Jump

[Editor’s note: this is fiction.]

The sky is the color of steel, the cold gray of the coffin. She would have loved it. The sun of the south was too violent, and the Pacific Northwest cloudy weather matched her soul. She would have loved attending her own funeral. A light drizzle came and went right in the middle. The flowers fell on damp earth. None of us brought umbrellas, she would think it’s sacrilegious. We cried and mourned. I left early.

I went to the south, down to my pier, got in my boat and set off. It was early afternoon. The sky grew cloudier and darker by the minute, the wind sang louder.

It was cold, the drizzle a persistent beat on every surface of the world, but the sea was calm, and I pushed out into the sound.

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Screams

A few months back, I started hearing voices. Not God or Satan, nothing like that. I heard my parents. They’re still alive and live a couple of thousand miles away, so I knew it wasn’t really them. And they weren’t saying anything, not really.

I heard phrases that they’d said often in the past, shit like "…brush your teeth?", "wear sweater", bits and fragments of full sentences. But these were just phrases. They "came in" right where some other sound stopped. A perfect blend from a coin drop to my father’s voice asking about summer vacation. Shit that I’d heard countless times in the past was now swimming up, maybe from the subconscious, and pulling up with it an audio memory.

I went to the doctor, he said it’s perfectly normal to hear the voices of our loved ones. Especially if I knew, in my heart, that this was a memory and I wasn’t actually hearing voices. Yeah, that’s what it was.

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