{{The rating was sort of an estimate...}}
Attempt at a Prologue
Jesus is not in my heaven.
Not necessarily to say, of course, that He doesn't exist altogether- but in my personal heaven, He is not around. A beautiful, fanciful figment of imagination that only lives through the faith of others here, that's what He is...just as near to the beings as He is in the living world. Some of the dead like to give forth their admiring devotion to him, but then again, some don't. They lose all assurance in him the day they started decaying six feet deep. I personally prefer that my shallow mind never to know, instead choosing to live in a blissful ignorance. After all, I'm not with Him. I wasn't good enough for Him, in all his supposed gracefulness and undying faith to the Lord. The “heaven” I have been sent to, the vapid Area 26427...I suppose its a good temporary home, but I can't imagine being here forever.
This text in which you are reading is not an anti-religious novel, nor is it any sort of religion related matter at all. The writing above this paragraph is, for the most part, completely unrelated to the plot of my afterlife. If you wish, you can pretend that it wasn't written. Go ahead. As I scrawl these words, I am not instructing you, dear Reader, read every word in this novel and interpret it precisely as I say so, nor is it to be followed exactly as I say so. My personal belief is that this opening is not a harsh and agnostic statement, but as I foolishly try to defend my words, I can feel your attention to my narration fading, so perhaps I should close up this Attempt at a Prologue, and carry on there forth?
***
Chapter One: Blessed and Lovely Death
Car crashes, as I so gloomily learned, are not as easily avoided as one may superficially think. When you feel the ram of an SUV slam and crash into the perfectly sculpted, cream-colored Jaguar, and you feel your finger's loose grip become even looser and eventually let go of the mahogany wheel, you quickly learn this fact. As the crystal clear and clean front window busts open like a popped balloon and rain on your surgery-inflicted face, you let out tiny and bizarre fits of screams. Your bubblegum pink fingernails, manicured and shaped, fly to your face, scratching as if several dozen hornets had landed on it and decided to probe it with their horns.
Meanwhile, horns are blaring high pitched squeals, fellow angry humans late for an important business meeting, or dead grandmother's funeral, protesting how stupid the young lady had been when she attempted to run through a just-turned red light. You ignore their selfish groans. Instead, all you care about was the bleeding mass and inflamed thing that was...is your face. All you care about is how disgusting and disfigured this was going to cause you to be, and how the one most important thing you used to make money was now torn and ripped at its seams.
You certainly do not care about the SUV driver that hit you.
No more photo shoots for some cheap, cruddy drug store make up company, no more B-rate movies directed by foreign directors in a sleazy tie, yelling strict profanities at you and then attempting to grab other...inappropriate areas later on.
Suddenly, your shouts are unfamiliar. Suddenly, your voice is an ugly moan plugged and blocked by the maroon blood made by a split vocal chord in the mess that was now your throat.
Then, the funeral comes. Short and sweet, that's what you always wanted. That's what you got- over and done with in under forty-five minutes. Hoards of black-clad mourners come to weep the death of their loved...whatever away, and just hope to God they're in the will somewhere.
Then, you're lowered into your home forever. Flowers are put on top, roses and daises that will rot on the lid of your casket, made of the same mahogany as your steering wheel was, then you're dead.
Goodnight.
Of course, you aren't dead. Well, yes, you are. That heap of rotting and flaking flesh in the ground is dead, and it's starting to churn it's self into worm-food, but your spirit isn't. It's still a perfect, healthy matter of being that's releasing from it's destroyed, temporary department. It floats and flees, transparent to all the living. After that, it's all theories and speculation. No one knows exactly what happens after the soul ejects...not even your deceased, hallowed narrator.
****
The gates to my heaven were (and still are) jagged and rusty, but with a slight pearl sheen that clung onto them, glistening and shining amongst the dead material. As my hands reached out and grabbed the handles firmly, I felt a swift and sharp punch to the middle of my gut. As I attempted to look down at what had caused this unnecessary pain, my hazel eyes promptly shut, and another jab in the gut occurred. Skin tingled and pushed back, and the nerves underneath the first few layers of skin hissed displeasure. I had, essentially, the wind knocked out of me. I then felt my legs give, bone giving way, skinny body collapsing to the cold ground. My body shook on impact, pain chills running through it. And then, nothing. I was awake, but my body was asleep. I could think fine, but I wasn't able to convey those thoughts into speak. My breathing had stopped. I let my eyes close, and they stuck, as if my eyelashes were twisted and knotted together.
And, then I was saved.
