life in death

I could do nothing but watch. Most days, I saw cars zoom past in a dizzying blur of red, silver, and blue. Animals hesitated at the road’s edge, bodies tense, eyes calculating the perfect moment to dart across the asphalt. I watched weary truck drivers lean forward, faces etched with exhaustion, their bloodshot eyes fixed on the glowing blue and yellow lines guiding them through the night. Occasionally, cop cars raced by, sirens blaring and lights slicing through the darkness, forcing other drivers to swerve aside in relief that they weren’t the ones being pursued.

Yet, despite the rush and the urgency, nothing changed. Each day bled into the next. The sun rose and set in the same rhythm. The moon bathed the sky in its quiet light, only for the sun to return and chase it away. Sun. Moon. Sun. Moon. An endless cycle. Always the same.

But today, something was different.

A small, dull grey hatchback came speeding up the highway. I usually let cars blend together in my mind, barely registering their presence as they whizzed by. But this one pulled my focus. Bland, unremarkable in every way, yet something about it made me stand up and take notice. The girl driving looked young, barely past her provisional licence, if that. I couldn’t hear her, but her lips moved with the rhythm of a song, her head bobbing lightly as she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel, keeping time with the beat.

Then something changed. Her carefree finger taps shifted, tightening into a white-knuckled grip. Her eyes widened, the lashes brushing her brows in sudden panic. Instinctively, I tore my gaze from her to the road ahead. A car was swerving wildly into her lane, veering from side to side. I couldn’t see what had made it swerve, but that no longer mattered. Both cars were hurtling toward each other, head-on, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I shut my eyes as the piercing screech of tires ripped through the air, rubber burning against asphalt. I heard the frantic attempts, both drivers swerving, trying to avoid the crash, but it was no use. The sound of metal colliding filled the space around me.

When I opened my eyes, the wreckage was obvious. To one side, the small grey hatchback sat, crumpled beyond recognition. The driver’s side was completely obliterated, replaced by the hood of the other car, a sleek, midnight black sedan, its glossy paint now marred by the devastation. It had ploughed through the hatchback like it was paper.

I bent down toward the driver’s side of the wrecked grey hatchback, my heart pounding with a desperate hope that defied logic. Maybe, just maybe, the girl was still alive, her chest rising and falling beneath the twisted metal. But deep down, I already knew the truth.

She was gone.

The sound of creaking metal behind me pulled my attention away from the wreckage. The other driver, the one in the black sedan, was struggling to open his door, shoving against the bent frame with all his strength. Somehow, perhaps fueled by the shock, he forced it open just enough to drag himself out. He collapsed onto the asphalt, his movements slow, disoriented.

His eyes were blank, unfocused, like his mind hadn’t yet grasped the horror of what had happened. And I hated him for that, for the delay in realising the devastation he had caused. He stumbled back, running his hands over his body, checking for injuries as if that was all that mattered. It wasn’t until he finally glanced at his own car, its front crushed and mangled, that the weight of the crash began to sink in.

“Oh my God,” he groaned, wincing as he pushed himself to his feet, his hand clutching his ribs. The pain seemed to snap him into the reality of what had just happened.

Then he saw it.

“SHIT.” The cry escaped him as he hobbled toward the grey car, panic quickening his steps. He reached the wreck but froze, hands tangling in his grey hair as if he were about to pull it out.

A car approached, slowing as the driver surveyed the scene. A woman jumped out, parking haphazardly as she rushed over. Smoke began to rise from the wreckage, thick and ominous, curling up from the twisted metal. But the man remained rooted in place, eyes wide and unfocused.

The woman fumbled with her phone, fingers trembling as she dialled. She reached his side, her breath coming in sharp bursts, urgency clear in her voice as she barked information into the phone, glancing nervously at the smoking wreckage.

More cars slowed as a line of headlights stretched down the highway, creating a traffic jam. But the man seemed oblivious, his world reduced to the wreckage before him. An older gentleman stepped out of his car and walked over to the woman on the phone. I could hear their low voices, but their words were drowned out by the rising hum of distant car horns, growing increasingly impatient.

A flicker of concern ran through me. No one had even tried to help the girl, to pull her from the wreckage.

Then I heard it – a second set of sobs, faint but unmistakable, coming from behind me. I turned quickly, a strange spark of hope rushing through me, filling my empty chest. Could it be?

There she was, standing beside her crumpled car, her arms stiff at her sides as if held there by uncertainty and disbelief. She looked around, confusion etched into her tear-streaked face. The distant wail of sirens grew louder, closing in, but it didn’t seem to reach her. She was lost in the aftermath, the reality settling in.

