Lessons from the Afterlife

Nothing hurts quite as much as being stabbed in the back, than well, being stabbed in the back. Trust me, I would be one to know. As I have been stabbed in the back. Twenty-seven times to be exact.

My name is Scarlett Anne Maevile and I was murdered. I was killed on February 3rd 1987. Slain in my own bed while I slept. Not only that, my case is still unsolved. No one has been able to catch the man who shoved his knife in between my shoulder blades twenty-seven times.

I never guessed that random weekday was going to be my final one. I did everything as normal. Breakfast was basic, nothing but a simple slice of toast with jam on top. I was late to my job as usual, so with the toast in my mouth and one shoe still off I stumbled out of my door.

Even on my last day I had road rage. I always did. People in this town never really knew how to drive. The sound of beeping horns, along with the back fires of old cars flooded my ears. Day after day these sounds left a dull headache in the back of my head. It left this never fading pain in my neck. I could have had rolled my neck a million times trying to relieve the tightness. It would have never worked though.

If I knew that day would have been my last. I might have taken some back roads or something. Less engine revving from men trying to show off their muscle cars would have been a nicer way to start my day.

My job was dull. It was an office job with not much mental stimulation coming from it. Everyday I was drowning in a sea of papers at any given time. The amount of small talk I had to deal with on a daily basis was practically sinful. What people say about 'watercooler talk' is true, it is incredibly draining. The saddest thing about the job that I worked were the people who wandered in the halls of the office.

Most of them were all wonderful. They were vibrant individuals, I had even become good friends with a few of them. Unfortunately the amount of papers, meetings, and draining hours were killing them. They were pretty much as dead as I am now. Some of these office jobs just become murderers of their own, sucking the literal life out of the people who walk through the doors every single day.

Again, if I happened to know that this day was going to be it for me. I would have never walked through the front doors of that soul sucking place. I would have avoided its grasp at all costs.

One of the only things I found different on this day was lunch. While I was out with one of my coworkers there was a new waiter at the restaurant we went to practically every week. He seemed kind, his eyes were bright. He even gave me a free cookie from the bakery. I wasn't used to this type of kindness. I usually wasn't the type of girl who got attention from anyone. At twenty-four I was still single, only having been in one small relationship.

My coworker giggled, saying she was a bit jealous. I thought nothing of it. Now though, sitting in this weird purgatory waiting for my case to be solved, I think about it a lot. It's one of the only interactions that ever crosses my mind. That man did look familiar, but not enough for me to question it. I figured he just looked like a celebrity I knew, or maybe a far removed cousin. That was truthfully my only questioning of this guy.

I often wonder if maybe it was more. Should I have questioned him more? Was it possible that taking that cookie might have been the first domino to fall?

After that whole lunch debacle there were a few more grueling hours at work. I regret heading back into that office now. I regret it immensely.

I wish I would have taken care of myself more that day. I really never ate dinner that night. It wasn't one of my priorities. Not only that, I never got to finish the final few chapter of the book I was reading. I was to busy doing some paperwork for my mum, she needed it done. I told her I would help. I never did anything for myself. It is one of my biggest regrets now.

Not only that, on my last night on this earth, I struggled to sleep. I usually always did. That night though, it was restless. I still am amazed that I didn't move a muscle when my bedroom door creaked open. At the time, I guessed it was my cat. If I would have checked, I might still be breathing.

Sitting here in this weird state of alive and dead. I have had years to think about the mistakes I've made. The lives I've helped, or even destroyed. Twenty-four years isn't a lot of time to walk the earthly realm, but it is enough. Five years is enough, ninety-five years is enough.

Even in death I live in regret. No one ever told me I would still feel these things after my life was ripped from me. When we're young we hear stories of the better place, or the worse one. There might even be stories of nothing in the end. Which truthfully would be fine. Yet here I am, stuck in this box of endless remembrance.

I had hoped that maybe I would find the one who killed me. Or I would be able to tell someone something about that night. Nothing has ever come to me though. He wore a mask, he was cloaked in black, and like I said. His knife was in my back. All I remember was a glimpse of his eyes. They seemed to bright to be doing what he was doing to me.

Even when my body was lying there, drenched in blood, with my eyes wide open. I was able to see him standing over me. His gloved hands braced on my shoulder and the hilt of the knife. I was gone after the tenth or eleventh hit. My soul had left my lifeless body, even then, I wasn't able to tell who decided they wanted to rip me from the world.

It's the not knowing that has kept me here. Kept me stuck for so many years. One day I hope whoever did this is found. Locked away. Stuck in one place for so long just like they left me.

The only thing I find acceptable about this personal hell scape I have to live in is the fact that I am able to see everyone who was around me thrive without my presence. My mother took years to move forward, but now she's is happy again, although sometimes I do leave her messages. She cries at most of them, relishing in my memory. I find it endearing knowing I had such a wonderful mother while I was alive.

At least in my death I have learned an exponential amount of things about life. Now I am able to tell you. To live, to thrive, to live every moment like it could be your final one. I know how cliché this sounds. As we have all heard it told to us a thousand times, but I mean it. You don't want to be stuck in this purgatory of thought, pain, and what-if's. It's torment.