_“You cannot escape death. You can, however, reach beyond it. In word or action, penance or patience; your essence can be a time traveler of affect or effect.” ~ Brahna Sameal_ Those words maybe my own, but their spirit was borne of her, a denizen of courage and hope. She indoctrinated, embedding the idea while proselytizing the capture of this event in prose. What lays beyond for you, dear reader, is that attempt, for her. Perhaps for you, too. May the language and stance, even the errors and ignorance, give you solace, or better; may it launch you into the after with a passion and fervor not contained. ## Chapter 1: The Giving Up or The Giving In. It was here that Sarah felt the weight of it all sink into her soul. It, the relentless gnash of teeth and crunch of bone, marrow and muscle; rendering lifeless that which previously leapt or careened. She who would jostle and jockey for favor or position, only to later, now, be crushed in the powerful jaws of an increasingly typical life. Ground down to pulpy goo by its large, flat teeth but also ripped by the sharper more voracious type. She, the boldly seasoned by creativity and determination. Yet, ever the warrior, she pressed on into her abyss. And it was there, in a thin hospital gown and with a warm blanket over her stocking covered feet, that she found herself, and the end. Her end. It was in ugly, warm Sloan Kettering socks that she discovered the obsolescence of desire. There, with the beeping and churning. The forever whirring and stirring of activity all around. It was there that she breached the void of self and reached a previously unknown plateau of warmed and comfortable fallacy. One that she quickly gravitated toward. Sought out. It is the long suffering adult that thirsts for a normal charade. A basket of balance. All offerings of appeasement will be placed on the doorstep of any higher power that might offer a night off, a constant temperature, or a vegetative state of contentment. A normal. Any normal. One that, for her and in this moment, she believed only he could provide. The hum-drum boredom of ambulant mediocrity was present with him and she was now, in defeat (or victory?) accepting. He was a plodding, insouciant, barrel of a man. His gruff, graveled draw slurred words unrecognizable and required a stern look and full attention to catch his gist. But even then, true understanding was questionable. Were closed captioning to have been provided, Sarah believed those nearby would have been treated to requiem and daydream. Picturesque fanciful splendor and elegance in verb, adjective and meter. A poet of the slurred word and mumble. Sadly, there was no captioner nor fancy voice capture translation technology which would closely follow his path. Nothing projecting his true intent and meaning above him in some ultra high definition, 100 point, serif font, with accompanying dictionary. No, only a parade of “huh?” and “What was that again?” Except with Sarah, who seemed to hear and accept each word as if it were enunciated, defined and given word origin for the purposes of Scripps Spelling Bee in the final round. And in her final round, she needed this comfort. His comfort. He walked staccato with an added pitch and yaw reserved for aviation, while his patient eyes glowed a transfixing blue that captured the wandering thoughts of passers-by. Wiry tufts of brown, red and gray, hairy smatterings, cascaded over his jaw and crept ever closer to all edges and openings: lips and nostril. All his follicles seemed to work in tandem threatening to end the ritual of unholy weekly slaughter by trimmer. They seemed to wish to thread-together with the hook and loop connection of Velcro. Facial hair with malicious intent on leaving him breathless and without word. She would call him Beardicus the Great or Should-He-Shave-Nah; yet, she found it refreshing; that he would retain his ‘don’t give a damn’ portrait he painted each time he came near, even here in her shattered moment. Both his name and body were carved of, or torn by, years lacking in some odd combination of nutrients, empathy or emoluments. But that which did not end Brahna Sameal, would only propel him further. He had and would continue to use each of those instruments of circumstance or pain as a guttural cry or shout at the world. A wretch and spit inducing scream for hope throughout his childhood and a constant war paint for his stoic, die-cast longanimity. Broad shoulders and thick skin were his hallmarks, all adorned with ornaments of ignored but internalized ridicule. But here it would only be Brahna who would suffer more variation and range in emotion in the weeks that would follow. Sarah, sadly, would simply fade, again and again, until her shell, fully softened and sunken, would decompress and expire. Over and over. Once and again. Rebirth and re-death every few days of her final treatments. And all Brahna could do was watch, stammer mouthed and pale of mind. Witness to haunting visions of this woman; knowing their substance was some portion glue. These