After I Died

by Victoria Wiswell


After I nearly died or did die, depending on whom you ask, everything seemed new again, at least for a bit. You felt it, too. So much so that you broke from your stoic silence and spoke. "I want to start over. Things will be different. I will be different," you said, leaning your elbows against the cool metal rail of the hospital bed, awkwardly grasping my hands in yours. 

Drunk on the tonic of a second chance, bolstered by the hubris of thwarting death, I believed in the impossible. I believed in you. And it wasn’t a mistake. Your words bore truth, for a while at least. But as the days passed and it became clear I was likely to stay among us—that it wasn't yet my time to fall into the abyss of whatever lay beyond our last breath, your promise lost its shine. Your proclamation’s chrome finish was soon rubbed dull by the rough, relentless texture of our old habits. 

Within a month of my resurrection, we were back at it—throwing words like knives. Cutting flesh like surgeons. Hovering inconsolable over each loss. In a rare moment of calm, I caught your eye and saw you possessed the acute pain of a knowledge I, too, had gained: death is not the worst way to lose someone.

For months after we forged on, rising each day determined to honor the illusion we had agreed to make manifest. Only to drop each night onto the hard springs of our lacking. Lying side by side, wordless and separated by the rising wall of our disaffection. 

With hands held and swords drawn, we bravely inched deeper into the covenant of our failure. Until only our heads remained—bobbing precariously above the surface—both knowing what was coming next.

I don’t remember who slipped below first, you or me. I only remember the day the water was too deep and my limbs too tired. I expected to be sad—even afraid. Instead, a strange alacrity filled my belly. 

But still, what remained wasn’t easy. Before I could give in to the giving way, before I could drop your hand and drift into the airless space where only the dead can breathe, I had to look at you one last time. I had to see your face. I had to smile.