It's the grayest day of February and I'm standing outside of a beautiful building. The rain is pouring down in cold, cruel droplets, but I refuse to step under the deep green awning, let alone walk through the door beneath it. I knew what was in there; it's no news to me. Anyone who hadn't had a lobotomy could figure it out. One look at the crammed parking lot and procession of people beneath the awning and you'd know that something big was going on. No one would know for certain what it is until he or she looked at the whit block print on the deep green fabric draped over a metal frame.
Grant's Funeral Home, that's what it says. This place is this little suburban town's only glimpse of death. Small Town, USA isn't exactly interested in dealing with morbid things like that. What kind of normal person really is interested in death?
So here I stand, people in black from head to toe pushing past me while every fiber of my being wants to run away from the gruesome sight in there. But I refuse to budge, not until I muster up the courage to walk through those doors. If I don't go in there I know that I'll regret it for the rest of my time on Earth.
The scent of pizza drifts into my nose and a flood of memories rush into my mind. This microtown had become my home three years ago. I was a lawyer fresh out of law school with big city dreams, but a small town reality. This was the only place where I could even dream of getting a job simply because I couldn't afford a better place to earn my degree than a school that has almost no major, let alone successful, graduates. Eva Wallor was the only person who was willing to give a green lawyer a chance.
Her firm wasn't exactly my dream place of work, but it became like home soon enough. The firm originally consisted of her and her husband. To Mr. Wallor, I was like the new neighbor's annoying little kid. He never did get used to me. Eva made up for it with good pay, plenty of advice, and abundant home cooked meals like pizza. Those memories were the other reason I haven't walked through the door yet. I don't want to see her cry. That would just rip me up inside.
Quickly, I push the thought from my mind. The last thing I want is to get choked up and run away from the funeral home. I begin concentrating on the door. Who would have thought that walking through a threshold could be so . . . hard. Somehow, I manage collect enough courage to step out of the downpour and into the funeral parlor.
The sickening scent of old flowers fills my nose, but I keep walking. Nothing is going to keep me away from that casket. Desperate to get this over with, I push my way through the crowd of familiar faces. With one great excursion of force, I find myself standing before the coffin. It's of normal size, maple wood and lined with pure cream colored satin.
The body within is all too familiar. She's dressed in a gorgeous pale yellow dress with a silver medal of Saint Peter hanging from her neck. Her curly black hair flows gracefully over her bare shoulders and her pallid complexion gives her dark skin an eerie look. Her peaceful face is looking back at me just as it did all of my life. I'd never looked so beautiful before. Sad isn't it? I look better after dying from arsenic poisoning than I did at any other point in my life.
A hand suddenly wraps around my wrist. I know who it is. No living person knows that I'm the same person as the girl in the coffin. Every part of me appears as the exact opposite than it did when I actually had a body.
"Are you ready to go?" the voice whispers in my ear.
I nod sadly. With a wave of his hand we disappear in a puff of black rose petals. My task is complete. My soul can rest now that I have viewed myself after death. It was the only way I could cross the door between worlds before the police find out who murdered me.