So this is what “normal” people feel It makes me feel angry It makes me feel sad It makes me feel pity for myself What I missed out when I was tuning myself out of this world

I just wanted to feel happy It felt like chasing a bus that departed its stop Even though I swear it wasn’t there the whole time I was waiting

Now that I have it All it took was a pill I’m no longer numb

Are you afraid to die? Well, you should be. 'Cause once you die, it's not heaven or hell. Not even sweet nothingness the non-believers assume.

Here's what will happen.

The first few moments of death are the best. The feeling of losing all your sensation one by one, it's blissful. Perfect. Your entire life flashes before your eyes ultra-condensed in a few seconds. Then there comes total blackness that could have lasted for a few seconds or a few years, I don't know. But when this comes, hold on to this feeling as much as you can because right after this...

"Time of death, 13:06," the nurse announced. I could hear all of those very clearly, the shuffling of the tools, the footsteps, and oddly, the steady long beep of a flat line.

An intern was sobbing at the corner. Apparently, this was the first time someone died during his shift. Except I wasn't dead. I tried to comfort him, along with his colleagues telling him that that was something you have to stomach on a daily basis as a worker in the hospital. But no words came out of my lips. I couldn't move anything. Not even my eyes which were wide open and unblinking and seemingly fixed to a single point at the ceiling.

I realized that I wasn't even breathing. And as if on cue, my chest began hurting. Like I was constantly drowning, gasping for air. But I can't seem to j u s t d i e. Hell, I didn’t even spasm involuntarily. I just lay there still, internally screaming in pain as each of my nerve endings fire back to life, relishing every bruise, wound, and broken bone from the car crash that killed me moments ago.

They then covered me in white sheet. If my heart was beating at that moment, it would have accelerated. Because I knew what would happen next, where they would take me.

I was bound to be embalmed alive.

"Stop," I wanted to scream at them. "There has to be something wrong. I'm not dead!" Panic rose up my chest as they brought me to the morgue. Still, no words, not even a single breath, escaped my lifeless but fully conscious lips. Pain increased as each second passed by that I was not taking a breath. And I thought for a moment that maybe, being embalmed alive would indeed mercifully end this misery, that I'd be truly dead and not be in this unimaginably horrible state of being totally aware of everything, yet paralysed.

But I was wrong. The entire process, I felt everything. Right from discreetly sewing my lips and eyelids shut to keep them asleep-looking, down to draining my blood, disemboweling me, and replacing all my bodily fluids with embalming liquid. Everything.

At that point, as the mortician dressed me up in an uncomfortably itchy fabric, I accepted my atrocious fate. I was in an existential nightmare. I can't die. I won’t die.

The funeral afterwards was a breeze. The lamentations I longed to hear from loved ones when I was alive, they sounded muffled and inaudible through the closed coffin. But still, the thoughts and sincerity were there. This eternal agony was temporarily relieved by the numbness from the embalming fluid in my veins and the rigor mortis setting in.

However, real hell begins when you're down there six feet underground. Eventually, the chemicals wore off. It started with an itchy crawling sensation just under the skin, then it became the searing hot painful feeling of my body decomposing. I felt every crawling insect, worm, or whatever they are gnawing through my flesh for god knows how long. All the while I could do nothing but cry internally, and wonder what bad things did I do in my life to deserve this torment.

I don’t know if everyone else who died went through this, or for how long. Or if it was maybe just me. And how about those who were cremated? Would they remain conscious of every single whiff of their ash, the same way I somehow know—and feel—each part of me decomposed, eaten by worms, and is now going back to earth? How could we have known? No one ever came back from being this dead to tell the tale. Once it’s your time, you’ll just know.

What began as a terrible day for me turned out to change my life forever, for the better.

It was a rainy afternoon. I just got out of my office, a publishing house. I was working there as an accountant. But since I also have an affinity for writing, I was also part-time working as a novice author, writing a manuscript for a novel that, hopefully, my colleagues from the new stories department would soon be interested in publishing. I was about to give up that day. After several revisions, the head editor finally decided to tell me just now that they wouldn’t be interested in taking my work anymore. He tried taking me down not-so-gently, telling me that my writing was not that terrible, it’s just that the premise of my story wasn’t, to be honest, really interesting.

I kind of agree with them. After all, that novel was just a collection of my daydreams. It was a story of my life if fate had better plans for me, if there were choices I took differently, or if I had more opportunities available for me. A glimpse into a parallel universe where I was happier and more successful. When I was young, my mother told me that I had a twin, who she left in foster care as she couldn’t support both of us. I had been thinking of that ever since, what his life could have been like. Sure, it is interesting for me, as it is all I think about in my mundane life. But that may not translate well to the readers.

