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Donna Mae DePola - Guest Speaker Chat ...May 25th 2013 ... for more information please read this!
There is still plenty of time and spaces if you'd like to sign up for the Guest Speaker Chat scheduled for this Saturday!
There is still plenty of time and spaces if you'd like to sign up for the Guest Speaker Chat scheduled for this Saturday!
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A couple of things you should know first hand:
This all started with a blatant disregard. I'm not ready to tell you about it quite yet. For this tale is being told systematically. When a life altering event occurs, it is simply a mere fact that is left remaining: before and after.
So let me introduce myself properly. My name is Elizabeth Claire and I am no longer alive. Please don't be sad, I am not dead in a sad way. Just in a factual sort of way. I died on a rainy day when my brother found me. He was 16, a year younger than me. He happened to have just been coming home when the sun began to rise. I watched him as he walked tiredly through the house, he looked at things for an abnormally long time. It seemed like he found comfort in the familiarity. Our parents were not home. He looked in their room first. Then mine. I watched him closely from above. He dropped to his knees half-way to my bed, then began to crawl. Grabbing the back of my head first. The air left the room as fast as the speed of light. It was so fraught with devastation, the sound was gone too. As he cried, I could feel what he felt. The kind of cry that causes you to choke on everything you had ever felt in this world. The cry where you can hear the pulsations in your ears. He cried like that for a long time. When he finally stopped, he stumbled to the window. Opening it with his shaky hands. The room filled with the sound of rain hitting everything hard. Making various sounds. He crawled into bed. I heard the rain and I heard his muddy boots drop to the floor making two hollow thuds. One. Two. We laid there until cops arrived, which were called by dad to the scene at 11:04 a.m.
I feel I should tell you now that I won't reveal how I died on that stormy afternoon at any point in this story. It isn't important. I'll tell you why. The truth is, I died long ago. When I died nobody noticed. I still walked, talked, answered questions. I even asked them too. I found out about my death when I was two years old in the mid of night. I woke up and felt everything begin to shut down. First my heart stopped pumping. Then my lungs stopped contracting. Finally shutting down all together. A murder had been committed. Don't let your mind even begin to think about who, for this story will never introduce them. It's not important. How or who.
I was not scared. It was just another fact. A sequence of facts began to form. On the night I died, I pushed my hair behind my ears and quickly walked to the bathroom to wash the blood. So nobody would know. I would tell my mom, dad, and new baby brother in my own time. I spent the night practicing my breaths. My different laughs. Sneezes. Cries. All of those re-learnable things were a blessing. They gave me the time I desperately needed.
School made my little aversion to the truth difficult. First in second grade when the Mrs. Havshaw asked us to draw a self portrait. I made a little hiccup when I drew myself with no face. It was an eerie depiction of what I actually saw. Nobody ever mentioned that once you die you stop seeing yourself. Mirrors are blank. Your eyes are hollow with what appears in front of you as black fog. The school counselor asked me a lot of questions which lead to the psychiatrist asking me a lot of questions. I didn't forget to draw happy picture from then on. Rule number one. What they don't know, won't hurt them.
This all started with a blatant disregard. I'm not ready to tell you about it quite yet. For this tale is being told systematically. When a life altering event occurs, it is simply a mere fact that is left remaining: before and after.
So let me introduce myself properly. My name is Elizabeth Claire and I am no longer alive. Please don't be sad, I am not dead in a sad way. Just in a factual sort of way. I died on a rainy day when my brother found me. He was 16, a year younger than me. He happened to have just been coming home when the sun began to rise. I watched him as he walked tiredly through the house, he looked at things for an abnormally long time. It seemed like he found comfort in the familiarity. Our parents were not home. He looked in their room first. Then mine. I watched him closely from above. He dropped to his knees half-way to my bed, then began to crawl. Grabbing the back of my head first. The air left the room as fast as the speed of light. It was so fraught with devastation, the sound was gone too. As he cried, I could feel what he felt. The kind of cry that causes you to choke on everything you had ever felt in this world. The cry where you can hear the pulsations in your ears. He cried like that for a long time. When he finally stopped, he stumbled to the window. Opening it with his shaky hands. The room filled with the sound of rain hitting everything hard. Making various sounds. He crawled into bed. I heard the rain and I heard his muddy boots drop to the floor making two hollow thuds. One. Two. We laid there until cops arrived, which were called by dad to the scene at 11:04 a.m.
I feel I should tell you now that I won't reveal how I died on that stormy afternoon at any point in this story. It isn't important. I'll tell you why. The truth is, I died long ago. When I died nobody noticed. I still walked, talked, answered questions. I even asked them too. I found out about my death when I was two years old in the mid of night. I woke up and felt everything begin to shut down. First my heart stopped pumping. Then my lungs stopped contracting. Finally shutting down all together. A murder had been committed. Don't let your mind even begin to think about who, for this story will never introduce them. It's not important. How or who.
I was not scared. It was just another fact. A sequence of facts began to form. On the night I died, I pushed my hair behind my ears and quickly walked to the bathroom to wash the blood. So nobody would know. I would tell my mom, dad, and new baby brother in my own time. I spent the night practicing my breaths. My different laughs. Sneezes. Cries. All of those re-learnable things were a blessing. They gave me the time I desperately needed.
School made my little aversion to the truth difficult. First in second grade when the Mrs. Havshaw asked us to draw a self portrait. I made a little hiccup when I drew myself with no face. It was an eerie depiction of what I actually saw. Nobody ever mentioned that once you die you stop seeing yourself. Mirrors are blank. Your eyes are hollow with what appears in front of you as black fog. The school counselor asked me a lot of questions which lead to the psychiatrist asking me a lot of questions. I didn't forget to draw happy picture from then on. Rule number one. What they don't know, won't hurt them.
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