episodes would surely stick and cling steadfast to crevices deep inside his lobes and cortexes for an eternity. Each memory eager, desperate even, to whisper in his ear a reminder of this loss. His loss. His evacuation of hope. His Sarah and her final moments. But ephemeral bits of his only hope would twinkle and chime after each dose she was given. Her head would rise and their eyes would collide; she would smile. Her face, a skeleton covered only by stretched-too-thin tissue paper, opening to expose a wide pearly grin. Skin even thinner still. With each passing day. Perhaps Bible paper; scritta? Regardless, he saw it as thin and delicate. Lovely, he thought. Angelic. The Biblical skin was suitable, he knew. Brahna would smile back. Front tooth chipped. He would think it too much. Was it too much? Don’t get her hopes too high, he would consider. Then, follow with a softer smile. No teeth. Bite back tears and hurried attempts to solve all the worlds troubles as a team, as they had discussed so many times before. Their team. They had such ambition. She the muse. It was all her, he would admit to anyone who would ask. No one ever did. He wanted to release the floodgates of life upon her. Empty the chambers and storehouses of experience and livable moments, all at once, to give her all she had ever dreamed. Host countless parties of grandeur and import. Give her all the praise and moments on high before the inevitable. He wanted this, but she was exhausted. He wanted fawning and gushing, adoration and amusement; while all she could stomach were moments of quiet contemplation and small cups of ice chips or of lemon-lime cola. She would then draw in a dry and deserted breath. She trembled nervous and gave Brahna a knowing glance. Smiling again. She was assured, by the return of his chipped tooth, that he would absolutely survive this. He would fix the world needing fixed. He would Sherpa the lost and he would hunt the wicked. He could do all of this without her, she believed, but not with her here. Definitely not as a passenger on this recursive death cycle. He would eventually find the note she had left and he would continue on, emboldened and forever unabated. Now, she believed was her opportunity to disembark, and so she exhaled. Her eyes fell close. It appeared to Brahna like a blink. Or perhaps she was falling to sleep after so many hours waiting for and through the day’s treatment. It was, however, much more concrete than blinking and much less temporary than a nap. The exhale that followed was hollow. Different. It was simply air escaping a chamber, no forced migration nor bodily management of air flow. Beeps and buzzers sounded immediately. Alarms bursting excitedly to share the news. Nurses and doctors, attendants and other hospital staff; all flying past him. In and out. Loud and direct voices, rushed action and charged direction were party to this calamity. “Clear” and “NOW”, spoken or shouted. He counted seven times. They were all soldiers, battling; but this procession ended as quickly as it had begun. And then… **They called it.** Time of death. **_One thirty seven._** The hour-past-midnight utter darkness beyond the window held more joy than the room. Brahna was still fixated on her face. Even more collapsed now than moments ago. Still angelic but somehow smaller. Still inspiration for him. Her journey, he knew, was just beginning. Phase two for Sarah would begin now. Ounces would soon depart and become, or return, to something more. Something larger. Something forever. Sarah’s body lay still. Yet, Brahna imagined that perhaps, and maybe now everywhere, a part of the river of consciousness that flowed past and over everything. She floated out, fully acquiescent and translucent, into the ether of after. A passenger, but soon a captain, on a voyage that continued on for eternity. One that he too would someday join. One that he would prefer to have joined long ago; that was, until he had met Sarah. And now, her absence made that desire return tenfold. Brahna imagined mouthing a pistol or shotgun; perhaps a noose or a simple blade run lengthwise down the soft underside of his forearm. Each time these thoughts surfaced before, they had been restrained by her. Sarah, or more accurately, Sarah’s memory was continuing to bury them still. Her mission. His words. Her heart. His gift. He knew what he was to do next. She had repeated it time and again. She had fed him the words and the life that he now embodied with her every nudge and motion. She wasn’t here to keep these feelings at bay forever. And in this moment, this ‘now’. Here, before the body of a dead friend, the future was impossible. Now was shattered glass and disinterest. ‘Now’ was a gut punch. ## Chapter 2: The Letting Go or The Letting In. Waves. Beautiful and crisp. She rode undulating waves of porcelain. You wouldn’t think it to see it, but it was definitely porcelain. The pure milky white glass and sheen was the giveaway. Dead giveaway. Was she dead? Sarah wondered. Was this death? Was death this bright and