Post by bapiau on Apr 20, 2006 12:52:52 GMT -6
A man called Samuel Johnson once said: “It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.” I wonder if he ever found out how wrong he was.
My death day, or un-death day as the case may be, was as dreary as any other. I had recently turned 23 and had an unfulfilling job as a checkout worker at my local super market. You know the type, the ones who claim that their customers matter yet they don’t even know the names of their own employees. On the bright side; any shoddy work I did, slipped through the net unnoticed and I carried on un-reprimanded. It was the one pro lost among the sea of cons that came along with my job. It wasn’t just my job, my whole life had turned out to be quite unfulfilling. Despite this I was quite sad to see it end. So you can imagine my surprise when; after finally getting used to the idea of being dead, I rose from my coffin three days later, in the middle of my own funeral.
But I fear I’m getting ahead of myself, here I am blathering on about my untimely demise and I haven’t even told you my name. Rather rude of me don’t you think? My name is Janette Eleanor Travis the third. Don’t laugh or I shall visit my wrath upon you. Or poke you with a stick, whichever is easier. Besides, it’s not like I got to choose my name. No, unfortunately that was my mother’s privilege. I shall tell you more about my dearest mother later.
The day of my death saw me waking up late for work, my alarm clock had either decided not to wake me - as was typical of it’s temperamental nature - or I had sleepily pressed the snooze button one too many times. Either way, I was not amused to find myself already half an our late for my shift by the time I woke up. I was working the nightshift that week; covering for one of the older cashiers who had gone on holiday to visit her son in Australia - nice for some. I didn’t mind all that much, I was somewhat of a night owl myself. Since I was younger I occasionally suffered bouts of insomnia. Obviously not so much anymore as it was the second time in as many days that I’d turned up late to work. Throwing on a jacket and quickly downing a cold coffee I had left unfinished earlier, I ran to my car. The engine wouldn’t start - I supposed it was a good a night as any to walk and so the journey to work took an extra fifteen minutes than it would usually. Of course, I didn’t worry, no one would notice anyway. How wrong could I be?
I turned up at work an hour after my shift had begun, I was soaked through. The sky had decided to cloud over shortly before I arrived to work and let loose a heavy downpour upon me. So when I was called into the manager’s office I hardly looked as if I had a professional attitude towards my job: my already rushed make-up was smudged and my dark red hair was dripping with water. It wasn’t until after, that I realised my top was on inside-out. I knew the manager quite well, at least I like to think I did. He was an elderly man who could barely hear himself talk let alone anyone else, his vision was poor to say the least and his memory had the holding ability of a siv. It was likely that he didn’t know my name; which I was glad of, otherwise I would probably have been sacked within my first week of work. I was relying on his poor memory to ensure the security of my job. I’m sad to say he was not who I found sitting in his office.
If I had met the man sitting behind the large wooden desk in any other circumstances it was highly likely that I would have hit on him; most likely only to be rebuffed and sent on my way. He was the type of guy most women dreamed about. He was well built with deep brown eyes that captured your attention at just a glance, luxurious dark hair; the kind that just begs for fingers to be ran through it, and a deep soft voice that caressed the ears and…and…I was suddenly aware that I was being addressed but not actually responding. Way to make a twit of myself.
“Janette?” A look of concern had briefly crossed his sculpted face.
“Er, yes?”
“Oh so you are in there.” Either he thought he was being funny or that was an insult. I went with the former.
“Oh. Haha yes. You wanted to see me?” I had completely forgotten that this was probably something to do with my lateness.
“Yes. I’m your new manager by the way: Craig Matthews.” He stood up to shake my hand.
“Nice to meet you. So what happened to…er?” Dear God my mind was drawing a blank. I couldn’t even remember the name of my previous boss. If that didn’t send out the wrong message then nothing did.
