What would you be wearing?

I have found myself in the clutches of Death three times now. That’s not something I am proud of, but it is something I am completely aware of.  My father has also stood on that very doormat three times, but upon his third knock, Death allowed passage through its threshold.

Isn’t it odd, though? How Death leaves its stench when you stand in the same room?

My recent car accident left my leg dislocated and disgusting. The hospital said they sedated me to put it back in place, but strange things happened. I awoke in a dark room, gasping for air, and yelling that someone was chasing me. The only woman left in the room (from a crowd that was there) calmed me and had me taking deep breaths. Later, someone informed me that I’d stopped breathing for 2-3 minutes. I just stopped. Not held my breath. I stopped. Everyone behaved as if it were normal, so at the time, so did I. The first night, I was on so many machines, I was hoping to become bionic. Sore, bruised, and confused I didn’t think much of the heart monitor and the overnight stays.

Now that I have recovered greatly, a couple of things were on mind: I remember what happened when I was “under,” and at least I would’ve been wearing nice clothes and clean underwear like mom always warned me to do. When I had to identify my dad’s body, he was wearing what he always wore–white, coffee stained shirt with the collar cut so it wouldn’t feel like it choked him. His hair was still long and a mess, although the last time I saw him, I fussed at him to get it cleaned up. That was a hard day. The hardest so far.

There really isn’t a point to this blog. No soulful inspiration. Just my slightly morbid thinking while I am folding laundry. Which shirt would I not mind relinquishing to my demise? Why does it matter? Dark days for me lately. And to think, it’s almost my birthday.

Published by

Erika Damn Castle!

I've always been told that I'm an adventurous girl and I cannot deny any of it. I would love to see the world and experience all of the stories it has to tell me. I am a child of the arts, developing my senses in music, painting, sketching, crafting, et cetera. But writing... it was a talent I believe I was born with. I'm not saying I'm an amazing (grammatically correct) author, just that I'm a natural storyteller. I can remember from the time that I learned how to read and write, I was eager to create my own world. I would scribble out tons of poems and short stories, then forcibly share them with my family (or even with my classmates). One of those stories resulted in the creation of this blog. Black Tears. As a child with an already wild imagination, I would always have these equally crazy dreams. One of those dreams was so vivid, that I awoke in the middle of the night and jotted down everything I could remember. From that point, the dream evolved into a poem, then a short story, and then to a complete story. It is the fruit of my 20 year procrastinating labor, and has been published into a book (the first of its series). Tune in to stay updated on the growth of myself as an author and the series. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have loved creating it! XX , Erika

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