Eyes

Then I took my own life and everything afterward was frightful, starting with Sylvester. He was there in my time after death, as if the words of Death Cab for Cutie songs are prophetic or something. There wasn't any sound. I don't think there was any color either. Just dark and needles pricking my skin, liquid coursing out of the holes that was too viscous to be blood. My whole body was shrinking, draining itself of--what exactly? I felt the streams coming out of my skin and could not grasp its wetness. Was it wet? Was it really liquid? Or was it more solid matter, or perhaps some gas close to its liquid form. I couldn't hold onto the streams coming out of me, my hands were becoming too small and shriveled to grasp. The smaller I got the more I realized I couldn't feel properly. My thoughts were nothing more than instincts. At one startling moment it became clear to me that I was being sapped of my energy, thoughts, dreams, experiences--in short, life. The streams that seeped from my pores drifted toward Sylvester. In his hands he held a clear glass jar, a number was inscribed on the side. He danced and jumped and twirled around, catching all of the wily streams in his glass jar. When there was nothing left of me but my eyes--which saw without recognizing--and he had gathered all the streams, he placed a cork topper on the jar and snapped his fingers. A shelf, covered with several similarly shaped and marked jars, appeared and he placed my jar on the shelf. Then he walked toward my eyes and scooped them up in his hand. Everything I knew was darkness, and it was not discomforting.

Waking up was a pain. Death had seemed so pleasant. Rest had been so near.