“Bob? He’s going to be away for a while. I’m just filling in.” He straightened his tie, his body language clearly showed that he meant business. “Now I just wanted to talk to you about your persistent lateness.” he emphasised the word in such a manner that I felt rather like a naughty school girl.
“Ah right, car trouble. Sorry.” Well it was partly true.
“Okay but I’m afraid this is going to have to count as a formal warning miss Travis.” He grimaced slightly and jotted something down on a piece of paper. After a moment he looked up at me. “You can go now.”
“Oh right. Yes. Just going.” I mumbled as I backed into the closed door. “Ow. Whoops. Haha.” I faked a laugh as I eventually stumbled through the door. Just as I was about to close it behind me, Mr Matthews called to me:
“Oh Janette?”
“Yes sir?” I replied popping my head around the door.
“You’ve got your top on inside out.” Damn.
My night had not begun well. Little did I know that things were going to take a turn for the worse. During the course of my shift I managed to become a laughing stock - due to my prat-like behaviour in front of our dishy new boss- and I slipped in a puddle of cheese spread. Someone must have spilt it while stacking the shelves. This resulted in my rear end being covered in cheese, while the crate I was carrying landed heavily on top of my foot. Fortunately it was of enough of an excuse to leave work early. All dignity lost I hobbled out of work with a swollen foot that could no longer fit in my shoe, and a cheese smeared backside. Ironic that it was a Monday really. It may have been a consolation, then, to know that it was the last laugh that my colleagues would have at my expense.
I do not clearly remember most of what happened after that. My walk home was a slow one and I was chilled to the bone. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and the rain soaked through my clothes. I remember taking a break from walking on my home- I was sure my foot had doubled in size. I bent down to examine my injured foot when I felt my body being propelled through the air and hitting a wall. After that it went dark. I thought dying would have hurt more than it did. I felt my arm break as I hit the damp wall but it was no more than an ache as I drifted into unconsciousness.
They say my death had been shrouded in mystery and that it was likely that it was not hitting the wall that had killed me so much as landing on the floor awkwardly. At least, that was what had been thought initially. On close inspection it was evident that I had been attacked further; my exposed flesh was covered in deep gashes and what appeared to be bite-marks. My death had been blamed on muggers, yet my parents could not understand why they had left my purse and jewellery behind. When my body was found my skin was so pale it was almost translucent- the life had been sucked out of me; literally it turns out. Not the best way to start a week.
When I woke up dead for the first time I felt the most uncomfortable of aches. It wasn’t excruciatingly painful or anything near as dramatic, but rather the feeling of having being lying down, still, for a very long time. Moving slowly, I made a very quiet moan and made an effort to turn over in what I thought was my bed. You can surely imagine my shock when I found that I was lying in a coffin. On saying that; however, the fabric was more luxurious than that of my bedcovers, which, as I recall, were mainly polyester. Slowly a voice came into focus:
“However prepared we are, death always comes as a shock.” Lying there, in my coffin, I thought that I was being directly addressed by God, or some other deity. Too stunned to move I lay quietly where I was. “Today we have to confront a great loss and come to terms with it.” The booming voice continued. Somewhere in the distance I heard a familiar sniffling, followed by the ‘Crazy Frog’ ring tone and a mumbled apology. I could only deduce that I was attending my own funeral. “It will take some time to adjust but today is a new beginning of our life without her.” Completely petrified I tried to sit up only to bang my head on the top of my coffin.
“Geez!” I never found out who’s idea it was to have a closed casket, but they deserve a hit across the head whoever they were. Even from inside my closed coffin I could hear the sharp inhalations of the people sitting in the pews. The voice, of whom I assumed to be the vicar, continued on:
“From the moment we are born, we are born to die,” I pushed open my coffin and sat up, Dracula style. A few people fainted. I noticed that the vicar had his back to me, probably good luck on his part: he was an elderly gentleman and I may have given him a heart attack. Not that it would matter because apparently people didn’t stay dead for very long.
