Dead Line

Iconic world events scorch themselves into our memories, like branding scars that never seem to fade, even with stretches of time. Everybody remembers what they were doing when they saw planes crashing into the twin towers on a T.V screen - where they stood and who they were with. People certainly remembered the life-changing day the dead made contact with the living world. Simon remembered every detail of it. It was the day that ended it all for him, the day that reunited him with his beloved Sarah. It was an overcast Tuesday afternoon, on the 18th March 2024 and he was standing in a queue wearing his usual jeans and shirt ensemble, waiting to be served a coffee whilst he thought about all the mundane chores he had to do that afternoon, when a lady he'd never met before sharply tapped him on the shoulder from behind. He remembered turning to look at her and seeing the urgency and excitement in her eyes, "Mister, mister," she said to him urgently whilst showing him her phone, "They've made contact with the afterlife," she added.

His immediate thought was 'great, another wacko,' but as he digested the information from the phone screen that had been thrust inches from his face, a mixture of doubt, hope, and excitement, swelled within him, but his critical and cynical voice took the fore. He immediately cast doubt on the woman's moment by informing her that he believed it was poppycock, so he condescendingly told her so,"nooo," he said whilst shaking his head. He looked back at the phone, then back at her, then added with assuredness, " That's impossible, do you believe everything you read on the internet?" He realised that he'd managed to cork the woman's feverish excitement, because he saw her face and eyes abruptly transition to seriousness, and then saw annoyance flare in her eyes, which he imagined had something to do with him (the man) telling her (a silly woman), what she should think. He watched her fixate on her phone to redigest the information in a desperate hope to find clues that would validate her claims, when a voice near him asked, "Can I take your order, please?"

He'd forgotten where he was briefly and turned away from watching the lady to make his order. The lady never spoke to him again, so he assumed she found no hard evidence. She made her order and took her drink away without another word to him, only glancing at him shortly before she left. Simon took his double espresso and wanting to see the claims for himself, sat down and began to search the internet. It didn't take long, it really did not take long at all. His hands began trembling and his hands and whole body felt clammy. Every media outlet had reported on it - it was breaking worldwide. The woman was right and he felt stupid now that he had doubted her. He whispered to himself, "Sarah," with tears starting to fill his eyes and roll down his cheek, blurring the headlines he was trying to read that validated what was complete absurdity a few moments ago. He wiped his tears away and grabbed his coffee to sip and moisten his dry mouth, not noticing it was cold, he was just happy for the moisture in his mouth.

Saying it changed everything was an understatement. It upturned the very notion of reality - anything people thought they knew about the world was in the rational trash can. The idea that the living could use a landline phone to contact any deceased person that had ever lived, broke all the rules of reality and people didn't know what was real anymore. News shows had phoned dead celebrities like Elvis, Buddy Holly, Tupac Shakur to interview them and ask them to sing tunes live on air. Scientists were phoning anybody and everybody to gather data on the afterlife and ascertain what the process for dying was, in an attempt to classify the whole experience and create a theory of the afterlife. The religious leaders of the world phoned to ask if they were in fact in heaven, hell, or purgatory, and most importantly, who was in charge up or down there, in a vain hope to prove their God was the one that was the one true god. Whilst the capitalists saw the opportunity to hire the dead as a tireless 24/7 workforce of cold callers, selling garbage stocks.

Simon sat there digesting it all until a thought popped into his head - Sarah. He knew what he had to do, and he did it. He sprung out of his seat, shoulder barged through a queue of people waiting, burst out of the coffee shop door, and sprinted for home as fast as he could. He ran with every ounce of energy he could muster, thinking all the while what he was going to say to his deceased wife. What they could talk about and whether he ready to talk to her. It will be natural he thought, as if she'd never left, and he could return to feeling his old self once she was back in his life again. Speaking to her again would rejuvenate him, he knew it. He could stop pretending to be okay, stop pretending his wounds ever healed, and drop his false façade of smiling and appearing happy to appease others. He could feel genuinely happy once again. This whole time she was gone, it felt like a piece of him was missing, like an incomplete jigsaw. Now it will be completed. He'll be whole again, his old self that he lost touch with.

Simon's breaths were getting desperate and deep now. He figured that he had another mile to get to his house, and probably needed to stop to catch his breath, even though he didn't want to. Seeing a lamp post nearby, he leant his whole weight on it, and panted harshly. His lungs and throat felt dry with the rapid friction of hot gases coming in and out of his body, with no lubrication to soothe it. His legs were dying on him, they felt heavy and numb. As he stood there sucking in as much air as he could, he hoarsely pleaded for water from passers-by, but none would help. He looked sweaty, dishevelled and his skin was reddened from his exertions. They probably thought he was a drug addict. He was amused at the idea of people not helping him because of how he looked. As if people only want to help you when you look presentable, healthy, and respectable. It seemed ridiculous but he knew he would have walked by and ignored him, so he didn't berate them. Standing there for a few moments more, he refocused his mind on his goal, attempting to block out any physiological barriers to it. Sarah. This is for Sarah. He imagined the new life he would live now he could talk to her. He could gain back all he'd lost, instantly. He would take her out to dinner on speakerphone. On river walks. Holidays. He didn't need to move on with his life anymore, because he has what he lost back, and she is his again.

That did it. Thinking of her resurged his body and he fixated on the idea of talking to her and hearing her voice fill his ears again. He would have cried tears if he wasn't so dehydrated, but he cried and whimpered nonetheless. He pushed himself off the post that he was leaning against, then slowly began to move his legs, overcoming the stiffness and increasing the speed as much as he could without tripping. He managed to make it into a small jog and tried to ignore the pain by saying, "I'm coming Sarah, I'm coming, Sarah," over and over again in his head. It seemed to work and he had a good pace now. The house finally came into view, their house. Sarah and he had bought the house together, having saved for years. He remembered the first day they moved in, they were unpacking and not before long, they gave up and made love all day, under the living room curtains, surrounded by their boxed belongings.

Simon was within fifty metres now and all he had to do was cross the road. His legs trembled and ached like nothing he'd ever felt before. He didn't care. The legs will heal with time. He was planning to stay in the house and talk to Sarah for days to come. Who needs outside anymore when his wife, his love of his life, was on the telephone and he could talk to her. As he got parallel to the house, without looking, he crossed the road and made it half way across, before he felt a jolting pain in his thighs. He thought his legs had finally given in and were collapsing beneath him, but he was wrong.

His whole body was flipped into the air as if some giant picked him up like a plaything, and he watched the world around him spin and spin. He saw the house, the sky, the road, a van, the neighbour's houses all fly past his vision like he was riding a carousel. Then they all stopped as he hit the ground he was just running on, with his eye line pointed towards the house. He attempted to motivate his limbs to make any small movement, but they were paralysed. So he lay there, motionless apart from his blinks and heavy breathing, and began to think what happened. His brain quickly pieced together the events - the sky, the van, the road. A van hit him. A van hit him as he crossed the road, sending him flying into the air and crashing down again. Why didn't he look before he crossed? He thought. He was so close.

He saw feet walk up to him, muffled voices talking, a face leaned down upside down and looked at him in the eyes, and the face's mouth spoke words that he couldn't hear. He told them, "Phone my wife, phone Sarah," not knowing if they could hear him or if words were even coming out. That's all he could say as his vision slowly grew darker, and the world faded away, he said, "Sarah, phone Sarah," until there was no more light.

The End