undulating? Must be a dream. Surely a dream. She couldn’t wait to tell Brahna this one. She would often tell him of the wild and vivid dreams she would have each night. Chemo induced, perhaps, but even before her treatments; she knew a separate world in her sleep. If the dream knob only went to ten, each of hers bent reality and played on eleven. Here, she saw waves of perfect white which began to weave in colorful dancing lines. Reds and blues. There were even colors she had never before known; one particular color was painfully beautiful, like a combination of sunsets and Picasso. But, all of the sunsets. And every Picasso. Off to either side of her lay mounds of perfect color fields. Literally hues of blues and purples. Walls that lifted and floated around her. Not impeding her porcelain wave but instead embracing it. They gave and lent credence to each motion. They sang in a balance and equilibrium that drowned out any room for doubts and she was peace. Not AT peace, no, she WAS peace. This was certainly more than just feeling. She knew answers in these moments. Answers to all of life’s most brilliantly difficult questions. Answers that not only made sense but were also elegantly simple. She wanted to write them all down. Let Brahna in on the secrets she was uncovering. He was always wanting that exposure to truth. She repeated their words and rhythm over and over to remember. 'Must remember,' she thought to herself. These were the universal truths. An open grassy field of poppy and lilac danced across the view to her right. And it was a stunning sight. She could smell every fragrant gust of wind and each seed as they fell in the breeze. Her eyes soaked in the perfection around her. She cried but no tears could escape. She laughed and the fields danced to her vibrato. She smiled and the glassy surface below rippled a satisfied wake spiraling out from her body. She was in and on, above and around, beyond and inside every angle. She was more now than ever and yet tantalizingly closer to it all. She could see each particle and precipice. Beyond them all lay more, smaller features and she could zoom in to each, as she desired. She flew between the cracks and crevices of the DNA molecules and subatomic everything and could wave her fingers over the edges of each to feel the cold or hard surface, or the warmth or the nothing of another. If this was death, it was tantric. It was eternal and haunting. Beautiful and endless. Magical and perfect. Zion in technicolor Zen. Ahead a shepherd beckons a warm invitation with smile and palms exposed. Everything pulsed with a twinkle and glow, even her. She lived in this bliss for hours, maybe days. Weeks? Ecstasies lacking enmities. Passions with no attachments. Endless and mindless, limitless carelessness. She basked in it. Drinking it all in as a warm chamomile. Zen. Her peaceful resistance to all that had ever once been and all that would ever be; Sarah was released into the unknown. She wondered if she were the first or last; or maybe only the most recent? When suddenly voices began to speak and echo around her, she urged them on and for more. Her expanse was now widened and she yearned for connection. A group experience, no more solitude. The voices she heard were then silver. Light and fluff. Every intonation gave way to gusts of satisfied shivers and shine. Her skin tingled and danced. Was it even still skin? It appeared to her as pure light and liquid. She adored the view of it all as a mother over her children. She wanted Brahna to know all of this. She wanted to joke with him and tease him. Call him silly names and make him laugh and stumble over his words. His magical words. He should be here. Describing this scene. He should be here in this luxury. Unless this was death. Was this death? Then everything around Sarah abruptly changed. The voices grew in number and strength. The volume escalated like an arms race. Violent and then pitched. Suddenly darker, as jagged edges tore the fabric of her linen tapestry. The view around her became horrid and terrifying. She cried and this time the tears were blood. She wiped them from her face then seeing the skin of her hands was ripped; flesh falling from bone. Screams surrounded her and yet none were her own. Her voice was kept. Mute and silent. She wanted to scream. Yet nothing. “Take me back!” she screamed. Or at least, she tried, but her intent to shout was weaker than the stranglehold that clasped her vocal chords. Grasping at her lips, her fingers clawed at a closed surface, mouth elapsed. Eclipsed of skin. Ahead was fire. Ahead brimstone. A chalice sat overflowing with acid. Her path was direct and she smashed through it. Terror filled and horrified, ghosts of past and present demons filled chasms below her like rivers fill basins. She then saw Brahna. All at once he was there. She saw him complete with sadness. She saw him weep. He, the stoic. He, the one she knew to be real. And here before her spirit he knelt in agony. And further, beyond him, was her own lifeless body. He was grieving