It was raining when I died.

Not the percussive rain of storm clouds and plot devices that leaves morning commuters soggy and irritable while young lovers make optimistic declarations of forever. Not the perplexing rain that dares manifest on sunlit days, misting from pockets of nothing in defiance of sense and evaporating before ever reaching the pavement. It was Autumn rain. A gentle pattering perfect for walking, even if you forget your umbrella. I left my umbrella at home on purpose.

I left a lot of things at home.

…

…

Fuck. I can't let myself think about that yet. Or ever. Where was I? Rain! I was remembering the rain. It was the rain that inspired me to brave my apartment stairs and get some much-needed exercise. Something, something, self-care.

Our dog tilted her head inquisitively as I wrestled with an almost-pair of novelty socks. I'd plucked two at random from the chaotic disarray that was my sock drawer, one purple and the other green. The green one had little flowers… sewed? Embroidered? There were little flowers on the green sock. Despite what I recognized as precise foot-to-sock alignment I somehow pulled them up with the heel patch annoyingly twisted and uncomfortably bunched. I suspect it was the same phenomenon that governs the quantum orientation of USB sticks and the relative position of a wall socket when trying to blindly plug something into it.

My observer's tail helicoptered when I stood to leave. Convinced of her participation in all things at all times, she attempted to weave through my legs while I fetched my keys, her way of urging me to also fetch her lead. Like many german shepherds, she was oblivious to her size so her maneuvering almost sent me sprawling. It was an endearing effort on her part but ultimately futile. I'd taken her for a walk earlier in the day, before the rain, and didn't want to coax her into the doggy-raincoat she despised despite its necessity. This walk was for me.

"Besides," I argued to the dog who could probably-definitely not understand English, "You need to wait for your mama to get back from work."

…

…

Maybe things would have turned out differently if I took her with me. Maybe if I'd just sent a quick text to my fiancée instead of writing up a little note for the fridge in an effort to be 'adorable' my timing would have…

Maybe…

Maybe.

Maybe!

FUCK!

RAIN!

It was raining when I died. It's not an exciting detail, I get it. I wish I could remember more. I remember leaving our home and triple checking I locked the door. I remember slapping my pockets to check for my phone, my wallet, and my keys. I remember trundling down the carpeted stairs and walking away from our apartment building.

And then I died.

And I don't remember how.

And I remember the rain.

I tried to make this more interesting, more meaningful, by spouting some metaphorical nonsense about the rain, but fuck, I can only do so much. I died and instead of blissful nothingness I get this.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

It's still nothingness, but it isn't blissful.

I have an unnatural, unshakable, chilling certainty that I have died.

I also have sufficient clarity of consciousness to torture myself about it.

Fuck the rain.

***

Nothing isn't like how it's often portrayed in films. It isn't some black void that I am suspended in. It's nothing, and I am inside it, which shouldn't be possible because it's nothing.

An eternity passed inside The Nothing, or maybe I'm exaggerating. There was no time, not really, just nothing. Just me and The Nothing. By naming it 'The Nothing' I hoped to bestow some substance to my not-existence. As you might imagine, trying to make something that isn't is was ultimately futile and the cognitive equivalent of catching apple juice in a butterfly net.

Hope was denied me. I can't even entertain the possibility of The Nothing being a dream or other delusion. My ignorance regarding the specifics is irrelevant. I don't understand how I know; I just do. I died. I was deceased. I am deceased. I had ceased to be and might as well be a Python's prop parrot. My mind turns to my fiancée, my dog, and everyone else I lost. I don't want to think about them. It conjures a pain so deep that it makes itself known despite The Nothing. I don't want to think about them, but I force myself to. Fear of forgetting transcends even the pain of loss.

Object permanence was always a struggle for me, along with executive dysfunction and a whole host of other challenges I didn't realize were symptoms until I was an adult. If something was out of sight it drifted out of mind whether I liked it or not. I won't let that happen, neurodivergence be damned.

Then again, I technically no longer have a brain, so maybe it won't hamper me the way it did in life. Counterpoint: I don't have a brain, that place where memories live and occasionally get lost.

How am I still me?

The soul, I suppose. Or at the very least, a rough equivalent. Are my memories safely anchored to my soul? I'm not willing to take that chance. I don't want to forget them- forget her. So, I remember. It hurts, but I remember.

I remember our first date. I was so nervous that my palms were practically dripping with sweat. She was beautiful and we lost track of time talking about wordplay and dice. We held hands at one point, and I had forgotten about my soggy grip situation until it was too late. I was ready to die of mortification.

Her hands were sweaty too. I remember being baffled by the situation. She was so amazing, so I couldn’t help but wonder what she had to be nervous about. We shared a bashful moment of embarrassment and acceptance. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I'd already fallen in love with her that day. When you know, you know.

I remember all the little moments of our life together while we dated. She would nuzzle into my side while I read a book and watch one of her reality shows with headphones in. We didn’t always have to be doing the same thing, we just enjoyed doing them together. Sometimes our dog would rest her head on one of our legs to not feel left out.

All relationships require effort, but it never really felt like it did with her. Even when we were struggling financially or reeling from the death of a loved one, knowing that we had each other’s back made it easier to face our tomorrow.

I remember proposing. Strangely, I think I felt less nervous proposing than I did on that first date. It wasn’t scary to me, not even a little bit. I was going to spend the rest of my life with her. We were walking on the beach - she loved… loves… FUCK. She loves the beach, and as we walked I got the ring ready, fell a step behind her, and took a knee. When she turned to check where I'd gotten to it was with her usual bemused expression. I had a tendency to get distracted by the scenery and lose pace with her, a tendency I shamelessly twisted to my advantage. As she realized what was actually happening, pure happiness blossomed on her face. Then she cried, but a good cry. A happy cry. I wonder if-

Something changes. A pinprick of light joins me in The Nothing. Before I can wonder how I recognize it as light without eyes or a brain the light starts to grow. Or, maybe, I'm moving towards it. I can’t tell.

Until I can. I can feel again. I feel pressure. Discomfort. Disorientation. I lose sight of the light and the pressure builds and builds until, blissfully, it's relieved. I feel the air graze my skin - which I apparently have again - and I feel so overwhelmed that I can't help myself.

I cry. I cry like a baby.

I cry too much like a baby.

In a single moment of adrenaline fuelled clarity I get a sense of my body and the all-too-baby-like proportions.

The panic sets in. Then it gets worse.

I am a baby.

What the fuc-