Member-only story
Tonight is the Shab-e-barat
I die. I fall over in my chair. People react instantly. That’s not me putting on airs, there’s just a sense in human beings when shit is “real”. You get a little kick of adrenaline, before you even know why. The thing about people falling over and everyone thinking it’s just them being clumsy, or doing some kind of bit, only happens in fantasy and literature. In the real world, death has a presence.
I had a great-great-uncle, or something, I forget the relation. Old guy. He was at a nieces wedding, and was outraged that the bride and groom didn’t know how to waltz. So he insisted on teaching them, waltzed with the bride, and sat down in his chair and died. The moment he sat down, everyone watching knew. Death has a presence.
I land on the floor. In a stupid hunched position. People will think it’s a brain haemorrhage or a heart attack or something, and that will be what is diagnosed postmortem, when they give up looking for corona in my system and throw me body in the mass graves. But the truth is, I died from being too gay.
My roommates will scatter and panic. The guy will take the lead and call an ambulance, or tell one of the other to do it. He will think about trying to resuscitate me, but at the last second, choose not to, and…
