Death Travel

Where do we go when we die?

I am an old woman, by earthbound measures.

I’m waiting for some sign from George. The waiting is the hardest part. I haven’t heard from him since the murder six months ago.

I didn’t want to do it but he asked me to. I can still feel the snap as the knife cut through the cartilage on the side of his neck.

He had promised me he wouldn’t struggle, wouldn’t fight me. But at the last minute, he put in a mighty effort to save himself. I considered that he might have changed his mind but I had made a promise. I had to go through with it.

My trial is coming up. And I have to figure out how to get myself out of this. I could use a little support here, George.

Marty, Marty, dammit Marty, look at me. Why won’t you look at me? Are you having another one of your pouting fits? It won’t work this time. I’m not falling for it.

You used to ignore me when I was telling you something you didn’t want to hear. You spiteful little tramp. Oh shit. Forget it. Just look at me, will you? If I could find something to throw at you I would.

Wind. I can make the wind blow or make it rain or start a fire to get your attention. Hey, I always wanted to do that spontaneous combustion thing. Maybe I could make your body burst into flames. Now that would be fun. Not for you, maybe.

I do wish I had a cigar. With your hair smoking, I’d have something to light it with.

I don’t like it, Marty. I don’t like it. I don’t know where I am most of the time. I seem to be floating around in a fog. It’s dark and then it’s light.

You always told me what you thought straight out. You said, “Get up off your bony ass and get something done”, when I began to mope.” Stop being so needy. Just get it done”.

You have no conscience, do you know that? You feel guilty about nothing. No thing. That’s what I like about you and what I hate about you.

I take that back. You can be brought to your knees if you thought someone didn’t like you or if you were caught in one of your schemes and were confronted face to face.

I don’t like it, Marty. You talked me into this, didn’t you? I should never have listened to you. This is not good.

I feel like I am so disconnected from my body. Well, damn, I am. That’s right, I am. That’s why I can’t find myself. There is no noise. No sound, just floating. I don’t know where I am supposed to go, if anywhere.

Marty please, please look at me. Look up. I don’t like it.

I had no idea our finances were in such a mess. George took care of all that stuff. And me, such a liberated female, I let him do it. I was never too much involved with the money. There always seemed to be plenty.

That life insurance policy didn’t turn out right and then there was the murder arrest and indictment. That was a nightmare of a different color. I had never expected that. Never in a million years would I have thought that I would be spending two years fighting off a murder charge.

I had worn rubber gloves and a raincoat and taken off my shoes. I had driven to the other side of town and thrown them all in a dumpster behind a Pizza Hut.

I didn’t have to pretend to be shocked and horrified when I came back into the house. You were slumped over the kitchen table, one arm limply dangling between your legs. The knife that had that very morning sliced into a hard loaf of pumpernickel was still lying on the floor where I dropped it. Your head was twisted looking in the opposite direction. Eyes were open, staring.

I had almost decapitated you.

I stood there numb like I was watching some horror show that wasn’t real. You were a lifeless dummy made out of wax. I didn’t touch the corpse that wasn’t you.

Moving like an automaton, I called the authorities according to plan.

Two years and I’m finally free. Now, what do I do? It’s been in all the papers and mainstream media. She killed him for the insurance money. If I had known you had taken out that policy I might have killed you sooner and been saved all this trouble.

What were you thinking, you Dimwit? You may have thought you were taking care of me but it turned out to be my motivation for murder according to the prosecuting attorney.

Well, I wanted new experiences and I damn sure got them. I hadn’t counted on that one. Surprise. Surprise. I thought you would have found me by now.

Where are you? Maybe I was right. Maybe you aren’t any more. I told you, didn’t I? I told you, you Dimwit. You were so sure that you could do it. You told me you could.

You wanted to see what would happen when you die. You wanted to see where you go, if there was life after death. I promised to help you.

Now, I’m dead broke. And I still owe my lawyer. Now that I’m free I can collect the life insurance but that doesn’t begin to cover it. I wonder if there is some money stashed somewhere. Maybe in a foreign account or something.

The door bell rang . Who could that be? Probably somebody I owe money to.

I opened the door to a pile of filthy clothes, long matted hair, holey shoes and a stench that almost knocked me down.

“ I think I used to live here. Is that possible?” the pile of clothes said.

Looking into his eyes, finding a flicker of familiarity, I said, “George is that you?”

“Who is George?” the clothes pile said.

I pulled him inside by his shirt pocket gripped between my thumb and first finger, looking past him up and down the street to make sure no one saw me.

“You are hitting the shower first thing. Let me find you some of your clothes. It’s a good thing I didn’t throw everything out.” I said, steering him toward the bathroom.

I heard the shower running and pulled back the shower curtain to ask, “would you like some help in here?”

That question that was met with some explosive language. I closed the curtain. That reaction was definitely not George.

We sat at the kitchen table. The clothes were a pretty good fit. The pants were loose but the shirt was tight.

“What happened to you?” I asked leaning forward.

He told me the story. I was floating. I was miserable. I couldn’t go forward and I couldn’t go back. I decided to find a body to move into. This the best I could find. He’s kinda skinny. You got anything to eat?

I made him a sandwich.

I still have trouble figuring out when I’m him or when I’m me. We traded places. He moved out and I moved in. He was tired of living on the street. I don’t know where he went, probably to find someone else to trade with. So, what do we do now?

“Well. We will figure it out,” I said, happy to have my companion back. “I hope nobody recognizes you on the street.”

“By the way, do remember having any money stashed away somewhere?”, I asked, being my practical self.