I made my way into a random coffee shop. Not really a fan of coffee because of my intolerance, but I thought I needed the ambiance to clear my head after such a bad day.

I ordered a cup of hot chocolate from a tall, twinky, blond-haired barista. “Adrian”, his name tag reads. All the while, he was smiling to me in a more than customer-friendly way, while lightly giggling and tapping his cashier partner. It bothered me a bit, but I chose to ignore it.

“One hot chocolate for Sir…” he trailed off dramatically, while drawing small hearts on the cup with a Sharpie. “Jacob?” He tried to guess. Well, that was random.

“Jeremy.”

He and his partner looked at each other said at the same time, “JEREMYYY.” And then he seemed to collect himself again and calmly, professionally, asked me to take a seat while I wait for my order.

Weird. Very weird. He’s cute. Definitely my type. But that interaction was really, totally weird.

When he gave me my hot chocolate later on, he seemed really nervous. His cashier friend from his station cheered him on, for whatever reason.

“Sir Jacob, I might lose my job for this,” he paused and gulped, “but it will be totally worth it so… Can I have your autograph, please?” And with that he held out a book to me.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” I responded annoyed. Not today please, not when my manuscript just got turned down. And with a slightly more raised tone, I said, “And why do you keep on calling me Jacob?”

“I’m sorry… You’re really not… Jacob Andres?”

“WHO?” I wanted to say a lot more, but aside from it being weird and already having a terrible day before that, I was starting to feel sorry for him, too.

“I’m sorry again, you must have just looked very much alike.” With teary eyes, he opened the book he was earlier holding out to the page where it shows the author.

“Holy. Forking. Shirtballs.” I exclaimed incoherently. The author, Jacob Andres, looked very much indeed like me. A much refined, with better skin care, photographically enhanced, successful writer version of me. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Can I borrow this for a sec?”

I read the blurb of the book. It was a romance novel about an accountant and aspiring writer named… Jeremy.

Who just got his novel rejected so he went to a… coffee shop.

And met his love interest… Adrian.

Adrian. I almost did not notice him as he sat across the table from me while I got lost in the premise of this novel. A glimpse into my life, from the other end of the twin connection.

“Hey,” I began to reach his hand, “Don’t spoil the ending for me, ok?”

I woke up almost out of breath, with beads of sweat across my forehead. I had a horrible nightmare. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the usual swirl of dark shapes and ghostly faces and splattered blood. These dreams used to fuel the artwork of my waking hours. People call my art demented, depraved, and plainly insane. I just painted them how I saw them in my mind’s eye. But for the first time today, I saw what they meant, and I felt really scared.

I was alone in my cell. I felt the coldness rushing in. Memories started recollecting on how I ended up in this institution. Then the tears started to form, and as they grow heavy, they fell. I didn’t understand. Why was I crying? Was that how it felt like to be… sad? Remorseful? Guilty?

This was what the persecutors were hoping I’d feel. So did the relatives of my… victims.

Growing up, I was a golden boy, a genius, prodigy. For generations, ever since the curse affected my homeland, every child was born with some sort of disability. Usually, they will be either born blind, deaf, or cripple. But they will most likely grow out of it once they turn 18, as the curse dictates. This, however, was not the case for me. I was born without those conditions. My eyesight was perfect, if not a bit nearsighted from all the late-night reading. My hearing, I learned to play the piano at the age of 4. My body, tip-top shape from being active in sports. With that, I excelled in whatever I put my mind into. Without needing to go through the years learning how to live with a disability, and more years re-adjusting to the “normal”, adult life, I was able to achieve what most people do in their late 20s.

I was the hope my people saw, the sign that the curse will soon be over. That soon, babies will be born “normal” again. Until they finally discovered what was ultimately wrong with me.

The signs started showing when I was 13. We had this huge aquarium in our classroom. One day, curiosity seemed to have just got the best of me. I was thinking, how long it would take for the fishes to die outside water? So I drained the aquarium and watched nonchalantly as how each fish flopped around and, one by one, stopped. A classmate who was deaf saw me. While draining the aquarium, I apparently did not notice that one fish escaped and was still flopping on the floor. She begged me, in sign language, to save it. Instead, I squished it with my foot. And let me tell you, the deaf kids have the loudest and most guttural-sounding cries.

I committed one atrocity after another, one getting worse and criminal after the last. From small animals, to something bigger… and then to tormenting the disabled kids.

