Dying sucks.

I’ve heard that drowning is the most peaceful way to go. Sure, there’s the immense terror and burning sensation in your lungs as you struggle for a breath of air that isn’t there and you know deep down that this is it, I’m going to die, but once you actually start dying, everything feels okay and you just sort of slip away.

I died with a throat full of bloody vomit and a head as bald as a billiard ball. Neither a glamorous nor peaceful way to go.

There wasn’t any white light or tunnel to float through on my way to the afterlife. For a while, everything was…oh, geez, how to describe it. Everything was nothing, I suppose, is the best way to explain it. There wasn’t even an infinite blackness. Death wasn’t a color, or a smell, or anything that could be sensed. Needless to say, what consciousness I had left panicked. This was it? My journey was over before it even began? I wanted to say how much bullshit that was, but I didn’t have a mouth to cuss with.

After what felt like days, I noticed that the surroundings had taken on color: grey. By now I was so sick of grey, but it slowly lightened to white, then an iridescent white, then a blinding white that made me feel like I was staring into the sun. Which was odd, considering that I didn’t technically have eyes to be blinded.

Or…did I?

A portion of the white a ways away began to darken into a variety of hues. As the swirling mass of colors began to form into more distinct forms, I felt my body slowly reforming. Instinctively, I patted my frame to check for any lasting damages. The only thing I could find amiss was my premature baldness.

“Don’t worry, kid, you’re still as ugly as usual.”

I yelped and refocused on the now-formed collection of colors. Four plastic folding chairs surrounded a lime green card table. And sitting on the far side of the table…

Was NAME OMITTED.