Shattered again

   Time is meaningless in the underworld. It’s a recurring nightmare. You’re alone, with nowhere to go, no other soul around. Just you, stuck repeating the memory of your death in a never ending cycle. It’s kind of like billions of parallel dimensions all with the label “hell” on top of them. Once you die you’re stuck here by default. Judging day is November 22nd. You just have to cross your legs and wait for it. 

   Getting judged is a choice, though. And truly, I can relate to the souls who would rather trap themselves into a nightmare for eternity. Getting judged is like having the most obnoxious spirits sift through your life and decide what level of life quality you deserve. It’s also probably the highest level of mental abuse, because you’re forced to relive the most awful moments of your life. You have to watch yourself lie, throwing your friend under the bus. You have to watch yourself sending embarrassing pictures of your brother to the girl he likes. You have to watch as you kiss your sister’s boyfriend, slam the door shut in your parents’ face, talk behind your friend’s back. You have to witness these memories again, knowing that others are witnessing them with you; not trying to understand- trying to judge.

   So yeah, for some people not getting judged is the more viable choice. There's a catch though. The people who are judged as decent, are allowed to lower their quality of life in exchange for a wish. The wish lasts for two hours. It can be anything. I need that wish. That’s why I’ve chosen to be judged today- now. 

   I know it’s my turn to step up, when a spirit whispers it in my ear. I walk forward, and am engulfed in light. Let the judging begin. 

   The first memory I see is from when I was five years old. I was playing in the sandbox. I see an ant; I crush it. Next is when I was ten. I was writing a math test. I’m failing and I don't want to. I copy my friend's test and don’t say anything when the teacher accuses her of cheating. More memories come and go. Then I’m fifteen, rejecting Sam. We were best friends until that point. He never spoke to me the same way again. It goes on and on, and I can feel each memory more intensely than the last. Then it gets to one of my last memories. We were at a party at Ellen’s house. I was walking out with a group surrounding me, when I realized I left my jacket inside. Sam offers to go get it. His voice is hollow, but I thank him and keep walking. He’s taking a while in there. I consider waiting for him. Then I remember his empty eyes, judging glances, how terrible I felt after turning him down. I walk away. He never calls me that night. 

   I hear the news at two a.m. My parents shake me awake. I think my mom’s crying. They explain to me how he walked back into the house. How the house caught on fire. How he ran upstairs, but nobody knows why. There was nobody up there. He could have easily made it out. But I know why. My jacket was upstairs. 

   Maybe it was stupid, vain to think he would risk his life just to get my coat. But I know that whatever his reasoning, he did. That’s the last thing I think about as I drive my car the week after. Thinking is a stretch, really. I can hardly see anymore. I can hardly walk. I’d been drinking the entire week. That night was the worst. I can barely remember what happened. It was over quickly. A flash of lights, the smell of my own blood, and Sam clouding my thoughts even more than the alcohol 

   The memory is replayed in front of me, and I can, for the first time see my body. Twisted at a horribly wrong angle. My gaze is blank. 

   I look at myself and try to recognize myself but I can’t anymore. I hate that girl. When I look at her, me, all I can see is Sam. All I can see is the girl who lied and was cruel, and selfish. All I can remember is how cruelly I rejected my best friend. How I laughed, at first, when he told me. All I can remember is how I didn’t even go to his funeral. How I stopped talking to Taylor, ignoring all her calls. All I can see is a girl who deserved to die. 

   I think this thought, scream it into my head, that I deserved to die, when I’m engulfed by light once more. I’m grateful. It saves me from the tears. 

   Then I’m standing still, in front of spirits that are invisible to me but I know are there. One of them speaks. 

   “You’ve been cruel,” It says. “You’ve lied, and hurt the people that cared the most about you.” I bow my head. I know I deserve nothing

   “But,” it continues. “You’ve also done good.” I look up. It’s impossible to believe it. 

   “You don’t believe me,” it continues, reading my mind. “But you’ve always been hard on yourself,” the voice is gentle now. “You've made mistakes; awful mistakes.” I know I have. “But you’ve also been kind.”

   “No,” I say. “I haven’t.” My voice is hoarse, trying to keep back the tears. 

   “You are decent,” The voice says. There’s a long pause. The words don’t sink in. “You can make a wish,” it whispers, gently. 

   I look up, and stop trying to stop the tears from coming. 

   “I don’t deserve a wish,” I say, softly. “But I will use it.” I wipe away a tear. “There is something I have to do.”

   “And what is that?” It asks, and I can feel it leaning closer, as I whisper my wish into its ear. 

   I sit on my old spot in his room. When I whispered my wish, I finally found the strength to do what I could never do when I was alive. I sit there, on his chair, and take in his scent. His room has changed a little bit, in the year I didn’t come here, but everything about it is still so familiar. I look around for a little bit, trying not to overstep what he would’ve wanted me to see. I step when I get to his drawer. On it is a fallen picture frame. I pick it up, and my breath comes short. It’s my favorite picture of us, two years ago. We were out for a walk when he decided to take it. His arm is slung casually around my shoulder, his eyes as friendly as ever. I run my thumb across the picture, remembering. I miss that so badly it hurts. Because as much as I miss him, as much as I would do anything for him to still be here, I know I wasn’t in love with him. He was like my brother, and I loved him so, so much. Not in that way though. Never did I feel that kind of attraction towards him, and that thought is so liberating. Not because it would hurt more if I did. But because I finally feel like I’m beginning to forgive myself. Maybe just the slightest bit, but maybe, I can let him go. 

   I hear footsteps and I put the picture down. Taylor walks into the room. She’s Sam’s sister, as close as my own. I’ve never seen her like this. Her face ashen, eyes red and puffy. The smile gone from her lips. She radiates pain, anger. I can feel my own pain returning. She looks at the crooked picture on the drawer. My heart breaks a thousand times over, at the way she looks at the picture. She trembles, uncontrollably, painfully. She picks up the picture, and turns it so that it faces down, before throwing it at the wall. Not hard. I don’t think she has that much strength left in her right now. 

   She crumples on the floor, as the picture, so delicate, shatters. I shatter along with it.