Her gaze shifted to the man, the one who had caused it all. In an instant, rage transformed her expression. Her eyes blazed with fury as she let out a scream, her voice raw, as though it would tear itself apart. But no one turned, no one reacted. It was as if they didn’t hear her at all.

That’s when she realised something was different.

She moved toward the man, now collapsed on the ground, circling him like a predator sizing up its prey. Her voice cracked as she called out, 

“Hello?”

He didn’t flinch.

She glanced over at the woman and the older man, still talking urgently into the phone. The woman’s voice was steady, almost too calm for the scene unfolding around her.

“I’m right here!” the girl cried, her voice breaking as she stomped her foot in frustration, tears welling in her eyes again. Still, no one responded.

And then it happened, her eyes snapped up, locking with mine. For a moment, her confusion faded, and something like hope flickered in the depths of her gaze.

“Am I alive?” she whispered, her voice trembling as the sobs returned, clawing their way up from her chest. The realisation was beginning to dawn on her, just as it once had on me.

I hesitated, considering staying silent, letting her believe for just a few more precious moments that this was all some kind of mistake, that she was still alive. But what good would that do? If we were about to spend eternity watching over this highway together, we might as well start with the truth. There would be enough confusion without adding more to it. Besides, she needed a friend now, even if neither of us had asked for this.

The hope that had briefly flickered in her eyes was slipping away, just like the life that had been drained from her. She looked fragile, hanging on by a thread. I had to tread lightly.

“No,” I said softly, “I’m sorry.” The words fell out, heavy and final.

Her face collapsed, the tears returning in full force, her sobs breaking through the thin shell of composure she had tried to maintain.

Both of us turned at the sound of the approaching sirens, the wailing growing louder, flashing lights of blue and red reflecting off the smoke that had swallowed the scene. The world around us had come alive with urgency, but for her it was too late. It was a well-rehearsed chaos, everyone knew their place, moving quickly but with calm precision.

I reached for the girl’s hand, gently pulling her toward my usual watching spot off the side of the road.

“Come on,” I said quietly, guiding her to sit on the cool grass, just out of reach of the commotion.

“It’s okay, you know,” I began as we settled down, our eyes fixed on the flurry of activity unfolding before us; paramedics, firefighters, officers all working in tandem, assessing the wreckage and the broken bodies it held.

She turned toward me, her green eyes rimmed with red, her face swollen with grief. 

“What is?” she asked, her voice low and thick.

“Being dead.”

She exhaled sharply, rolling her neck as she looked back at the scene. 

“I’m only 18,” she muttered, disbelief and anger tangled in her words.

“17,” I said, putting my hand to my chest, smiling.

She paused for a moment, her gaze still locked on the wreckage, then let out a bitter laugh, part of her already resigned to this new reality. 

Eventually, the wreckage was cleared. The road resumed its usual rhythm, cars passing by as though nothing horrific had ever happened there, as though lives hadn’t just been shattered. The world moved on, as it always does.

“Chloe,” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “My name’s Chloe. I forgot to tell you.”

I smiled gently at her, the weight of the moment softening just a little.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice quiet, but filled with curiosity.

I looked up at the sky, now painted with hues of orange and pink, the setting sun casting a warm glow on the clouds. For a moment, I let the question hang there. I felt her eyes on me, waiting for an answer I couldn’t give.

“I don’t remember,” I finally said, shrugging.

Her eyebrows knit together, clearly dissatisfied with my answer.

“How long ago did you die? I don’t see any memorial here.” She glanced around the grass, as if expecting to find some forgotten marker of my existence.

“I think… 50 years ago?” I said, my gaze drifting blankly across the road, as if the answer might be hiding somewhere in the distance.

“You think?” Her voice had a sharp edge of disbelief.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, my words soft. “Time escapes you when all you can do is watch others pass by.”

The next day, a small group of people arrived, pulling over to the side of the road. They carried bouquets of flowers, and a middle-aged woman clutched a photo frame tightly to her chest.

They stopped just feet away from where we sat, carefully arranging the flowers against a nearby tree, creating a makeshift memorial. No words were spoken. Some wrapped their arms around the person next to them, while others stood alone, silently weeping as tears fell freely onto the grass.

Chloe stood, brushing the grass off her clothes out of habit, even though we both knew it wouldn’t stick to her anymore.

“Mum?” she whispered, her voice trembling as she walked toward the woman holding the photo. She reached out, her hand hovering near, but of course, there was no response. No recognition. Her mother didn’t even flinch. 

Chloe stood still, listening as her family and friends began to share stories, their laughter cutting through their tears as they reminisced about her childhood. Each memory tugged at her, the sound of their voices a bittersweet reminder of the life she could no longer be a part of.