Or, in the very least, not dead. As the glue that had held my vision closed evaporated, a sweet floral scent entered my nostrils. Airy, light, and blissful. Toxic to my breathless lungs, of course. It stung each time I attempted to inhale the heavenly smell, burning with each sniff of the wonderful perfume, but worth every bitter side effect. As the world I had entered gently peeked into my eyes, I felt a mist fall on my face. I lifted myself from the floor whilst holding onto my stomach, clasping to it as if my guts were to fall and sink right through the flesh. Tight knots curled within. I gazed upwards, cringing at a ray of brilliant light that shone on my face.
I could tell almost right away that I wasn't going to take kindly to my afterlife.
But it was mine, so I instinctively ignored the gloom that had gathered and purged through. The flower scent remained, but got stronger and more prominent in each little step. An unpleasant feeling overcame me and tainted my thoughts, creating complex images that I knew I wasn't able to handle at the time, so I pushed them away, pushed them into the empty abyss that was my mind.
By this point, I didn't think of the situation that was clearly laid in front of me, neat and tidy. I was too busy caught up in the blessed and lovely ignorance of death. Normally, had I been not a soul of course, I would have made a stupid, snarky, and unnecessary remark, kick the gates of Heaven, then leave. However, I self-consciously understood that had I done so, there would be nothing to go home to.
Besides, the more I let my body linger on that thought, I didn't quite think that you wanted to purposefully leave Heaven.
There is no check-in counter, There is no info desk you can politely make your way to and ask what the hell you were doing in this barren land. Rather, what was available was several blocks of uncharacteristic, standard, white apartment buildings with windows spaced evenly down the side. I knew, despite the common appearance, I was there. A sign that boldly stated, in Times New Roman print and a light gray font color, “Area 26427” attempted to force my mind to acknowledge that bit of information. As the numbers processed through my mind, I came to the conclusion that the dead did not all fit into one heaven.
*****
You, after stumbling along your heaven for about an hour or so, are welcomed to a one-room property with the standards in it- a couch, soft foam bed, dresser, and a shower. A few other non important items dotted your sanctuary and were included in that oh-so-wonderful deal. But, being too out of it to care, you wander and think thoughts that happen to pop in the tiny brain you were birthed with. Some wonder about the details of their death- why now? How? Does anybody care? Of course someone cares, don't think about that. It's a waste of precious after-life. After all, who cares how you died? It's not relevant anymore. If you remember, you remember. If you don't, don't worry about it. You'll never know anyway.
I, being the lazy being that I am, chose to take a whole other alternative to my first move in death. I sat on the plush couch and grabbed a chunky, plastic remote and switched on my TV. As the screen flickered to life and grainy pixels started to collaborate on the screen, long-gone celebrities began to take form. The image stills were clear, yet the coloring was acutely off, yellow tones with mock blues tinting the beings on the screen.
I let my mind go astray, farther off-course than before. Thoughts had refused to register, and the my actual fate had not, would not set in. Not because I didn't want it, but rather every time my mind settled on that occurrence, it would only take but a few seconds for it to pass over to another topic to idle my mind, to numb it.
When you pass, you never quite sleep again. There are a small bouts of exhausted speed naps, but no eight hour sleep you had grown used to...I still didn't miss my family or friends. Whether this was a petty display of my current mindset, I was not certain, but I did know I couldn't remember my sister's name anymore. Nights were easy and simple- eat, speed nap, watch TV. It was the day that confused me and dazed me. I didn't want to go outside. Too many unknown new faces for me to handle, so I didn't. As I shoved colas and bags of microwaved popcorn I had found in my cupboards into my mouth, pasty yellow butter making my tongue cringe, weight was not gained. I stayed a constant one-oh-nine. I knew I was lucky in some cases that I had been so worried about calories and grams of fat I took in when I was breathing, but I noticed there was always a constant, almost...hollowness in the nape of my bony neck. A still empty feeling was always present.
None of the neighbors acknowledged me.
There were voices occasionally outside the walls of my home, sinking in through the thin white plaster....but, no one came. As I sat in a a deadly numb, still silence, I started to acquire the tasteless trait of boredom. Watching TV and eating did nothing to entertain the vast and ugly mind that sat in the empty tomb that was my head, and I started to draw on myself. Pen streaks of red and blue traced the freckled skin. My body became an terrible portrait by a determined and stupid artist that kept trying despite their failure at what they loved. I led myself into a sad state of affairs.
I never touched the color to my face.
. Secondly, I'm too writing a novel based on the movie world(You might wanna read it, the link is there on my signature). Iw ould just review the prologue now!
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