I looked, I saw, and I beheld a horse, a pale horse. On a pale horse doth Death ride; he is coming—tripping, stumbling, occasionally falling, swearing at the bumpy ride. On a pale horse doth Death ride, and he hath come for me.
When your heart is drumming out of your chest, ramming itself against its prison of ribs, you think of fear. Of death. Of the stench and stink, of the heavy oppressiveness of the air. Of how you can almost feel someone standing behind you, lifting your loved one out of their body and escorting them to—wherever they go when they die. You think of the dreary funerals, the hatred, the sadness, the grief, all pressing down on an observer like a physical weight. Of the saltiness, tears staining the air and cheeks. Perhaps, you think of the greediness of some people, and you think of the disgusting smell of money, when they run for their inheritance.
When my heart was thrumming like a humming bird's wings, I did not think of any of that. I did not see my life flashing before my eyes. Be a pretty shoddy and short movie, but nonetheless, I saw none of it. I did not say goodbye to my dreams and wishes. I did not say goodbye to my friends, the few that I had. I didn't do any of that.
Perhaps because I have never feared Death. Death has been my friend, my constant companion. "You'll get yours, Potter," they say threateningly in their squeaky little eleven-year-old voices.
Really? Wow. I didn't know that. Although, you might want to try to deepen that, because that didn't sound very threatening. Rather impressive that you made the threat in the first place, but not very threatening.
What were you thinking of, then? you ask.
I was thinking of freedom. I'm a spirit, gravity doesn't have hold over me anymore! Whoo-hoo! I can fly so high I can touch the sky! Except, not really. Since, you know, the sky isn't solid. I was thinking of the comfort of darkness. I was questioning: is the dark warm or cold?
Little, inane things like that.
And then, I died. I was nineteen, just in case you were curious. Kind of like that old Egyptian king fellow, King Tut. Except, he wasn't old. He was nineteen, like me. I've met him, since then. Kind of like a darker-colored version of Draco Malfoy. Arrogant and whiny. Although, I suppose that nobles are just like that.
So when I died, I didn't see my life all over again, I saw a carpet full of raggedy holes. It was a bright, almost sickly green, exactly my eye color. I saw, and then I blinked, because I didn't know that horses came in the slightly-sick snot-green color that this horse was. I looked at an impossible horse. A pale horse walked slowly, scuffing the fabric. An old poem drifted through my mind, and I smiled. I looked, I saw, I beheld a horse. A pale horse, hooves regularly getting caught in the raggedy, holey green carpet. On a pale horse doth Death ride; he is coming—tripping, stumbling, falling occasionally, and swearing at the bumpy ride.
On a pale horse doth Death ride, and he hath come for me.
And then, He stopped. He stopped in front of me. He stopped, and turned towards me silently, and I gave Him a wide grin. A dark eyebrow of His raised, and He held out a hand. I reached up and grasped His hand firmly, and swung myself up behind him.
"I looked and a pale-colored horse appeared. Its rider's name was Death, and Hades came close behind him." –Weymouth New Testament, Revelations 6:8