I put my hand to my neck and gave a low groan. I was as stiff as a plank, which really was to expected: I was dead, after all. “I think we may want a refund.”
The vicar finally turned to me and promptly passed out. Understandable I suppose; how often does a corpse talk to you? Other than that I had no sympathy; I mean, I’d died, I’d say that was slightly more dramatic. The room had, ironically, gone as quiet as the dead. I took the opportunity to look around the room, to my horror I found that I had been brought to the crematorium. I recognised the small room from when my Grandmother had died. My Grandmother was an old crone who had probably wanted to have been cremated just to spite the worms. We had never really gotten on and I didn’t even cry when I had been told that she’d snuffed it. Despite that, my mother and I were back on speaking terms by the time of her funeral and I distinctly remember telling her that I’d rather be buried than cremated. My mother was definitely one to hold grudges and this must have been her way of finally getting revenge. I was not amused and I shot my best “un-death” glare at her; it was slightly satisfying to see her run from the building screaming.
My family was a small one, which consisted of my dad, my mother, my brother and myself. There was also weird uncle Craig from my dad’s side, he liked to talk to sheep. Apart from my grandmother I didn’t know anyone on my mother’s side. I was a daddy’s girl but I’d forcibly cut the apron strings myself a few years ago when I left home- much to my father’s disappointment. My younger brother was away at University most of the time and was still living off daddy’s money; he was probably doing more drinking than learning. We didn’t get on very well before I died and after I died our relationship was pretty much the same. My mother, well, she was something else. She liked to think of herself as a woman of class and substance, interesting while not being a bore. She was as deep as a puddle and I was never sure what my father saw in her. It is with most regret that I recall that she did, in fact, spawn me. Yuck. Though I am most surprised she had children at all. If she could have had her way she would have probably paid for someone else to take care of us permanently, hell, she would have paid for someone to give birth to us and then take care of us afterward. That was the kind of woman she was. I suspect; however, that she complied with Dad’s wishes since he was the one keeping her in the manner to which she had become accustomed. In other words, my dad’s not short of a bob or two.
My death day, or un-death day as the case may be, was as dreary as any other. I had recently turned 23 and had an unfulfilling job as a checkout worker at my local super market. You know the type, the ones who claim that their customers matter yet they don’t even know the names of their own employees. On the bright side; any shoddy work I did, slipped through the net unnoticed and I carried on un-reprimanded. It was the one pro lost among the sea of cons that came along with my job. It wasn’t just my job, my whole life had turned out to be quite unfulfilling. Despite this I was quite sad to see it end. So you can imagine my surprise when; after finally getting used to the idea of being dead, I rose from my coffin three days later, in the middle of my own funeral.
But I fear I’m getting ahead of myself, here I am blathering on about my untimely demise and I haven’t even told you my name. Rather rude of me don’t you think? My name is Janette Eleanor Travis the third. Don’t laugh or I shall visit my wrath upon you. Or poke you with a stick, whichever is easier. Besides, it’s not like I got to choose my name. No, unfortunately that was my mother’s privilege. I shall tell you more about my dearest mother later.
The day of my death saw me waking up late for work, my alarm clock had either decided not to wake me - as was typical of it’s temperamental nature - or I had sleepily pressed the snooze button one too many times. Either way, I was not amused to find myself already half an our late for my shift by the time I woke up. I was working the nightshift that week; covering for one of the older cashiers who had gone on holiday to visit her son in Australia - nice for some. I didn’t mind all that much, I was somewhat of a night owl myself. Since I was younger I occasionally suffered bouts of insomnia. Obviously not so much anymore as it was the second time in as many days that I’d turned up late to work. Throwing on a jacket and quickly downing a cold coffee I had left unfinished earlier, I ran to my car. The engine wouldn’t start - I supposed it was a good a night as any to walk and so the journey to work took an extra fifteen minutes than it would usually. Of course, I didn’t worry, no one would notice anyway. How wrong could I be?
