On the Threshold of Life and Death

And I'm dead. In the center of my school's quad, I lay on the ground, bleeding while everyone around me panicked from the sudden noise of a gun going off.

It didn't hurt, save for the split second when the bullet pierced the roof of my mouth. Strangely, even though I'm still fully conscious, I can't feel the pain of the shot. I can feel the cold gunmetal in my hands, I can feel the side of my body touching the rough concrete ground, I can even hear the sobs of the other students. But I can't feel the pain of the shot.

I heard it's because of a survival mechanism, where if we get hurt suddenly, chemicals rush into our brain and we won't feel pain for awhile so we can get away from whatever's attacking us. I guess that makes sense.

Interesting thing, suicide. Movies always show it as instantaneous. One second, you're alive. The next, bam. Eternal darkness. Or an afterlife, reincarnation, whatever. But the truth is, nobody really knows how long it takes for your consciousness to die. So I'm just as surprised as you that I can still see what's happening around me. I can still hear what people are saying. I can still feel the blood dripping from my mouth. I can taste it too. I hate it.

The bullet tore through my brain. My heart stopped beating a long, long time ago. But my consciousness still lingers. On the threshold of life and death, my consciousness still lingers.

I guess I'm thankful that I died with my eyes open. It's interesting to see people's reactions to my death. Even though I was probably the least popular kid in school, I saw some people just flat out sobbing. Probably less because I was important to them and more because my death was so morbid. I'm not sure how I look right now, but I can imagine I don't look very pretty.

I don't know why I decided to kill myself here. I don't know why in high school, during passing period. I guess I just wanted to send a message to Terry, Robert, and all those other bastards that are looking at my dead body right now. A message like "You pushed me to this, and now I'm dead. Have fun living the rest of your life with the image of my dead body in the back of your mind. Ha. Fuckers."

And it worked. Everyone, absolutely everyone was horrified at the sight of me. Passing period was almost over, but no one cared about going to class anymore. The entire school crowded around me. The people in the back of the crowd pushed forward, wanting to see if someone really did shoot himself while the people in the front were mortified, pushing back so that they wouldn't have to see all the blood. A few students called 911.

After a few seconds, I could hear the shouts of school staff trying to get through the dense crowd. First staff member I saw was Mr. Lewis, from school security, blue uniform and all.

"Jesus..." First words he said when he saw me. I would've laughed, if I could move my mouth.

He turned around and faced the crowd. "Okay, everyone, go to class!" The crowd got a bit louder, mostly from the students in the back, who complained didn't get a chance to see my body, but eventually the crowd dispersed and went to class. Don't know how they'll ever learn anything after half of the student body is dying from curiosity and the other half is shivering from trauma.

I could hear the officers behind me saying something. At some point, I saw Mr. Fields, our principal. He looked visibly shaken.

"I'll request parents to pick up their students early. We'll probably have to cancel classes for the rest of the week," Mr. Fields said to the officers, who nodded. Fields ran his hand through his forehead and shook his head as he looked down at me. He exhaled deeply, then pulled out his cell phone.



Soon, paramedics arrived. One of them briefly talked with the principal about the situation before they covered my body in a white tarp, preventing me from seeing anything.

"One, two, three," I heard a man count down before I was lifted into the air and onto a stretcher. They wheeled me into an ambulance, locked the doors, and drove away.

The drive felt like it took years. It probably would've seemed shorter if I could just see, but this tarp covered my eyes and for awhile, my entire world was darkness. Darkness and the gentle whir of an engine. Funny. Reminds me of how I spent most of my life when I was alive.

As far back as I can remember, I've hated people. Not hate to the point of murder, but I just don't like being around them. And society's feelings were mutual. Nobody really liked being around me either. Whether or not that was a cause or an effect of my dislike for people, I don't know.

Around 4th grade, I started using video games. I didn't just play them. I used them. Like a drug addict would use heroin. Most days, I'd be indoors, playing games in the darkness of my room, listening to the sound of gunshots through my television speakers and the hum of a ceiling fan, which did nothing but circulate hot, stale air around my room. Occasionally, my window would be open, but only to prevent me from boiling alive in the heat of my room. The blinds were always closed.