Eventually, they left. One by one, they returned to their cars, leaving behind the flowers and framed photos.

She sat down in front of the decorated tree, staring at the blooms they had so carefully picked, her eyes lingering on the photo they had chosen. The day stretched on, but she didn’t move much, just quietly taking it all in.

Even in death, Chloe looked the same as she had in life. Her cheeks were still full, ironically glowing with a vibrancy that didn’t belong to her anymore. Her bright green eyes still held that spark of curiosity, and her long brown hair fell perfectly over her shoulders, as if time had no claim on her. It was a strange comfort, the way we ghosts returned to our original selves, unmarred by the injuries or decay that might have claimed our bodies. She remained untouched by the horrors of her death, a silent reflection of who she once was.

“I never got flowers,” I murmured as Chloe walked back toward me. She paused, a concerned look flashing across her face. I couldn’t quite read her expression, but it was clear the thought bothered her.

“Why not?” she asked gently, treading carefully around the subject.

I shrugged, the familiar gesture offering no real answer.

“You sure do that a lot,” she huffed, frustration creeping into her tone. “If we’re gonna be here together forever, you may as well talk properly to me.”

I looked down at the blades of grass beneath my fingers, absently pulling them from the earth the same way I had when I was alive. Some habits, it seemed, followed you even into death. 

The silence lingered between us, but this time, it felt heavier. Chloe was right, we had all the time in the world now, but for some reason, words still felt so hard to come by.

“I’m sorry,” I said, offering a small smile. “I haven’t had a conversation in a really long time. It’s just been me here.”

Chloe tilted her head, curiosity filling her expression. “What do you do here?”

“Watch.”

“Watch?” she echoed, the word sounding so foreign to her.

I gestured toward the road and the trees swaying gently in the breeze. 

“It used to be a one-way road, you know,” I said, as if it were a small piece of trivia.

“When did it change?” she asked, excitement bubbling up, eager for more of the story.

“A few years after my accident.”

Her face fell, shoulders slumping, clearly not expecting the conversation to take such a grim turn. I couldn’t help but chuckle at her reaction.

“It’s not sad, at least not anymore,” I reassured her. “Really!”

Chloe didn’t seem convinced, her silence speaking louder than any words. I didn’t blame her. I’d had decades to come to terms with this afterlife, to settle into the rhythm of it all. But for her, this was still so fresh, so raw. She hadn’t yet had the luxury of time to dull the edges of her grief.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, I realised Chloe was right. If we were going to be stuck together, I might as well open up to her.

“I was in the car with my father,” I began, my voice softer than I expected. “He drove a black Cadillac, you don’t see those anymore.” I laughed softly, a strange fondness creeping in. “We were on our way to the store for dinner, maybe going 60 kilometres, when another car came roaring down the opposite lane. I didn’t even see the collision. One moment, it was bright white lights, and the next, I was standing beside the car, and Dad was screaming for me. But it was too late.”

Chloe sat quietly, her wide green eyes hanging on my every word. I could feel her sympathy, but I pressed on.

“The guy who hit us was wasted. Even after death, I could smell the alcohol on him, like it seeped from his soul. He lived, much to my father’s despair. It was just the two of us. My dad came here once after the accident, and sat right on that grass.” I pointed to the spot, now hidden under layers of time. “He must’ve felt me somehow, because all he said was, ‘I have to go, I’m sorry,’ and then… he left. I never saw him again.”

Chloe didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at me, processing it all. I could tell the weight of my story hit her, maybe harder than I’d intended, but I hadn’t talked about it in so long that the words felt almost foreign. It was strange, sharing this part of myself with someone after all these years.

I smiled, and before I knew it, Chloe wrapped her arms around me. I hesitated for just a moment, then hugged her back, feeling the warmth of human connection, even in death. We sat there like that for what could’ve been minutes or hours, it didn’t really matter. We had eternity. There was no need to rush.

Eventually, she let go, her eyes still red but softer now, and she quietly made her way back to the tree. I watched as she knelt down, picking a single flower from the arrangement. She turned and walked back toward me, her steps slow and deliberate.

Chloe held out the flower, placing it gently in my hands.

“You’re not alone anymore,” she said, her voice soft but certain.So, for eternity, instead of merely watching, I became like the soil beneath the road—silent but alive with the pulse of everything around me. Life didn’t stop at death; it seeped into me like rain into the earth, nourishing what I thought was long gone. In absorbing this life, I realised that even in death, the world still grew, and in that, I found my own quiet rebirth.

Maybe death isn’t an end, but a place where echoes of life and love linger, shadows cast in fading light. You carry them with you, even in solitude. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, they return to remind you that, even in the quietest corners of eternity, you’re still connected to the world you left behind.