My SUV revs at a good speed as it climbs the mountain’s roads, winding around perilous curves, driving me further into the darkness—literally and figuratively speaking. I’ve never seen night as dark as it is here in the mountains. It’s almost consuming, and oddly, it doesn’t bother me. It’s funny how the mind works sometimes. I’ve spent the last six years scared and alone. Not scared of the dead, ironically, but scared my life belonged to them, that I will never have it back. But tonight, I made a decision. Tonight, I will take my life back. I will have control. A numbness settles over me, and my mind is blank. And that’s how I know I’ve made the right decision. When my 4Runner begins to sputter, the motor working overtime around the remaining gas fumes, I steer it toward the side of the road. I have a hundred dollars to my name hidden in my glove box, but I don’t need money where I’m going. Whoever finds the SUV first can have it. Leaving the headlights on, I walk, shivering, numb to my soul with a darkness I can’t find my way out of. This isn’t a life—it’s a nightmare. A never-ending torment of death and servitude. And the pain has become too much to bear.
I don’t meander far when I find myself on a bridge where a large river runs underneath it; the water is raging, angry with all the rain. Walking to the middle, I let my hand glide along the wet railing and stare down at the water, wondering what it would be like to jump in, to let the water drag me down and take me away from this life—this nightmare.
This too shall pass, I repeat to myself over and over, but the words have lost their magic, and their hold on me. Maybe all of this time I’ve thought of those words as my lifeline when really, all they’ve been is a weight shackled to my ankle, slowly dragging me under, keeping me from finding real peace. This will never pass. I will always belong to the dead and because of that, I will never truly live.
It’s time to just let go.
Being in limbo sucks. All you do is watch your loved ones suffer and have no ability to help them. My parents seem to be okay, for the most part. My little brother, too. But it’s George I worry about. Most siblings are close, but being twins creates a bond normal siblings could never understand. We’d been best friends since day one.
And now, I’m dead.
“Yes, Ma. I’ll be home Sunday for dinner.” He pauses. “No, I’m not drunk,” George assures my mother over the phone. He isn’t lying. He’s not drunk—not yet anyway.
“No, Ma! He’s just a fucking drug addict high on cocaine!” I shout, even though neither of them can hear me. It’s a good thing, too; if she ever heard me drop the f-bomb, she’d whip my ass.
I can’t hear what my mother is saying to George from the other end, but I can hear her muffled cries over the phone. “I know, Ma. I miss him, too.” He covers his eyes with his free hand, a pained expression taking hold of his features.
“Shit, George,” I breathe. I hate seeing him like this.
“I gotta go, Ma. I love you.” He hits end on the screen of his cell and plops down on the sofa. The glass coffee table in front of him is covered with white residue, a bag of coke, his wallet, and empty beer bottles. George leans forward and picks up a framed photo of me in uniform, from the day I graduated from basic training. He stares at the photo for a long moment before setting it down gently. Sliding off the sofa onto his knees, he pulls his license from his wallet. Within seconds, he’s separating a rock of coke into three small lines. After putting his license back in his wallet, he takes a dollar bill out and rolls it tightly, then uses it to snort the first line.
“George!” I yell. “Jesus, man. Why are you doing this to yourself?” But it’s pointless because he can’t hear my words of concern.
I can’t watch anymore. Besides, I know that whore, Misty, is on her way over and seeing him with her disgusts me. My brother is obviously a mess, mourning my loss, and she’s taking full advantage of it, bringing him drugs, snorting them with him as long as he’s paying, and then they fuck, even though she has a boyfriend who would beat the shit out of George if he ever found out.
I vanish and reappear about half a mile from Anioch Bridge, just outside of town. George and I used to come here when we were kids and we’d fish; those are some of my favorite memories. As I walk toward the bridge in the blackness of the night, I hear the water from the Jackson River raging. The rain has been heavy here the last few days, and the water levels are high. I envy the river. It moves, flows, and keeps going. Unlike me. I’m stuck, trapped by my own need to fix something I can do nothing about.
I died almost ten months ago, and that whole ‘white light’ people talk about is bullshit. At first, I didn’t realize I was dead. Actually, I thought I was dreaming; somehow I was home with my mother and father, but when I tried to speak to them, they didn’t hear me or even respond. It didn’t take long before they received the call notifying them I’d been killed by an IED in Afghanistan.
Shock was all I felt as everyone fell apart with the news. At that point, I thought it was a nightmare; I’d wake up at any moment next to my buddy, Sniper, in our barracks and we’d bullshit about one thing or another. But that never happened. Instead, I’ve been forced to watch my family mourn my passing, unable to offer them any comfort. George has been spiraling out of control since I died, and I can’t bear to see him like this. I know, without a doubt, he’s what’s anchoring me here, keeping me from moving on to whatever lies ahead.