I didn't care much for personal appearance. After all, if I didn't like people, why the hell would I spend money on vanity items trying to impress them? Besides, in terms of appearance, I was forsaken to begin with. A pudgy face that looked like someone tried to press my forehead and my chin closer together. A natural frown, which occasionally transformed into a pedophilic smile. Rough black hair that remained perpetually unkempt and could only be described with one adjective: pubic.

I hated my looks. Maybe it was a good thing I spent most of my time in the dark. Probably did the world a favor.



My mother was sniffling, I could hear that. Still couldn't see anything even though they took out the tarp from atop me since they closed my eyelids. In the few minutes between the cloth being removed from my body and my eyelids being closed, I saw a gray tiled ceiling with fluorescent ceiling lights shining behind glass rectangles. Typical hospital room design.

"We'll have to perform an autopsy on him. Standard procedure for those who don't die of natural causes," the coroner said.

I heard my dad take a deep breath. "Okay."

"Would the two of you like some..." the coroner exhaled. "Some time alone with the body?" I could tell he hated dealing with the death of kids. I almost felt sorry for forcing him to go through with this.

At the word "body," my mother started silently weeping. Dad nodded and I heard the coroner's footsteps walking away from me. Then, a door closed.

And my mother wailed. Her cries woven with sadness echoed through the gray walls of the examination room. I felt my dad's presence beside me. He whimpered as a tear landed on my bloodstained right arm. And for a second, I almost thought that he loved me.

I heard my mom step closer to my dad. She hugged him and sobbed into the back of his shirt. Her muffled weeping seemed even more pain filled. I wish I could open my eyes so I could see whether or not my dad hugged her back.

He didn't hug her back. I heard a shove. Rapid footsteps as my mom regained her balance.

"You did this," dad started, his voice cracking. He turned. "You fucking did this! Our son is dead and it's your fucking fault!"

"My fault?" Mom said in between sniffles. "My fault? You're the one who's never home, you're the one that never loved our son! It was your gun he used, your gun!"

They were both screaming now. "I work my ass off to support this goddamn family and you're blaming it on me? It's your fault, all you do is sit at home and neglect him! You spend more time knitting your stupid scarves than taking care of your own son!"

I hated listening to them argue. It's all they ever did at home. Five minutes after my dad gets home from work, they would start yelling and screaming and throwing things at the ground. And they wouldn't stop until either my dad lost his voice or my mom wouldn't be able to talk from under her tears.

Amazing. The first thing they would do after seeing my dead body is argue. They didn't cry over my body. They didn't say "I love you." Or even "I'm sorry." They argued.

I'm glad that I'll never get the chance to say goodbye to them.



There were two voices in the room now, two voices that I didn't recognize. I heard the stretching of latex gloves. The sound of a saw whirring.

And as the scalpel pierced my shoulder and the autopsy began, the pain shot through my body but I was unable to scream, unable to resist, unable to run away as they sliced deeper and deeper. Outside, I didn't react, but inside, I could feel every blade that hacked through my flesh, every finger that touched an organ that they removed from me. The operators snapped my ribs apart and hacked away my lungs and I screamed "NO, STOP," but my voice was muffled by the gag, so Terry only continued. My arms and legs were bound to the pipes in the bathroom and I struggled, but I couldn't break free the rope. He pulled out a knife from his pocket three inches deep and told Robert to take off my pants and I tried to kick and resist but my ankles were useless, the ropes were too strong they were cutting into my skin and he laughed. I stood there half naked and he laughed and said "I told you not to talk to my girlfriend again."

And he slashed at me with his knife. He slashed. I bled.



The coroners stitched my skin back together and incinerated my organs. Mercifully, I could no longer feel pain after the autopsy. They reattached the top of my skull to my head, then put my entire body in a metal preservation chamber.

The chamber was freezing. Even though my eyes were closed, I could tell this chamber was cramped and pitch black. I couldn't hear anything. Not the whir from the temperature regulator of the preservation chambers. Not the chatter of coroners behind the metal walls of the chamber. Not even the ringing that my ears created when there was nothing to listen to.

