Compassion for a Lonely Soul

When I first became aware, I was cold. Not the crisp cold of an Autumn afternoon, but the bitter, angry cold that you find deep in the darkness of winter. The kind of cold that burns your skin in a way you never imagined it could. The kind of cold that eventually leaves you numb to the world. 

The cold that starts with tingling fingertips that travels up your arms and legs until everything you are, exists only in the presence of the cold. It breaches your chest, hardening your heart into a block of heavy ice. 

That’s the cold I felt when I became aware. 

I had no name. No memory. No identity of who I’d been. 

I was just cold. 

After minutes or maybe hours, I had no way of knowing which, I forced my eyes open. I was in a bedroom; laying on a queen-sized bed, with a blue and gray checkered comforter. 

A pang of regret hit me like a wave. Regret for what, I didn’t know.

The room looked as empty and cold as I felt. There were no posters, shelves, or small trinkets lovingly placed throughout the space. Just white walls and a simple wooden desk. 

The only bit of personality rested on top of the desk, next to a folded letter. A red and purple lava lamp, with globules of liquid that undulated without pattern. 

The lava lamp. It felt like a friend that I hadn’t seen in years. A melancholy sort of sadness panged against my stomach. Like I was seeing it for the last time. 

“You’re awake,” a voice said.

I turned, noticing a middle-aged woman with brown skin and tightly curled hair standing on the other side of the room, with hands clasped tightly in front of her. She’d been waiting for me.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“You don’t remember?”

“No.” My voice trembled. 

“That’s okay. Sometimes, it takes a little time to adjust.” She looked down at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. “There’s no rush. I can wait.” 

I shivered; my fingernails appeared blue in the soft glow of the lava lamp. “Why am I so cold?”

The woman smiled sadly, her eyes crinkled with sympathy. “You’re in transition. The cold will fade soon.”  

I pushed off the bed, noticing how the cheap comforter didn’t catch on the dry skin of my hands, like it usually did this time of year. 

Like it usually did?

How my shifting weight didn’t cause the warped wooden slats to creak as I rose. 

How did I know that? 

Dread filled my stomach, a stabbing pain at the base of my abdomen. There was something important. Something at the edge of my mind that I’d forgotten. 

The woman adjusted her round-glasses, squeezing her lips together. “It’s time to look at the bed, dear.” 

I froze. I didn’t want to look at the bed. Every atom in my body screamed at me not to look at the bed. 

That if I just didn’t look, everything would be fine. 

I scrambled for a distraction, anything to delay the inevitable. A wicker trash can next to the door caught my eye. Ripped papers, broken pencils, and shattered figurines overflowed the small bin. 

Strange that I hadn’t noticed that before. 

“It’s no use delaying. You need to look.” The woman brushed her hands against her maroon skirt and placed them on my shoulders. Her brown eyes seemed to pierce my soul. “Look.”

I looked. 

It’s funny, the first thing I noticed wasn’t the body, but how neatly the bed was made. How the pillows were fluffed, and the corners pressed. 

The things you notice when your brain refuses to accept what’s right in front of it. 

The body. 

My body. 

Laying eerily still with hands clasped against my chest. 

Motionless. Cold. Dead.

I was dead. 

And I remembered everything. 

My mom waking me up for school every morning with a gentle voice, the brush of her hand against my forehead. 

My dad handing me his old lava lamp. Watching the swirling red and purple liquid.

Playing four-square during recess every day for a month in fourth grade. 

Sitting around the table as a family every night at 6:30 pm on the dot. 

Then everything became overwhelming, like someone had drained all the light from the world, leaving it in shadows. 

I felt out of place in my own body. Wore baggier clothes. Hid behind headphones. Anything to help dim out the outside noise. 

I couldn’t make sense of all those feelings. I had a good life. A happy family. Friends that cared about me.

I faked smiles and pretended to listen, to enjoy things the way everyone else seemed to. 

But the noise just grew louder. The pain hit deeper. Creating a void inside me. One that I couldn’t escape from. 

I looked down at my body on the blue and gray checkered comforter. And the empty pill bottle next to me. 

The woman squeezed my arm. I knew who she was now. She wasn’t my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Johnson. That’s just who she looked like. 

I couldn’t stop staring. “I did that,” I said.

“You did,” Death answered. 

“I shouldn’t have done that. I made a mistake.” My voice sounded numb even to my own ears.

“No use regretting what you can’t change.”

“I’m dead.” I needed to say the words.

“You’re dead,” Death replied.

My mind scrambled for a way out. A way back to life. “Can’t you send me back to my body? Give me another chance? Show me my past, present, and future?”

“What’s done is done. Even Death can’t turn back the clock.” 

My shoulders slumped forward. “I don’t feel better. I thought I’d feel different. I don’t know—at peace. But I still feel everything. It’s all jumbled up inside me. All these feelings.”  

Death looked at me, with her kind brown eyes and round glasses. “I know. I’ve been watching. You’ve been very strong in this life. You’ll feel different soon.”

“It’s almost time to go, isn’t it?” The cold began to fade.

“Almost.” 

“Am I going to hell? I suppose heaven doesn’t accept people like me.” 

Death laughed, the wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. “That’s always the question. You have nothing to fear, dear. You’ll be moving on to your next life.”

“Reincarnation?” 

“Of a sort. It’s different than you’re thinking. All that you are now will still cease to exist. Your thoughts, memories, and personality will fade. But your essence, your soul, will pass on. It carries an imprint, a faded memory of who you were in this life. 

“My soul? Why? What’s the point of it all?”

“It’s the next step for your soul. You’ve been many things, my friend; a worm, a fish, a bird, even a cat. They’ve all taught you something. Led you to your next life.” 

“What’s next, then?”

“Another human life.”

My shoulders slumped. “Is it because…” I gestured limply toward the bed.

Death enveloped me in warm arms. “No, dear. It’s not because of that. The first human life—it’s always hard on souls. They burn short and bright. The emotions a human feels—well, it’s a tough transition. The hardest lesson a soul must learn. Next time, it’ll be easier. You’ll see.”

My voice shook. “It’s not my fault? That I couldn’t stick around longer?” The pang of guilt in my stomach faltered.

“No. You did your best.” 

I let go. Let go of the guilt and the regret. Death was right. There was no use regretting something I couldn’t change. 

Warmth flowed from my chest, down through my arms and legs, to the tips of my toes and fingers. 

Death took my hand. “Your next life is waiting.”

If you or someone you know is thinking about harming themselves please call or text 988 https://988lifeline.org/