Postmortem Monologue

When you're born poor and you're raised poor and you succeed to the standards of a family who couldn't care less about you, you stay poor. At least, that's how I always thought of it. It took me years to realize I had success in my hands, written all within my muscles and growing in my mind. When I finally understood what I was capable of creating, it was too late.

The first day of the new year dawned and I was broken, literally. My body was curled on the side of the road like a blindsided animal, bumped by a car. Technically I was a blindsided animal, bumped by a car. The only difference between me and a non-human animal was the sight of my figure. To see a person dying was shocking and morbid to the majority of witnesses. Empathy was amplified. Help was called immediately.

Of course, when help arrived it was too late for me. On top of that, there wouldn't be many people in the area who could help identify my body. My ID went missing weeks ago and for as long as I could legally work I'd been hitchhiking around the world, drifting from place to place like a fallen leaf in an endless river. I was searching for the proverbial horizon. I was searching for a life where I felt loved and free.

I'd work wherever would hire and pay under the table. I could do anything from bartending to making beds in a hostel. If I could leave when I wanted and write when needed, I was free enough. Even though it was hard and oftentimes lonely, a rootless but roofed existence was good enough for me - at least for that time in my life.

Do you know something? In the hours before my death, I felt closer to my better life than I previously thought possible. Even though it was New Year’s Eve, the bar was nearly empty, and I barely made tips, I had finally finished what I had been working on for years. Everything was going to be alright, right? At 22 my life's work was complete! Hurrah! What joy! What bliss! I was a true artist on the brink of actualizing my potential!

Of course, when you're born poor and you're raised poor and you succeed to the standards of a family who couldn't care less about you, you stay poor. Fate must've realized this apathetic thought pattern of mine when it decided my life's work would be inherited early due to an untimely death. It sent a swerving car in my direction to end it all before I could self-actualize! What. A. Joke.

I cursed fate as I lingered beyond the winter road-mist, away from the chaos of red and blue lights. From the edge of the forest, I watched an ambulance take my body away. It was shocking really. One moment I was making my way back to the hostel, enjoying the high of work complete, the next I was jolted through the air in a slow-motion arc - a comet losing light by the second.

I came to and was standing beside myself. After a timeless experience of shock, then horror, and finally self-pity (in that order) it struck me that I was looking at my physical self for the first time - outside of a picture or mirror that is. How strange.

In this reveling of my outer-body, a dreadful realization arose in my mind. If I were to somehow reenter my body and live I would need my little black book. I had my purse when I left the bar - this was certain - but where was it now?

After frantically searching I found it in taller grass further away from the road, about 20 feet from where I lay. My attempts to pick up my bag failed. I tried to pick a flower and that was a fruitless endeavor too. My body was gone and I was formless. My mind still clung to the perception of a physical self, but I was no longer a form. I was simply a being.

Time passed, I waited. It only took 30 minutes for EMTs to remove my body. When it was gone, the police on scene searched for, found, and collected my meager possessions - a black leather satchel and its contents. I wanted to see where they were bringing my things and so I did. Just like that, with a blink of my eye. I traversed time and was beside my body in a hospital room.

I waited for a full day but no one came to identify me.

My next stop was the police station. Though I'd never been, I arrived there all the same. A woman in her mid-40s, slim, fit, and alone sorted through the items in my bag. A wallet with many ones but no ID (this seemed to frustrate her), pepper spray, a hostel entry card, and my little black book.

She opened the journal and was relieved to read the following: "If found please return to: Caitlin Bedisa. Reward: A Clean Conscience." Finally, a name for the body! She could find my family, sign the paperwork, file it away, and suppress my death from memory.

It didn't take long for her to track down my sister. When I died I was somewhere in New England. My sister was in New York City. The officer personally delivered the news of my death along with a brown bag filled with my possessions.

My sister buried me at home in Maine. Afterward, I stayed with her for days. The sudden death of her only sibling shook her to the core. She grieved much more than I thought she would. In life, we were never really close. She, unlike me, believed she could rise from the poverty of our childhood. She went to school, studied literature, left me and our town behind, and landed a job in a New York publishing house.

It took her a while to finally open my journal - once she did she couldn't set it down. It captivated her. My words held her gaze hostage, demanding emotions I so artfully invoked. Clearly moved, she read my story four times in one night and even fell asleep on her couch, my journal resting on her breathing chest.

My sister's work only allowed so much time for mourning, and once her grievance days were expended I readied my mind to leave her for good. She would be heading back to work and I couldn't shake the feeling that I was deadening her space.

I was proud of the life she'd created for herself. Her apartment, while modest, was comforting and full of life. On my last day, I watched her ready herself for work - putting her lipstick on, donning a black shirt dress with a brown belt that cinched her waist. She cried twice before gathering her things to leave.

Perhaps overcome with sentimentality or a desire to help me achieve a dream post-mortem, she took my book to work. Her boss, the lead agent at the publishing house, was also impressed with my writing. She offered my sister a $20,000 advance on the spot to publish my book.

Like so many writers before me, I'm forced to enjoy my successes postmortem. Though I wish I'd be able to create a pen name - perhaps Moharel Berg or Pheobe Thomas - I am proud to see my life's work realized, even if I'm not here to enjoy the worldly rewards it manifests.