Just silence. Lifeless silence.

I must have spent an eternity in that chamber. I had a lot of time to think about things. How would death feel like? Would it be like this? Just... darkness? No stimuli, no consciousness, just... nothing? And how long would my consciousness survive like this? How am I still conscious when they've destroyed my brain?

As time stretched longer and longer, I started thinking about my life, similar to how I used to think about things I've done right before I slept. I thought about mom, dad, video games, school... school...



Terry cut the ropes and I fell to the ground. My groin stung and dripped blood from the gashes. I didn't cry. I wanted to, but I didn't.

Terry grabbed my hair and pulled me up by the scalp. He held the edge of the knife right against my throat. And he whispered.

"If you tell anyone about this, or if you ever talk to her again, you're dead. I swear."

He let go and I fell to the grimy bathroom ground. The two of them left while I bled out on the floor.

I cleaned out the rope burns on my wrists and ankles with wet clumps of toilet paper and hand soap. I padded my knife wounds with more toilet paper, then put my pants on and walked home.

I arrived ten minutes later than usual. Ten. Yet the first words to come out of my mother's mouth was "Where the hell have you been?"

"I was out, no big deal."

"You say that every time, I want you to be more specific."

"Mom, I'm fine, just leave me alone!"

"No, tell me, what happened!?"

And I slammed my bedroom door in her face. Why the hell does she have to be so invasive all the time? Can't she see I'm fine? I'm fucking FINE.

I heard a knock on my door.

"Paul, I don't know what happened to you, but I want to help," she whispered. Her voice was muffled behind the door. Really, I do. But you have to let me help you."

"Damn it, I don't NEED YOU. I'm FINE, can't you fucking hear me?"



...But I wasn't. In this freezing preservation chamber, in the eerie silence, in the total darkness, I realized... I wasn't fine. I needed someone. Anyone.

Mom wasn't being invasive that day. She was just concerned. She was trying to help out her own problematic son, who had too many inner demons and thought he didn't have enough heroes to be saved.

But little did he know, she was standing right there, all this time. Behind a thin piece of wood, with her angelic voice dampened, she was right there. Ready to smite his demons, and all she needed was a door to be opened.

What I would give to see my mother right now.



I heard the metal door to my preservation chamber open. I was pulled out from the chamber and placed onto a table. I felt clothes being put on my body. Must be time for the funeral, at last.

They put my body in a casket and transferred me to wherever my parents decided to have my viewing. I'm guessing the funeral's gonna be closed casket, since I can imagine I don't look too good right now, especially with my genetics and this bullet hole on the top of my head.

A few hours passed and I heard a handful of people come into the room. Their light chatter was even harder to hear from inside the casket, but nevertheless, the sound of people conversing was unmistakable. I couldn't hear anyone crying though. No surprise there.

A few more hours passed. The priest gave an incredibly generic talk about how I was a good person at heart and that now, my soul was in a better place even though I was right here the entire time. He ended with the words "I now offer the stand to anyone else who would like to say a few words to Paul."

No one stepped up for a few minutes. Again, no surprise. I could hear a faint sniffle in the distance, which I guessed was probably from my mom.

Just as I thought the priest would step back up to the podium to start the burial, I heard footsteps. A tap on the microphone.

"Test, test." It was my dad.

He sighed. "Thanks to everyone that came here. It really means a lot to us, and I'm sure if Paul were here right now, he'd appreciate seeing so many of his classmates here." Classmates? I wish I could see who he was talking about.

"I'll just start off with the basics. My name is Kenneth Lanier. I'm Paul's father. Although, looking back at the amount of time I've spent with Paul, I don't think he'd be too proud to call me his dad." He's right.

Dad took a deep breath. "I know in these eulogies, I'm supposed to tell a bunch of stories about Paul so that we have something to remember him by. But truth be told, I don't have many stories about him, much to my regret. If I were the same person I was before his death, I'd have probably blamed this on stress from my jobs, or his tendency to be an introvert.

