Before the Devil Knows I'm Dead

I am ashamed of myself.

I knew better. I am pissed off because of what I said or acted, reacted, crawling my way out of dark spaces, empty voids beneath the fold-out bed in the trailer, where I began yelling, 9, 9, 9. Sabrina would grab my arm and yank me out to the upper bunks of heated mattress, to the toilet, where she would find me in the still of night, snoring, just a flush away to the sewage of shame.

She meant nothing to me then. My last memory is playing crib. Me, Shirley and Mark. And Mark brings out his special cigarette and I know what it is, I have no pretense or judgement of this offering, as I suck back it's fumes deep within my virgin lungs. That is when I died. Watermelon flavoured papers and all.

I left my body several times that night. As I was dying I was thinking how great this would be for my blog, wishing for a laptop so that I could instantly record the last moments on Earth. Instead, I desperately tried to convey my departure by telling the world, "don't be afraid", except the words Shirley and Mark heard sounded more like screams and last minute gasps of air "what's happening to me?"

I held onto hubby, "don't let go, don't let me go", as I begin to feel myself float up into the hemisphere again, he and Mark just laughed and pointed fingers at me, at the hilarious trip of fear and loathing to Las Vegas, witnessing my distress as I tried to say goodbye.

Instead, I have jolted back into my chair, as we now sit beneath the stars, I suddenly realize I'm not dead because I can still see faces and fire and trees, then instantly I slipped back into the dark. Except this time I knew enough to hold onto hubby's arm without letting go.

I had a choice. And hopefully I'm in Heaven a half hour .... before the Devil knows I'm dead.