her and she was lost. Passed over. She was here now, in this eternal ether. Witness to her own death and witness to her beloved’s pain. A journey that felt like a month or more; and so quickly changed to this pageantry of pains. She wanted it all to end. She tried to dive; to drown; to hold her breath until a blackness would overcome her, but she was given no solace. Her resolve, however was potent. And she knew that she dreamed bigger than any could dream. Her whole life had been a cascading calamity of carefree optimism. If she believed it, it was. If she were to want it, it would. And she wanted this. Stretching out, she reached for Brahna. The image of him, still adorned of tears and sadness. She wanted so badly to just touch his hand, his face, his arm. She wanted to comfort him. To save him. She worried for him. His demise in her absence. His words would become reckless and his actions cancerous without her, and the balance she brought to him. Oh, cancer. She had thought the word now and remembered. She was here because of that wreckage of deranged cellular wrath. She would not allow it to end her AND Brahna. She defied it. She cursed its name. She mouthed a murderous malevolence and urged her arms outward. Forward. To him. Then, in an instant, he was there before her. He was near. She could feel him and he froze. He looked more alive than before. His eyes widened and his skin became tense. Hairs rose on his neck and his breathing quickened. ‘Brahna,’ she said breathless and for once, she had a voice. She looked down and her skin was once again whole. She touched her face and recognized the familiar sensation. Brahna looked around the room in a stunned and ignorant fear. She touched him again, this time allowing her hand to linger on his. She said his name again and he shouted as if shocked and in pain. He smiled. Then he began to cry. “No,” he wept. “You’re gone, you can’t be dead, but you are. Why are you here? How?” A nurse passed by Brahna as a flurry of activity had begun, removing the body. Sarah watched them carry her own flesh out of the room. All mortal coil, unwound and complete, she thought. “And I long only, solely, hopeless for that coil to entwine my being,” Brahna continued her thought. Again they both froze. Their thoughts seemingly bound together. Sarah wondered if she had implanted a thought in Brahna’s mind, or if they had previously said those words. Brahna looked as if he were stumped by a tough crossword puzzle; his face bent and mouth tightened. She had always enjoyed when she knew more than him and this was the face that accompanied that feeling. She adored it. She laughed. And every time she laughed, Brahna smiled. This time was no different until he was in tears, but also laughing. Nurses and attendants wouldn’t look directly at Brahna; they assumed him to be working thru his grief. And as if several additional stages of grief had been reserved exclusively for him. Brahna himself thought he was working thru things; poorly. He thought himself insane. “This IS insane,” he sighed, sharing the thought with her. No, Sarah thought, this is proverb and providence. She knew she was meant to continue and he was her partner. She would commandeer his vehicle or ride along as passenger. She, the resolute. Sarah, the stout of heart. “You’re not fat,” Brahna whispered. Sarah instinctively shouted, “I said stout of HEART, you ass!” Again, frozen. Yet, a smile escaped him. He could hear her thoughts. She could hear his voice. At this point, her body had been removed from the room entirely. But this wasn’t the end stages of death, as she imagined it; this was perhaps her new reality. Her new infinite. Connected, forever, with Brahna on a spiritual level. One of voices and mystery. One of unnatural process. She would not go alone into the dark. It seemed this would be a more comfortable exit. One with Brahna as her driver or maybe he was her escape pod. She let the moment surround her. His thoughts were hers and hers were alive and electric in him. She could see how he remembered her and it was beautiful. But it was periodically tragic. She wept. He wept. Brahna closed his eyes. ## Chapter 3: The ‘What Now’ or The ‘Where Next’ The week leading up to the funeral was awkward. The interactions with family were awkward. The funeral was awkward. It was all awkward, Brahna thought. Sarah’s body lay lifeless in a wooden box, adorned and surrounded with lovely flowers and photos of ‘happier’ times. Almost all of the pictures were sadly taken in or near the hospital, save for a few of Sarah as a child. Her sister had found those particular shots in an old photo album. Tiny Sarah on a swing set. Teen Sarah going to prom. Teen Sarah holding Gaston, her pet turtle. She watched and listened to her funeral from Brahna’s seat; the fifth row back, behind Uncle Angus who smelled of bourbon and cigarettes. Thick pungent odor wafted past like a fog. Rolling by, with momentary periods of visibility. She saw brief flashes; memories of Brahna’s father flicker past in his mind. Peeking