I don't remember, but I've been told that the day before I woke up, I was dead. I went back one day to see what it was that had happened to me: yellow walls, tile flooring covered in mold and dirt, and a white marble table in the middle of the room covered in blood. This is where I was when I was sent to my death. At least, that's what I was told. I'm sure they never imagined I would actually go back to see what it was that had happened to me. If they had, they'd never have told me where it was that I was killed.
I have no recollection of anything that happened to me before the day I woke up; the day I came to lying in a hospital bed after a coma that lasted a year. I didn't know my family, friends, or the things they told me I had loved before. I only loved one thing: the feeling of being awake. I was an insomniac after awakening, spending my days poking around my room looking for things that might've sparked a memory in me of something, anything that from before that day.
It was long after that I found the first set of remnants from the past: the diary. It was a diary well-hidden. I was surprised I was even able to find it. I was apparently very good at hiding things that I didn't want others to find. It was only fitting that I was the one to find it. I opened it in hopes to find out what kind of person I was before. I hoped I had been someone good; someone who made a difference. I opened the diary to find I really had made a difference. Whether or not I had been 'good' was another story:
"Tonight was a strange night to say the least. Well, it was more a perplexing night than anything else. I didn't think it would be so hard for him to do the job and do it right. I was surprised when he told me he was having difficulties with the job. He never did. He was haunted with the memory of being shot the first time. I got a call from him a bit ago saying he was afraid he'd be shot again."
"He never made it. I got a call from our client claiming he had never reached the meeting. I'm scared something happened to him. He's reliable, and things like this just don't happen."
"We went out earlier today hoping to find him. We pretty much tore the entire town up looking for him. We searched alleys, dumpsters, crack houses, and junkyards in hopes that maybe we would find him passed out somewhere. We weren't so lucky. We found him in a dumpster not too far away, naked and dead."
I kept on reading, wondering what this all meant.
"Him being shot executioner style made me realize why I had quit the business in the first place. We had to bury him--and fast. The only place that would do was the woods. So we offered him up to whatever God we believed in and hoped that maybe he would sleep peacefully knowing that his family--the family that cared for him--had watched him move on."
The thoughts that danced about my head, plaguing me as I rolled these ideas around in my mind, continued to haunt me in my sleep that night. I only continued reading the following morning.
"I got another call today. Apparently they're after us again. There's no knowing what they could want from us, but I have no choice but to take action and rejoin the trade for at least another few days. We're all meeting up at an abandoned old warehouse a fellow tradesmen knows of. He said we'll all talk about it and make a battle plan there."
I knew then what warehouse she was referring to immediately: the one where I was found, dead and bruised over a year ago. The one that left me lifeless on a sterile bed for a year. Was it the friend that I talked about in the diary entry who had led me there to be killed? Was it that person who pushed me down on that table and did whatever it was that was done to me? Would I ever know?
Would I ever be satisfied not knowing?
I flipped back toward the beginning of the diary, hoping to find more about myself buried in its pages.
"A special friend of mine called today. I don't really like it when a friend becomes a client, but it really can't be helped. Marcus will be doing the delivery some time this month as his first job alone. I used to be the one to go with him, but I have gotten too busy and don't really like the job as much anymore."
The dead boy's name was Marcus. He had no family and died naked in a dumpster and was buried in the woods. I wondered if it was painful and how it was I came to be involved with these people. Again, I set the diary to rewind as I began to go backward in the film that was my past life.
"I haven't really written in a while. That was because I finally busted my way into the industry. The money is good and I enjoy doing the work I do. The only issue is coming up with some excuse for the times I'm gone and the smokiness in the basement."
In my mind I began to piece together the life I'd had before. I was involved in so many underground things I couldn't even comprehend anymore. This wasn't the life I now wanted or the life I wanted to know I had before. I shut the diary, refusing to look at the faded, old cover that had a film of dust atop it.
I knew I had to get rid of it. I had to get rid of the life I had had, and the only way I could fully destroy it would be to destroy the diary. I would burn it just as I had burned those substances in a time long ago; a time I couldn't remember. Before I could let myself burn it, I took the time to pray for the girl who had died a year ago. That girl would never, ever be back the same as I assumed I could never become her. I was not the girl I was. I was a new person, with a brand new life.
I searched my room, knowing there had to be a lighter somewhere. Finally finding one, I held the diary over the metal trash can, watching as it set fire and fell deep into the can. The girl who once was had been completely wiped away. I couldn't tell if I felt fullness or emptiness as it turned wholly to ashes. And as I stared into the blackened remnants of the book, I wondered:
Now that I'm dead, what am I going to do with my life?
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Writer Selbe
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