After I died, the first thing I did was scream. I screamed and screamed. I screamed so loudly people around my  body said they heard voices. Even after they left my scream remained, and those touched by my scream ended up in therapy because the screaming just wouldn’t stop. I screamed so sadly, filled with such agony, that those who heard it had a change of heart. Some hugged their families. Some healed old wounds. Others couldn’t handle it. Some died themselves.

After I screamed, the next thing I did was scratch. What the shows tend to forget is that your spirit is a reflection of your body. My body decayed. My skin was gone and I felt insects crawl over my body. Inside my body. I felt each of their tiny feet on my neck. Each creature within all of my crevices. I scratched and scratched and scratched, but the itching remained. The more I think about it, I screamed then too.

After I scratched and screamed, the next thing I did was burn. I should be happy someone found my body. I was finally cremated. However, it is quite hard to be happy when you’re burning. The more I think about it, I screamed then too.

After I burned and screamed, I forgot. It’s hard to remember with a burned brain. Piece by piece my memories left me. I forgot who I was or what I was. I was something, in an unfamiliar place. All around me, things were happening, but what? I don’t know. I couldn’t understand. Imagine for a moment not knowing what you are, who you are, why you are. Imagine simply not knowing. When I knew nothing, there was only one thing to do. I screamed then too.

After I forgot and screamed, I hurt. I saw a little girl. She looked familiar, and that made me angry, for I had forgotten what familiarity was. I screamed and she could hear it. I could see her flinch from the volume. I saw her face sink from the dread. And I saw one more thing. Before she died, the last thing she did was scream.

After I died again, the first thing I did was scream.