I died on August 20th, 2013. It was my birthday and I was turning seventeen. According to my mother, that's a big deal. So in celebration of my surviving another year of life, I went camping with a few of my friends. There was Anna, Sarah, Penelope, and Charlie. Though our parents were hesitant about allowing a boy to come, they finally agreed after I reminded them Charlie was gay. All of us were excited, me especially. This would be my first trip away from home that I didn't have any parental supervision or chaperone.

The camp site was beautiful. We had decided against an actual park where we would no doubt run into some disapproving adults, and instead opted for a location in the hills a few miles out of town. It was far enough away that we wouldn't need to worry about keeping the neighbors up, but it wasn't so far that an ambulance would take forever to get to us in an emergency.

After setting up the tent in the small flat land between two hills, we climbed to the top of one to watch the sunset. This hill was layered in tall grass and various flowers, all stretching up like they were trying to reach the sun. There was a river flowing across the hill and plunging down to the bottom into a small but deep pond.

The sunset was everything I'd pictures and more. As an aspiring artist, I wished I could capture the moment on camera, but I knew it would never do it justice. We sat and watched in silence until the yellow ball of light was completely invisible and the pink sky turned to black. Still the five of us waited, for what I'm not sure. But we lay on our backs and carefully observed the sky, watching the brilliantly full moon turn into a bright beacon for the other stars to follow. We continued to observe as the stars followed the moons lead, each blinking on in turn. Finally, when the moon was a pale face watching us from above, and every star peeking at us from behind a black curtain, we managed to look away.

I was being stupid. The others had wanted to go back to camp, to start a fire and roast marshmallows, but I had said no. I went up to the edge, right up to where the river ended and the waterfall began, and there I stood. The others waited in uneasy silence for me to come away from my dangerous spot, but it was only Charlie who spoke.

"Jenson, come back from the edge" he'd ordered me. It was funny, hearing the usually cheerful and care free voice of his so tense and commanding. I didn't even acknowledge that I'd heard him.

"Seriously Jenson, you could fall!" Charlie had warned as if I didn't already know. I'm still not sure what I was doing there, just watching the water pour from the place I stood and tumble to the waiting pond below. For some reason it was fascinating to me, being on the very edge of life and death. But of course I didn't really think the fall could kill me. If I'd truly believed I'd die, I wouldn't have risked it.

"Jenson, please just come back here with us!" Charlie had been begging at this point. Apparently I was scaring them.

"Oh Charlie, the drop won't kill me!" I'd insisted. Then, just to prove my point, I'd jumped. Or maybe I fell? Either way, I'd done it on purpose. I was right, the drop didn't kill me. It actually felt nice, the rush of adrenalin I got when I spread my arms and embraced the rushing air. It was like I was flying. But then the water hit me, pushing me down into the pond. It beat mercilessly on my back, my head, and my legs. I was twisting and turning, not sure where up and down were. I was powerless against the water. But maybe I could've survived that. Maybe, after a few more seconds of torture, I would've surfaced in a calmer part of the water. Maybe I wouldn't have died… if it wasn't for the rocks. I hadn't noticed them before, possibly because we were up so high and they were under the water's surface. But here they were, jagged and pointed and deadly. It was the rocks that cut me and gouged me, the rocks that penetrated my soft shell of skin and bone. The water would push me down into them, they would cut into me, and then the process would restart.

The pain was endless. It was everywhere and everything, taking over as my one and only focus. I didn't even care that I was running out of breath and would soon die. In fact, I think by that point I welcomed death. It had seemed like a good escape from this hell, this agonizing routine of being pushed down and then cut deep.

I'm not sure at what point I truly died, but I did. I know I stopped breathing, I know my heart stilled. I know my body was eventually fished out of the water by someone qualified for that sort of thing, maybe a police officer or a doctor. I know I was pronounced dead, covered in makeup, stuffed in a coffin. I know that my family and friends gathered to see me one last time, to say goodbye. I even know that I was buried next to my grandmother and had a big, black tombstone that read:

"Jenson Adams

August 20th, 1996-August 20th, 2013

Beloved daughter and friend

You will be forever missed"

I know all of these things, I'm sure I could even find proof if I looked hard enough. But if all of that's true, and I know it is, and I'm dead. If I'm buried right next to old grandma Adams who lived until she was 120 before dying in a boating accident, then how come I just woke up in a broom cupboard on a train?