Author's Note: This is actually a new chapter, roughly seven years after originally posting Out of Place. Hard to believe, isn't it? For those of you who haven't looked at this story in about that long, I've actually gone back and refurbished every one of the chapters. Thus, this one serves to alert you that there is now a much better story posted here, and I implore you to give it a new read. I've resolved many of the plot issues and awkward, abrupt writing that I tended to do when I was a young teen. This update further serves to put this on the radar of those seeking Final Destination fics, considering republishing chapters that already existed does not pull your story up the list. This is by no means advancing to the plot, since it's an epilogue, but it will give a bit more closure and hopefully answer any questions you may have left. Thank you so much for joining me on this adventure, and I hope to see you again on a future fic!
Out of Place
Epilogue: Bereavement
Matt stared intently at the screen before him, his eyes having already lost their last shreds of warmth hours earlier. Sleep tugged at them, but he refused to allow them a break until he had finished. Alas, he was content that his work was finally complete.
The document that had been open before him since he'd entered the room now stood at over eighty pages, packed full of his own words. The first sections had been the easiest for him to blast out; he found they'd been completed in only a couple of hours. They were filled with every bit of information he had been able to gather about any of the topics a future visionary might have—the order of Death, the way it would give survivors months of peace and almost make them feel safe…
Matt stopped for a minute when that thought creeped into his head. He'd done his best to make those sections as purely informational as he could, but it was nigh impossible to keep emotions out of the picture. Eight of your friends are dead.
Another section had been everything he, Clear, and Kimberly could possibly remember about espers from what they'd read and their memories of surviving their own incidents. That section had been much easier on Matt, considering every esper that he'd met was still alive. He had admittedly been a little disappointed that he probably wouldn't be able to learn anything else about why he and his friends shared that power, but he figured it was better than having to hear of another visionary thrown into a situation where they would spend the rest of their lives suffering. Kimberly had promised him that she would commit as much of her research to learning about consciousness-jumping as she could. He hadn't told her at the time, though, but he doubted anyone would be able to use those powers to cheat Death's design entirely.
Finally, though, was the bulk of his work. He had surrendered himself to sleep only once since starting, and that was a short way into writing the essence of his work. As his eyes read over his description of everything that had happened to him and his friends in the week following the subway disaster, he felt a chilly grip around his heart again. The ending, though, about what had happened on the beach to Kyle, was the worst to relive. Everyone had been so certain that Death had been beaten, but there was no sense denying the truth. After Matt had pushed Kyle out of the way, Tyler had needed to save Briana, thus putting Matt next up. However, he must have never officially died, and being rushed to the hospital by his friends must have counted as skipping him, since Tyler was next again. Though Matt wanted to be grateful he hadn't lost two friends that day, he got the shivering feeling he wouldn't be seeing much of Tyler again anyway.
Finally, he had come upon his departing words, a short letter to whoever might end up reading his work. "From the bottom of my heart, best of luck. We deserved so much better than this." The sound of his writing from his own mouth did little to rouse him, so he simply saved the file, then emailing it to Kimberly. She'd know better who needed it, he figured. Thus, with nothing left to do, he slipped the laptop shut and slid it under the pristine white bed. As he stared up at soft, white walls and a clean, white ceiling, he wondered how the others would get by without him.
Fingering the band around his wrist in minutes of fruitless thought, he prayed he'd never meet another soul in the position he had so recently been in himself. "No escapes…" he whispered, before the need for sleep finally overtook him.
END
