Destined Mistake: Part 1

Have you ever seen the movie ‘Titanic’? With Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet?
Well I’m here to tell you it’s not nearly as cool to be on a sinking boat when it is actually happening to you.
In fact, it is terrifying.

“Melinda! Melinda, grab my hand!”
As if on cue, a loud crack of thunder jolts the sky and the rest of the Earth along with it. I am hanging precariously close to the black water beneath me, teetering off the edge of my fluorescent yellow life boat just enough to reach my mother’s hand.
Her middle finger brushes mine. Then a sharp shift in the waves sends her flying in the opposite direction.
I hear screaming, see people scrambling for nearly deflated lifeboats, and I see a sinking ship aflame. Dark, gray clouds roll in the sky. The mad onslaught of rain rattles my brain.
Even without the treacherous and menacing waves beneath me, I still feel like I am drowning.
I use my tired hands to push my boat against the black water. Suddenly it feels like the force of life, the ability to stay conscious, has enslaved me. I’m its puppet, destined to be aimlessly tossed as my master wishes.
Everything suddenly becomes dark and hazy. I cannot see. A pounding fills my head and dizzying spots cloud my vision.
I blackout.
I don’t know how many hours it’s been. Or maybe it has only been a couple of moments. I guess time is irrelevant when you pass out.
Suddenly, I realize I cannot breathe. It is dark and I am swaying.
It feels like an inferno is ablaze in my lungs. Pressure is all around me and I feel like it will condense me to a mere molecule.
I want to fight the black water. The dark.
But I am too tired . . . much too tired to fight anymore.
I see a shadow materialize. The shadow floats aimlessly towards me and holds out its wavering hand.
It is a man. He gives me the faintest of smiles. He seems nice.
I take his hand.
And the darkness devours me.

I awake in my room. Everything is as it seems. Clothes tossed askew, closet door slightly ajar, windows open allowing for my thin, white drapes to sway lazily. I am breathing heavily, my dainty hand clutched to my pounding heart.
It was all just a dream.
“It was all just a dream,” I whisper to the darkness.
“No it wasn’t.”
I scream and half fall out of my bed running to the other side of the room. I quickly flick on the switch to see a young girl sitting on the ratty chair next to my rumpled bed.
She is smiling sweetly, as if nothing is out of the norm. She wears her long, auburn hair in two high pigtails with supreme white bows. She also wears a tailored white button down shirt with a dark, pleated plaid skirt and knee socks with frilly lace accompanied by black flats.
She looks adorable.
“Who are you?!”
“I am Anne.”
“Wh-What are you doing in my room?! How’d you break into my house?”
“Oh, I assure you,” She says in delightfully happy voice, “if I needed to get into your house, I wouldn’t need to break in.”
“Mom!” I scream and start toward the door. “Help! There’s a little girl—,” But then I stop short realizing how stupid I’m going to sound. What am I going to say? A little girl broke into my room? Well, I suppose this is reason enough.
I close the door and turn back to—Anne?—with steely caution but not without snatching up an umbrella next to me.
I hold it at arm’s length like a sword, ready to swing at a moment’s notice.
“Okay, here is how this is going to work. I am going to ask questions, you are going to answer, and I might not consider going to get my mom and have her call the cops. Okay?”
Anne chuckles lightly. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything. She just stares out my window. Then turns back to look at me. I see something in her eyes. I forlorn, pained look. I see . . . wisdom. As thought those eyes, her eyes, have seen things no human eyes should have to endure.

After smoothing out her skirt, she squares her shoulders and looks me directly in the eyes.
“You’re mother is not here. No one is.”
I almost laugh. But I’m just a bit too disgusted with her little jokes to do so.
“What do you mean my mom isn’t here? She is right down the hall sleeping along with my dad and my sister and my little brother.”
“No, she isn’t—,” Anne starts.
“I’ll prove it to you!” I drop the umbrella and run to the door. I throw it open about to step into the hall only the hall is no longer there.
Nothing is.
Nothing. At. All.
All I see is . . . white. Nothing but white. An endless backdrop of white . . . stretching on for I don’t know how long. Not knowing where it begins or where it ends.
I almost extend my arm just to see if it is really real but I don’t quite get there. I am just too stunned.
I spin around to Anne.
“What is this?” I ask frantically. I stumble as far away from the doorway as possible. I can barely walk though. “Where . . . is . . . and how . . .”
“This is always the hardest part of the job,” I hear Anne mutter.
My head snaps to her direction where she is still sitting in the ratty, old chair.
“What? What job?”
“Melinda. You are dead.”
For a second I wonder how she knows my name. But I don’t really care. I don’t say anything. She doesn’t say anything. In fact, we just kind of stand there, staring at each other. Is this girl insane? Maybe she’s on some kind of neurotic.
Yeah, that was it. Or . . . there could another logical explanation.
“A dream. This is all a dream!” Then I remember how I just seemingly woke up from a dream.
“A dream within a dream!” I scream, grappling for some kind way to salvage the last of my sanity.
“And here it goes,” I hear Anne murmur. “Denial.”
“This can’t be happening. I can’t be dead!” My nails are digging frantically into my scalp. I am pacing the room manically, of course keeping a safe distance from the door.
“No!” I scream. “You did this to me!” I screech at Anne.
“Blame,” she states utterly calm.
“But this can’t be happening. I can’t be dead.” I let out a shaky, psychotic laugh. My speech is rapid and indecipherable. “Or . . . maybe I am. This cannot be fake. I don’t know what to believe.”
“And finally acceptance,” Anne sighs getting up from the chair.
“Who are you really? What’s your real name?”
“I told you my real name: Anne.”
“Who. Are. You?” Even I know my voice sounds lethal.
I don’t care.
“I’m a Retriever.”
“Retriever? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I go and retrieve the dead people. Thus, the name retriever.”
Thus? Who spoke like that anymore? “How old are you? Because you seem a lot older than you look.”
“Let’s just say I’ve been around a while. I died a while ago in a car crash. A long while ago. Even after death, everyone has a calling. This is mine. I love helping people.”
“So that’s how it going to be? I’m going to have to work? Even when I’m dead I can’t get a day off.”
“It really isn’t that simple. Really, though, we must go.”
“Why are we in my room anyway?”
“Well telling someone their dead is already difficult enough. We thought being in your more recent habitat might . . . make it easier on you.”
I take a deep breath. “Where are we going?”
She walks over, black flats clicking on the wooden floor, and takes my hand. I see a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
“Hold on,” she whispers.
A blinding light flashes and then we are gone.