What finally got me locked in this juvenile mental facility was when… I burned down an orphanage for blind kids. I wondered how long before they recognize the flames if they couldn’t see it, and how they’ll manage to escape. Ten kids died that night. More if they weren’t saved by that one who just turned 18 that night. Imagine being greeted by the flames when he opened his eyes for the first time.

Today on my 18th birthday, I felt all these emotions crashing down on me. It was like my first time having a heart, evident by the tightening feeling on my chest. I couldn’t stop my eyes from crying, the first time I ever did. It was the first time I also felt… joy, delayed from all those years I had been just a timid, emotionless child. But this tiny bit of sweetness just made all the remorse and guilt and menace feel even more bitter.

They were right, my disability was that I severely, criminally, lacked empathy. And all sort of real emotion, for that matter.

Today, as an 18 year-old being “normal” for the first time, I will be tried as an adult for my crimes.

Have you ever attended a funeral of someone you barely know?

Before I came here, I didn't know him, to be honest, aside from his name-which might have been fake in the first place. I barely knew what he looked like. I mean, the pictures he sent me looked starkly different from the face behind the coffin glass.

I only came here to know the truth. I guess I wanted to affirm myself that I wasn't being ghosted—the urban dictionary meaning, but I guess the literal meaning applied now. When I first heard of his untimely death, I couldn't believe it. A whole life of having social anxiety, I initially thought this was one elaborate prank. Or at least a lame asshole excuse for chickening out of the first time we would have supposed to meet. I waited for a few hours on our rendezvous. And when I thought I wasted enough time and self-respect, I left and thought that was the end of it. But then I received that call from the police. Apparently, I was the last contact of the "body" -a hot one at that-who might be a homicide victim. But being confirmed later on that he simply died of heart attack ruled that out, and the fact that we never even met got me off the hook.

It was a solemn event. It seems that he was a man with a tight-knit family. One that has several groups of friends, too. I felt alone. Of course, I didn't personally know anyone. There were a few familiar faces, some I might have historically known from hooking up too. The gay world is a small world, after all. I began questioning why I even went there in the first place.

As they lowered the casket underground and started casting flowers down his way, I was about to leave. A voice called out to me, "Hey." I turned to face a man who was perhaps his brother—he looked similar enough, but younger. "You're Ryan, aren't you? There's someone I'd like you to meet," he said as he gestured to the man beside him. "Edward."

We let an awkward "Hey" with each other. Who the hell does introductions at funerals?

"I guess l’Il leave the two of you alone," the brother said as he patted our backs and headed back towards his grieving family.

There was an awkward moment of silence shared between me and Edward.

"So.." we began at the same time. There was a brief moment of smiling at this awkwardness between us.

"Glad to know that there's someone like me here," he said.

"Like?"

"Well, you know... I also do not know anyone here, too. And I barely knew him, only met him once weeks ago." So, was he like... you know? Another hook up?

People were starting to leave the funeral site. A thought occurred in my head.

"Hey," I began to ask Edward. "This may sound crazy but... Do you have somewhere to go after? Like, for the pagpag?" Pagpag—which, translated literally, means to brush off dirt or dust—was a Filipino superstitious custom of not going home directly after attending a funeral, believing that the spirit of the deceased will follow you into your home unless you make a detour or a stopover somewhere else first.

He let out a short chuckle. I couldn't believe myself either that I would try to hit on someone while on a freaking funeral. "Well, I'm an atheist so I don't believe in any of that." And with a sly smile, he continued, "Wanna come over to my place?"

It’s the most wonderful time of the year—Halloween. Also, this day happens to be my birthday. It’s every goth kid’s dream, to be born on a Halloween or a Friday the 13th or maybe one of the other solstice or equinox days or festivities. And I am the one lucky enough to be born that day.

This year, we celebrate it for many reasons. Ever since the pandemic, it’s the first time for such a long time where a huge gathering is allowed. All year round since going to new normal, everyone had all the reasons to be reunited with their loved ones they haven’t seen in a while—birthdays, holidays, a lot of times people just threw parties for no reasons too. And today is no exception. I invited every close friend and family that I still have left.

It’s also my first birthday to celebrate as a married woman. My beloved husband, Paul, proposed to me on my birthday exactly a year ago. After which we finally said our vows to each other on his birthday—Valentines. Yep, I’m not the only one who is a holiday baby. And that day being the most romantic date of the year, on top of our wedding, we immediately consummated our marriage that night. He had a vasectomy in the beginning of our relationships, which means he had been shooting blanks in all our premarital sex. But not that honeymoon night. As planned by both of us, he had his vasectomy reversed. This was my wedding day-slash-birthday-slash-Valentines gift, to have our baby conceived that night.