I turned up at work an hour after my shift had begun, I was soaked through. The sky had decided to cloud over shortly before I arrived to work and let loose a heavy downpour upon me. So when I was called into the manager’s office I hardly looked as if I had a professional attitude towards my job: my already rushed make-up was smudged and my dark red hair was dripping with water. It wasn’t until after, that I realised my top was on inside-out. I knew the manager quite well, at least I like to think I did. He was an elderly man who could barely hear himself talk let alone anyone else, his vision was poor to say the least and his memory had the holding ability of a siv. It was likely that he didn’t know my name; which I was glad of, otherwise I would probably have been sacked within my first week of work. I was relying on his poor memory to ensure the security of my job. I’m sad to say he was not who I found sitting in his office.
If I had met the man sitting behind the large wooden desk in any other circumstances it was highly likely that I would have hit on him; most likely only to be rebuffed and sent on my way. He was the type of guy most women dreamed about. He was well built with deep brown eyes that captured your attention at just a glance, luxurious dark hair; the kind that just begs for fingers to be ran through it, and a deep soft voice that caressed the ears and…and…I was suddenly aware that I was being addressed but not actually responding. Way to make a twit of myself.
“Janette?” A look of concern had briefly crossed his sculpted face.
“Er, yes?”
“Oh so you are in there.” Either he thought he was being funny or that was an insult. I went with the former.
“Oh. Haha yes. You wanted to see me?” I had completely forgotten that this was probably something to do with my lateness.
“Yes. I’m your new manager by the way: Craig Matthews.” He stood up to shake my hand.
“Nice to meet you. So what happened to…er?” Dear God my mind was drawing a blank. I couldn’t even remember the name of my previous boss. If that didn’t send out the wrong message then nothing did.
“Bob? He’s going to be away for a while. I’m just filling in.” He straightened his tie, his body language clearly showed that he meant business. “Now I just wanted to talk to you about your persistent lateness.” he emphasised the word in such a manner that I felt rather like a naughty school girl.
“Ah right, car trouble. Sorry.” Well it was partly true.
“Okay but I’m afraid this is going to have to count as a formal warning miss Travis.” He grimaced slightly and jotted something down on a piece of paper. After a moment he looked up at me. “You can go now.”
“Oh right. Yes. Just going.” I mumbled as I backed into the closed door. “Ow. Whoops. Haha.” I faked a laugh as I eventually stumbled through the door. Just as I was about to close it behind me, Mr Matthews called to me:
“Oh Janette?”
“Yes sir?” I replied popping my head around the door.
“You’ve got your top on inside out.” Damn.
My night had not begun well. Little did I know that things were going to take a turn for the worse. During the course of my shift I managed to become a laughing stock - due to my prat-like behaviour in front of our dishy new boss- and I slipped in a puddle of cheese spread. Someone must have spilt it while stacking the shelves. This resulted in my rear end being covered in cheese, while the crate I was carrying landed heavily on top of my foot. Fortunately it was of enough of an excuse to leave work early. All dignity lost I hobbled out of work with a swollen foot that could no longer fit in my shoe, and a cheese smeared backside. Ironic that it was a Monday really. It may have been a consolation, then, to know that it was the last laugh that my colleagues would have at my expense.
I do not clearly remember most of what happened after that. My walk home was a slow one and I was chilled to the bone. The weather had taken a turn for the worse and the rain soaked through my clothes. I remember taking a break from walking on my home- I was sure my foot had doubled in size. I bent down to examine my injured foot when I felt my body being propelled through the air and hitting a wall. After that it went dark. I thought dying would have hurt more than it did. I felt my arm break as I hit the damp wall but it was no more than an ache as I drifted into unconsciousness.