"But in reality, it was all... my fault. I actively pushed him away from me." More deep breaths from my dad. He paused for a minute, just inhaling and exhaling. "Just simple things, like a YouTube video he wanted me to watch, or a new toy he got from a trip to the mall with his mom, or when he wanted me to play a game with him. It wouldn't have taken even ten minutes out of my day to watch that video, or say something about his toy, or to play his game.

"But no. Selfish me told him to go away, leave me alone, I don't care. I don't care... if I got punched every time I had said 'I don't care' to my own son, I'd be covered in bruises right now. And every one of those punches would be justified. Because no child should ever have to hear those words come out of their father's mouth. And the fact that it took the death of my only child for me to realize that... that's something I'll never live down."

Suddenly, I started feeling strange. Almost... light headed.

"Because if I had just taken ten minutes out of my day to watch his video, or say his toy was cool, or play his game then maybe we could've been closer. Maybe he would've actually been proud to call me 'dad."

Am I... Am I fa̩̘̒̍d̻͇͙̞ͯ̀ing?

"If I had done so many things different, if... if I had hugged him more, talked to him more, if I had..."

No. Plẹ͎̲̯͋́ase. Nö́͊̈́͏̲̪t̙̣̃ͨ͊ͣͩ͗͂͛͘͟ now.

"If I had told him I loved him more often. Maybe..."

P̮̱̎́ͯ̃ͅl̶̫͓͉ͫ͛͊̉ͭ̎eas̥̺̐ͣ̕e!

"Maybe he wouldn't have pulled the trigger. So seeing as this is my last chance to say it..."

I ḍ̶̵̱͇͉̥̬̗̒ͦ̆̓o̴̲͎̭͔͔̻ͧ̎ͨ́n't ŵ̴̴̤̤̩̹͙̙͉͍̈́̀â̺̫̣͇͚̆ͫn̷̟ͪͣ́t̡̛̤̩̤̳̖̼͙̞ͭ͊̓̈́ͯͥ̌̒̉ to...

"I love you, Paul. Always have. And always will."

I d̷͈̩̣͎͔̣̤̎͒͂̎ö̼͕̟̗̦̤̻͕̜͌̄̈́̎ͥ̑ͥ̚͡n̸̪͔̭͍̔͊̋͞'̴͒ͤ̿̅̋҉̰̳͓̟͙̦t̟̯̘̭̖̥̆̀̋ͫ want to̢̡̝̝̮͍͔̺͂ͮ̉̐ͦ́ͮ̋͐̋̽͛ͦ̒ͧ̏́̚͞ die anymo̘͉͇͖͓̓̀̀͘r̤̪̤̺̞̊̈́̂̿͋ͫe̵̸̞̩̠̦̙̪̱̱͂̌̽̄ͨ.͍̙̤̘̮̯̜̽̐̃̓





Author's Note: If the story's a bit confusing, I'll sum it up here in a nice little line. It's about a boy who commits suicide because of a traumatic event that happened to him in school and the events after his death.

On the entire "dead-but-conscious" concept, I know it's difficult to understand, but just imagine you're a motionless body. A corpse, essentially, only you can still think, feel, touch, taste, smell, and hear everything around you. That's the idea. And WOW, was it ridiculously hard to explain. I feel like I haven't done a good enough job establishing that idea, my apologies.

Anyway, on to the behind-the-scenes stuff. This idea came up when I was researching consciousness and I heard the TV say something about a suicide at a school. So the idea took off from there.

A lot of research on this one, specifically on consciousness, pain, memory, death, autopsies, steps of a funeral, etc. This story was really depressing to write. Urk. Gotta watch adorable puppies so that I don't end up emo.

Also, decided to add a "Mature" tag to this story in case I have any readers under the age of 13 on this thing. Granted, 13 isn't exactly a "mature" age, but seeing as the only "mature" thing about my blog would be occasional violence, I think 13 would be a suitable boundary for most stories. Besides, if there's any parents of kids younger than 13 that are actually reading my blog, I think they'd be happier that their child was reading and not smoking crack or something.