Mightmare

It was the Presence. It was a fist. I felt it first, then saw the blue of the TV screen in the Black Lodge as my consciousness trickled to this...this middlewhere. With my brain out of the solution, I could see right back up through my head and there it was -- the Fist. The hand of God, angry, thumping the Earth in frustration.

The veins didn't have blood, they pumped scalding fury.

I didn't feel the burn, I felt the pressure, a hurricane latched like a lamprey to my one good eardrum. It was too hot for my blood to spill. In fact, it was too hot to kill. My body evaporated in Its grasp long before this narrator winked out.

And there was my lesson: Death is about the timing of the end of the body and mind. If one slips out past the other, welcome to limbo. Welcome to otherwhere. It's usually the mind first; this is what gives us our gardens of human vegetables waiting about to rot.

The Fist gave me the rare other way out. Body gone in a blink, too quick for my mind to keep up. Now I'm a ghost. Now I'm a babble in between sound and sight. Now I'm a soldier in nowhere.

There's no evidence this is a dream.

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