Which brings us back to the present: me being pregnant, having a final hurrah with my family and friends before I give birth to our baby in around two weeks. I wasn’t sure I wanted to push through with this birthday-slash-Halloween party plan knowing I would be very much close to my term, but we did. Paul had been such a sweetheart, planning all of this. It is exactly like how I want it, there is nothing I can ask for more. All day long, it’s a surprise after another with him. Yet he gives me this look like he has something more up his sleeve.

“Can I talk to you alone for a sec?” he asks. I follow him upstairs to our bedroom, where there are no people. As we sit down by the bed, he begins asking in a solemn voice, “You remember our honeymoon night…?”

I gestured to my very round belly, the result of that night. “Yes??” hahaha

“Well, here’s another surprise for your birthday…” he trails off. “I know you wanted that as a present for me, to have our baby conceived on my birthday… our wedding day… Valentines.”

I giddily nod, not knowing what else to say, urging him to continue.

“To let you know the truth now, I had my vasectomy reversed earlier than when I told you. Which means…”

“Which means?”

“Which means… we conceived that baby even earlier.”

Which means, unless my term is longer than 40 weeks, I might go into labor anytime NOW, not two weeks from now like what I initially thought.

As if on cue--I’m not sure if it’s just from feeling surprised from this revelation, but--I’m starting to feel my water break.

“Ow!”, I howl in pain.

“Are you alright?” Paul asks worryingly.

“Oh my god, Paul, I think I’m about to give birth!”

Badly beaten and left for dead, I crawled my way out of the alley. I tried to. I couldn’t stand, my legs broken in many places. I could barely see, my eyes clouded with my own blood and almost swollen shut. I couldn’t even feel my body, I could only feel the pain. The bruises and the wounds pulsated with my weakening heartbeat.

I tried to call out for help, but my voice was barely a whisper. And even if I could scream for help, there was no one around.

Feeling defeated, I fell down. With the last of my strength, I turned myself to my back to face the heavens above. I prayed to every god out there, to help me. I lived a faithless life and maybe I was right. There was no one there to hear me. Except…

The one true god. He heard my pleas. As soon as I asked for his help, begged for his mercy, I felt his presence. His coldness embraced me, numbed me of my pain. Darkness surrounded me and through my blindness I see his haunting face. In all his glory, Death spoke to me:

“You’ll get what you deserve; I’ll make sure of it.”

There was nothing but darkness around him. He feels nothing but cold. All around him, feels weightless, yet at the same time, heavy. He suddenly feels his heart beating in his chest. Then one by one, his senses awaken. He feels the hands grasping him, pulling him down. Startled, he opens his eyes. He sees a light above him. He hears the muffled music from a distance. He realizes he had been underwater, and to the surface he must go. As he is running out of breath, the hands that held him down is now helping him float into to the surface. He breaks out of the water, and he takes in the air as if for the first time. The sound of cheers and applause surprises him. He lets out a scream. In the pool, he is surrounded by strange people, dressed in cloaks and holding a candle. He doesn’t know where he is or how he got here. He wants to ask but he doesn’t even remember what language he speaks. He doesn’t know who he is. But somehow he knows, he feels, that he belongs here. A stranger unveils himself ans speaks to him, “Welcome to the new world, brother.”

The world will burn. Thinking of this as a kid in a science class gave me mild anxiety. Our sun, just like any other star, will flare up—engulfing its surrounding system, including our planet, in its solar flames. It will either collapse into a black hole, or become a dwarf star that will leave us in unsurvivable cold and darkness. Luckily, it will be about billions of years before that happens.

Right?

But there are these small fires ravaging our planet at this moment. Grand and life-changing in our terrestrial perspective, but oh so tiny incomparison to the rest of the universe we live in. Still, we are all here to witness it. Nuclear wars, climate change, forest fires. Whether it’s a solar blast that will kill us all even before we know it, or the slow burning embers that drag on for god knows how long, the world is burning. The world will burn.

After moving into a new house, you find a hidden door to an underground passageway. Well, not you. Your dog. Like the cats he grew up with in your previous home, he digs around after he does his business—even if it’s just air over the floor. But when you looked over to clean it up, there was nothing there. After all, he was toilet trained and he would never do that even in a new environment. But his scratching had moved a hastily placed tile, and lifting the said tile revealed the latch to a hidden door. It creaked loudly when you opened it, like it had never been touched in a long time. Puffed came the cloud of dust, and your dog angrily growled at something you cannot see.