Death Doesn’t Have a Soul

Every day, I sulk around for hours at a time. There is nothing better to do — the land is foggy and barren with nothing but the moonlight to help me see where I am going. I call this place my home, but it’s not really a home, just a temporary shelter until I find somewhere better. 

My job is boring, too. I just collect and dispose of souls when they reach their expiration date.

Most souls embrace my arrival because they don’t have much left to live for. I can distinguish the souls by their strength, some are strong and can fight for themselves while others are weak. Sometimes, I think that the weak are made by God as a hassle for me to clean up, but it’s none of my business interfering with Him. 

Sometimes, the souls reject me. There was this one stubborn lady who refused to leave. She was an old hag; she didn’t have much left of her white wispy hair, her wrinkles sagged like wet towels, and her limbs looked as if they wanted to quit. But her eyes shined a bright blue, the kind of blue that you see in the ocean and sky on a summer day. 

I don’t understand the drive to live — what is the point of living when you know you will die one day? To me, it’s just a nuisance when they don’t comply, but they can’t hold out forever. I’ll just come back another day when they recognize that I am helping end their mortal suffering.

Pokemon Cards and Fritos

Michael and I sat on the edge of the treehouse, by the swinging ladder and the rotting floorboards. My parents don’t like it when we sit too close to the edge because of when I fell off and broke both wrists and an ankle. We brought our snacks up with us—four fun-sized bags of Fritos—along with a new pack of Pokemon cards that we bought at Target.

It was a good day to be with Michael. We always had the most memorable experiences; anything from sitting and talking to scaling mountains with him was enjoyable.

“Tomorrow is the end of the fifth grade. You ready for middle school?” I curiously asked.

“Oh yeah,” he replied softly. “Not really.” He opened the pack of cards and pulled out a common card. “Rubbish,” he muttered.

“You aren’t excited to finally grow up and be big kids? Look at Diego and Anthony and the others who’ve already grown up so much in just a year of middle school!”

“Nah,” he replied more loudly this time. “There’s no rush to growing up. It’s like everyone’s in a race and trying super hard to be first, but they don’t know where they’re going.” He pulled out another card. “Hey, look at this Snorlax! It’s almost as fat as you!” he exclaimed, then giggled.

“Uh huh… very funny.” I was questioning why wanting to grow up was a bad thing. Was it wrong to look cooler and get bigger toys and have more privileges? It was something that remained a mystery for many years to me.

The Voices

Doctors say I am crazy. I wake up twice a month in the middle of the night on a hospital bed covered in sweat for reasons I forget. My mom says I am different. She says that in the middle of the night, I hear voices and talk to them, but that can’t be true because I don’t recall any of that. I don’t really know what’s wrong with me.

People really hurt sometimes. People don’t really treat me how they used to. They think that everything I say is not true, but that’s not true because I know what’s true and what’s not. Nobody appreciates me for who I am. I sometimes think I am crazy and different, too. I don’t even know who I am sometimes. How can they know who I am if I don’t even know? 

It’s hard to live like this. I don’t even know who is real and who is fake. It doesn’t help that those who act fake are real, and those who act real are fake. Sometimes I think it might not be my issue. What if everybody is just too blind to see the people I see? Why is it my fault that I’m “different?” What if I’m normal and everyone is different? I wonder why society is like this, but it’s not my duty to interfere in it because who am I to talk? Just another disposable fool.

Old but Not Forgotten

There was this toy at the store. A huge dinosaur that I really wanted because all of the cool kids had it. All I ever wanted was a green dinosaur with fluffy hair and big bulging eyes that could turn red at the push of a button. 

Before, I played with hand-me-downs from my cousins, who got them as hand-me-downs from my older cousins, who got them as hand-me-downs from my parents. They smelled like old books in a library, and I enjoyed the smell, but they were worn down and obsolete. Kids my age played with remote-controlled robots and superheroes, but I was stuck with train tracks and stuffed animals.

About five months after I first laid my eyes on the toy, I finally got it. It came wrapped in a new cardboard box and was wrapped with decorative wrapping paper. I was ecstatic for weeks. I could not only fit in with other kids now, but I also had something that I could call my own.

After a few weeks, playing with the toy didn’t make me feel happy. The joy that I once felt when playing with my toys now felt fake. I reopened my old toy box and took a whiff of the nostalgic smell of old, then replaced my new dinosaur with my older, familiar toys.

18

Today is my 18th birthday. I am filled with so much excitement and happiness to cross the threshold into a new phase of my life. I feel so excited to leave my home and go to college and meet new friends and do whatever adults do. But a few thoughts cloud my head. 

Will I be able to manage myself? How will I survive economically?

How will I live away from my home? Without Mom’s cooking and love? Without being able to talk to Dad and Sis every day?

How could I live in a place so strange, away from home, without the comfort of familiar faces?

But I guess it’s a phase everyone has to go through— I can’t rely on my parents forever. It’s funny to me, though, that small things that I take for granted every day are so really important to me.