My first thought upon waking was that maybe I was dead. It wasn't until much later that I realised how accurate that initial, intuitive and seemingly irrational notion was. It popped into my consciousness as soon as consciousness itself appeared. It made no sense. It was based upon no reason. It was just there.

I must be dead.

And as quickly as it had come, the thought was gone again, and my eyes are opened.

The casket waits there at the end of the aisle, white and wreathed in flowers, calla lilies arching like small, soft trumpets from their greenery. The lid closed up tight, of course, an open casket wasn't permitted.

I slide into the nearest pew and close my eyes. How did this happen? Is it possible to go back through the weeks, months, years even, to trace out some pattern of inevitability, some evidence of a chain of events well beyond my ability to change or control?

The music starts, majestic pipe organ chords fill every conceivable space. There is a crack of old wood as someone settles beside me on the pew. A man, wearing a beige trench coat. I know him well. He's flipping through a booklet and as he closes it and prepares to stand with the rest of the shuffle-footed congregation I gasp as I see the back cover, see her, head tilted to one side with that smile I know so well, lips parted to reveal the merest glimmer of teeth. Her eyes bright green, wide open and almost iridescent against the pale, lightly freckled skin of her face. Her hair, all the colour of a rich, dark wine.

When was it taken, how long ago? A year at least, more likely two; there's none of the gauntness that stole over her in recent months, no hint of the panicked shade of madness. So, two years then, yes. Right about the time I found him or, rather, the time he found me.

I close my eyes and when I open them again I'm standing on a beach. Small, ash-coloured pebbles crunch beneath my feet instead of sand, and the water is a grubby, washed-out grey. Behind me, tall cliffs rise to a cloudy sky. It's beautiful, in its own stark way. A bitter wind whips my face and I shove my hands deep into the pockets of the coat I'm wearing. Dark blue, it smells of smoke.

The place is deserted, lacking even the familiar screech of seagulls, and I have no idea how I got here. A steep, narrow path winds up the sides of the cliffs and I suppose I must have come down that way, but why am I here in the first place? And where is here anyway?

'Ireland.'

The man from the funeral is standing beside me. 'The wind is a killer, isn't it? Strange, the things you remember.'

'Am I dreaming this?'

He pauses a moment to consider. 'In a way. But it's more than that. Right now we're somewhere between dream and a memory. Not really asleep, not fully awake – at least, you're not.'

Why here, I want to know. Why bring me here?

'It's peaceful,' he adds. 'Don't you think?'

'It's cold.'

'Yes,' and he turns. 'We can go somewhere else, if you like.'

Abruptly, the wind stops and I find myself inside a small, dingy room. Not much to speak of by way of furnishings: a single mattress wedged in the corner topped up by a mess of crumpled blankets, books stacked up against the walls, a couple of wooden chairs and table, it's scarred surface littered with paints and brushes and turpentine-filled jars, even a half-eaten sandwich. My home. In the centre of the room, an easel supports an unfinished canvas, a self-portrait, all angles and sharp lines: Picasso meets car crash. I pick up a wet brush and smear a messy line across the canvas, cutting across my face.

'Why did you do that?' the man asks.

'It was ugly.' I turn to face him. 'Why did you bring me here?'

'You wanted to come here,' he replied. 'You can be anywhere you want to be. I'll show you how. We can use your memories if you like.'

'Why would I want to be here?' I've done nothing in my life worth revisiting – being trapped in my past would be worse than living a nightmare.

'Then tell me what you do want.'

'I want to sleep. Not be dragged down memory lane.'

'You can sleep when you're dead.'

'I thought I was.'

'Remember what you've been offered, Fallon. It's more than others would get.'

I'm laughing. Honestly, what did I think would happen? I haven't the slightest clue how any of this works. 'Are you referring to my new found status as a glorified zombie? Should I accept, of course.'

'I can leave you here, you realise. Take it all away except the void.'

The expression on his face as he leaves the room is indecipherable. The door closes behind him, but not before I catch a glimpse of the dark-ended hallway beyond, long and narrow.

'Wait.' Following close at his heels, opening the door to…nothing. A colour undefinable: not black, not white, but both and yet neither. I turn back to the room only to find that it's vanished too, replaced by the same rolling shadows of non-colour, the same dimensionless void. Only the doorframe I'm holding on to retains any sort of substance and I sink slowly to my knees, frightened of losing my balance on the thin strip of wood which is all that remains of the floorboards.

Pressing myself close against the frame, I focus on the wood, the chips and the scratches and the two deeply engraved letters someone has carved there with a knife.

DW. His initials – some imagined element or an actual memory?

'Where do you want to be, Tessa?'

His voice is everywhere and nowhere, inside my head and out of it as well.

'Stop it, Castiel. Please.'

'Do you want me to leave you here?'

'No!' Shrieking the word, hating the panic in my voice but unable to contain it. To be left with nothing…I've never been more terrified.

'You will do as I instruct?'

Afraid of what horror my refusal might unleash, I nod. 'Yes, I'll do it.'

My fingers are no longer just grasping the door frame but digging into it, sinking through like it's clay. The void swirls all around me but somehow I'm not falling. Then something pulls at me, a soft insistent tugging and my name is being called, faint at first and far away but growing stronger and more commanding. Not Castiel, but another voice altogether, foreign and unrecognisable, the voice of the void maybe as it threatens to tear me apart, dissolve me into itself, and I open my mouth to scream, to affirm my very existence until the very last-

They say when you die you're whole life flashes before your eyes, from birth to death. This is true. So it came as no surprise that when you're brought back, it' the opposite. Like someone hit the rewind button. I don't know exactly how far back Castiel is taking me but the void finds me again, the giant colourless mouth gaping open and I moan, too exhausted to fight it any longer, squeezing my eyes shut as it moves slowly over to swallow me whole.

Something wet and icy cold hits me, the shock so sudden that I open my eyes. Castiel stands over me, the empty jug in his hand still dripping from the rim.

'I saw it on an episode of I love Lucy,' he starts to explain. 'Sorry.' It was clear he spoke with false concern.

There is no sensation whatsoever outside my own body and I hug my knees close to my chest, right hand clutching left wrist, feeling for the beat of my pulse. Nothing.