You always remember the first time you die because it’s your first time. It’s like your first kiss, just not as magical. The first time I died was an interesting event. It had to do with witches, demons, curses, magic, you know, all that fairy tale crap. My most recent death: hit and run. Nothing cool or glamorous. No. I was hit by a car while I was walking home from the grocery store. That had to be one of the stupidest and uncool ways I could have died, well besides choking. At least it wasn’t that painful.
I finally managed to open my eyes and was greeted by gentle darkness. I moaned as I shifted my fingers and toes and they creaked to life. The memory of the red car crashing into my body on the sidewalk came back to me and I shook my head internally. I couldn’t believe that I had died from that.
My eyes began to adjust to the darkness and I saw that I was in a hospital morgue, lying on a metal table. As more feeling returned to my body I noticed the cold air in the room and the disgusting smell of death and formaldahyde. Hospitals always try to cover the smell of death and it always fails for me. Death has a very distinct smell, sharp, with a tang of metal and the earthy smell of water and rot. Fresh death smells mostly of blood and despair until the rot sets in.
I sat up and assessed my body. From the slow return of sensation I determined I had been dead for about eight hours. Not too bad, I thought.