over the large shoulders of Angus, Brahna and Sarah listened as each friend or family member would stand and say a few words about her meaning in their lives. Teary-eyed. Or perhaps they would recount a moment she had forgotten, meaningless to her, but infinitely profound to them. A song. Another song. Something sad. Something hopeful. Tears. Louder boohooing. Sarah’s mom and dad had already passed years ago, so her sister, Joyce, took the brunt of all the hugs and sympathy wishes during the viewings. All the “she was a wonderful person” and at least three-hundred seventy variations of “I’m sorry”. Brahna had counted. Then came Joyce’s turn to speak. Nothing new to see here, Sarah thought, move along, move along. “Would you please pipe down,” Brahna whispered audibly from the left corner of his mouth. “This is your actual funeral, and that’s your actual sister.” Sarah paused, remembering that her thoughts were nothing more than a voice inside Brahna’s mind. This made her feel a bit uneasy. Sometimes this made bad moments worse, good moments awkward, great moments also ugly. All in all, this had not yet worked in any positive way for either party, with one notable exception: Brahna knew that Sarah was still present and accounted for, just minus a body. And as a bonus, Sarah knew that Brahna wasn’t bent psychotic and wasn’t killing himself or others. Win-win? “Did you say something, Brahna? Would you like to go upfront and speak, son?” Uncle Angus’ low gruff voice whispered to Brahna. Once again, Sarah thought, Brahna’s mumble saved him any embarrassment he may have felt talking to himself. “Good God, I don’t mumble that bad,” Brahna said. “Well, that’s fine, son. Mumble or not, I’m sure you’ll do just fine. You were Sarah’s best friend and she would have wanted you to talk,” Uncle Angus continued being the third wheel to the conversation. ‘Hearing you talk about me, my life, my death; that might just be my dream come true,’ Sarah said with thick sarcasm. ‘Plus, I have some things to say to these assholes. So let’s do this. Get on up there, Mumbles and Squeaks.’ ‘Nice,’ Brahna thought in return. Sarah realized she could understand or “hear” his thoughts just as he could hear her. She returned the favor. ‘I know it was a good nickname, Brahna because I’m the official queen of giving nicknames.’ ‘Your majesty,’ he replied. Their thoughts were both suddenly of laughter and smiles. World domination, they knew, started with laughter and a good nickname. They were comforted knowing they could more easily communicate without too much confusion, or at very least, they’d have the opportunity to limit the confusion of other people when they spoke; if Brahna could manage it. Brahna stood and walked to the front of the room. A podium sat near Sarah’s casket. As he turned, he noted the faces in the room all intent with curiosity. This odd man before them, his awkward cut and draw. His slack and bend drew them in, his eyes glowed and kept their attention. ‘Now, please try and enunciate,’ Sarah said as Brahna cleared his throat with a loud, wet cough, causing the room to feel even more silent. “Sarah was my best friend,” Brahna began. “But she’s not gone.” Tissues were being applied to eyes. Heads nodding in approval, or confusion; he wasn’t sure. He spoke slowly to ensure each word was heard. That each phrase was felt. Sarah remained quiet for most of it. “She lives on in our hearts and minds; at least,” Brahna said, slowly steadying himself against the podium. “I know she’s with me.” Wrinkled foreheads. Was that a good thing or bad, he wasn’t sure? Sarah chimed in, ‘May I? Just repeat after me.’ Brahna paused and nodded his approval, which further confused the crowd. With his hesitation, the preacher began to approach, clearly intent on helping this poor, confused man back to his chair and away from the podium. “Sadly, however, I look out in this crowd and I see so many faces that I haven’t seen before. Maybe once or twice,” Brahna said, repeating Sarah’s voice in his head. He began pointing; it felt as involuntary muscle spasms, as Sarah took control and used his body as her own. “You. You. You.” His hand pointing to seemingly random people in the room. The murmurs began in the back. Uncomfortable and with sad realization, each visitor began to understand that this was not to be a comforting speech. This was reckoning. “I’ve been in there for years. Treatment after treatment. Months on end. And you come now, here...to the end? SHAME ON YOU ALL!” The pastor was to him now. His hand on Brahna’s back. “Thank you, son,” he said calmly. “If you’ll take your seat we will continue the service.” ‘They deserve to hear more,’ Sarah shouted. Brahna ignored her. His face burned with discomfort as he took his seat. Uncle Angus eyed him the entire time. He wouldn’t look away. ‘What’s that asshole staring at,’ Sarah said. Brahna looked up and made eye contact. “Son, I know it hurts,” Uncle Angus said softly. “We’re all hurting.” “If she meant so much, why is this the first visit you’ve made to see her?”