There's nothing special about it, really. Dying, I mean.
You always hear it, right? About your life flashing before your eyes, and the white light that's supposed to greet you.
It's nothing as flashy as that. You don't see your life again; don't understand every moment with perfect clarity; don't understand what you should have done instead, what led you to this point. I'm not interested in a replay anyways. There are some things that are painful, even as memories.
And there's definitely no white light that is the telltale sign of Heaven or anything like that.
The moments before death... It's like everything is blurry, except, that clarity, the one that doesn't appear when your life doesn't flash before your eyes, it's there, in that miniscule instant before you die. That's when everything goes dark, instead of going white. When everything just ends, like blacking out or falling asleep.
But maybe I can't compare my deaths and miraculous awakenings to those of normal people. For all I know your memories could flash before your eyes. You could have that moment of insight, of clarity. For all I know there could be a white light, there could be a sign of Heaven. Maybe everything about my way of dying is wrong. It wouldn't surprise me.
And then I wonder: If I can't die... do I just live forever? I don't want that. I don't want this. I don't want to be special. Not in this way, and definitely not to him.
I'm Claire Bennet, and this is attempt number thirty-four.