They say my death had been shrouded in mystery and that it was likely that it was not hitting the wall that had killed me so much as landing on the floor awkwardly. At least, that was what had been thought initially. On close inspection it was evident that I had been attacked further; my exposed flesh was covered in deep gashes and what appeared to be bite-marks. My death had been blamed on muggers, yet my parents could not understand why they had left my purse and jewellery behind. When my body was found my skin was so pale it was almost translucent- the life had been sucked out of me; literally it turns out. Not the best way to start a week.
When I woke up dead for the first time I felt the most uncomfortable of aches. It wasn’t excruciatingly painful or anything near as dramatic, but rather the feeling of having being lying down, still, for a very long time. Moving slowly, I made a very quiet moan and made an effort to turn over in what I thought was my bed. You can surely imagine my shock when I found that I was lying in a coffin. On saying that; however, the fabric was more luxurious than that of my bedcovers, which, as I recall, were mainly polyester. Slowly a voice came into focus:
“However prepared we are, death always comes as a shock.” Lying there, in my coffin, I thought that I was being directly addressed by God, or some other deity. Too stunned to move I lay quietly where I was. “Today we have to confront a great loss and come to terms with it.” The booming voice continued. Somewhere in the distance I heard a familiar sniffling, followed by the ‘Crazy Frog’ ring tone and a mumbled apology. I could only deduce that I was attending my own funeral. “It will take some time to adjust but today is a new beginning of our life without her.” Completely petrified I tried to sit up only to bang my head on the top of my coffin.
“Geez!” I never found out who’s idea it was to have a closed casket, but they deserve a hit across the head whoever they were. Even from inside my closed coffin I could hear the sharp inhalations of the people sitting in the pews. The voice, of whom I assumed to be the vicar, continued on:
“From the moment we are born, we are born to die,” I pushed open my coffin and sat up, Dracula style. A few people fainted. I noticed that the vicar had his back to me, probably good luck on his part: he was an elderly gentleman and I may have given him a heart attack. Not that it would matter because apparently people didn’t stay dead for very long.
I put my hand to my neck and gave a low groan. I was as stiff as a plank, which really was to expected: I was dead, after all. “I think we may want a refund.”
The vicar finally turned to me and promptly passed out. Understandable I suppose; how often does a corpse talk to you? Other than that I had no sympathy; I mean, I’d died, I’d say that was slightly more dramatic. The room had, ironically, gone as quiet as the dead. I took the opportunity to look around the room, to my horror I found that I had been brought to the crematorium. I recognised the small room from when my Grandmother had died. My Grandmother was an old crone who had probably wanted to have been cremated just to spite the worms. We had never really gotten on and I didn’t even cry when I had been told that she’d snuffed it. Despite that, my mother and I were back on speaking terms by the time of her funeral and I distinctly remember telling her that I’d rather be buried than cremated. My mother was definitely one to hold grudges and this must have been her way of finally getting revenge. I was not amused and I shot my best “un-death” glare at her; it was slightly satisfying to see her run from the building screaming.
My family was a small one, which consisted of my dad, my mother, my brother and myself. There was also weird uncle Craig from my dad’s side, he liked to talk to sheep. Apart from my grandmother I didn’t know anyone on my mother’s side. I was a daddy’s girl but I’d forcibly cut the apron strings myself a few years ago when I left home- much to my father’s disappointment. My younger brother was away at University most of the time and was still living off daddy’s money; he was probably doing more drinking than learning. We didn’t get on very well before I died and after I died our relationship was pretty much the same. My mother, well, she was something else. She liked to think of herself as a woman of class and substance, interesting while not being a bore. She was as deep as a puddle and I was never sure what my father saw in her. It is with most regret that I recall that she did, in fact, spawn me. Yuck. Though I am most surprised she had children at all. If she could have had her way she would have probably paid for someone else to take care of us permanently, hell, she would have paid for someone to give birth to us and then take care of us afterward. That was the kind of woman she was. I suspect; however, that she complied with Dad’s wishes since he was the one keeping her in the manner to which she had become accustomed. In other words, my dad’s not short of a bob or two.