

But, you know. I am right there. My body. A part of me. I know the afterlife now. Oh, how I wished I could go back and fix everything. As a student. As a son. As a bachelor. As a husband. Never did. What are new beginnings even for? The tether holding me is gone, but I still see the anchor, calling me back, a me shape hole in the me shaped body.

"Aye, you. Hey Uncle! Yes you. Don't loiter over here, this is our area. Move on."

"Brat!"

"Tch! They never change."

Yeah, not the welcome I expected. This is certainly my brain. Or dreamworld. Or memories. Whatever. And the brat was me too. Much younger, but definitely me. No winged beauties with ledgers huh.

"There you are."

Another Saba rushes over. Ah, the bright eyed youth with candor and dreams. Looking at this handsome fool, I truly want to smack the shit out of him.

"Are you going to hit me?"

"Is there no privacy here?"

"Just saying. The oldies have been pain."

"Oldies."

"You know, the ones who came before you."

"Before me? The other dead people."

"Dead, yes. Other, no. If you'll follow me." He laughs.

"You smug two-faced bastard."

"I am you, you old bastard."

And so we walk. This isn't heaven. No, this is a patchwork amalgamation of my universe. We just passed through my library, the titles blurry but the lighting impeccable, and the next moment we are in the kitchen of my childhood home. As we pass, a few faces turn to look at us, some even wave or shout greetings. Fields of mayflowers, an old kayak, a broken toy, a snug leather glove, the moment I crashed into that drunk asshole, the boardroom of endless scheming, the yacht museum, and the nice see breeze...

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"It wasn't all like this." young Saba said, conversationally. "When I arrived, it was a lot more grim. No fancy lunches or luxurious shoulder rubs. Yet, I now miss that. Can you believe it?"

"Are you dead as well? Are you even me?"

"What? Did you die?"

"Well, yes."

"Fuck."

"It could be worse."

"No, you don't get it. This is within us. We are like trophies. Memories. That's the current consensus?"

"Consensus?"

As if summoned, we are in a large antechamber of paneled with Brazilian Rosewood. My office had been large, but never large enough for over a hundred me. Yet, here they were, grey and old, except a few really young ones. One of them gets up,

"Mr Price. Welcome. The council has convened to decide its course. Please update us of the events."

"The council? What a farce?"

"We love councils." The boy protests, "A council of us could run the universe."

"Oh, I did love them, I guess. A council of me - ugh... Whatever, I'm leaving. Also, FYI, I'm dead. You are dead."

"Finally." says another young one, his face freshly bruised. "Fuck this pain. Fuck you all." And he leaves.

"Don't mind him, sir. He's from the time Uncle Roger got drunk." says Saba dressed in my wedding suit.

"Ah, so you are all my trophies. Memories."

Ah, to kick a hornet's nest.

"Fuck you."

"You think you are better than me."

"Senile geezers must have taken over..."

"You are a trophy, bitch."

"We're dead?"

"No-"

"Serves him right."

The escort Saba steps in, "A moment, gentlemen. A moment please. We are all real. That has been established. No, the latest Saba brings news of our death. If true, he may be the last of us. We might all even cease to exist. Quite a conundrum. Can we take a solemn moment and think on it?"

"What's there to think on." says the one of the old ones, like me from the day before, complete with the designer suit and swanky attitude, "Something's obviously gone wrong. Take him in. Get the truth out. Meanwhile, the elders shall plan our course."

Hah. Nostalgia is so weird. More I look, more I see me, a version that I had been, eyes that stare back and I know what goes on there. That's how I know.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

And I am out of there. Out of me. They are not memories. They are not trophies. No. They are ghosts. Spirits stuck in the past, lingering. I don't belong here. My place is out there, in this brave new world.