It was odd, that moment when you realise you’re dead. I was surprised by the lack of drama, it was anti-climactic if anything. Yes there was a bright white light I was drawn to but there was a distinct lack of music. I had never, when alive, spent much time dwelling on the point of death but I had always imagined that your favourite music would be played as you drift towards that light. And there was no playback of my best bits ie. Funny jokes I had made or the drunken nights as a student at various house parties or things I had seen and I wished that I could have played them back at the time. It seemed to take a very long time to reach the white light. I thought of Clive, a fellow journo at the Independent Herald. Clive was a pessimistic man, much more so than even me. His outlook was that the lower your expectations are in life, when something good happens you’ll appreciate it much more. This seemed like a sound ideology, the only drawback was that Clive was an unbelievable depressing person to be around. I remember our editor once tried to cheer him up by saying:

“Well Clive, there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel” 

to which Clive paused a moment and then looked him straight in the eye and replied:

“Yes…..an oncoming train” said in his slow and painfully dull voice.

I estimated it must have taken me 3 hours to reach the white light. Whereupon I stepped onto a platform. I was still in the pyjamas I had worn as I lay dying. It was set out as a train station platform, I thought of Clive’s wit. It was evening time and the sky was just on the verge of turning dark. There were quite a few people of all ages occupying the benches set out along the wall of the station building. At this point I noticed I had a full head of hair...sweet. I walked along the platform looking for some sort of conducter but could find none. The doors to the station were shut and locked. I then walked to the end of the platform and sat on the edge of the steps leading down to the tracks. I was more than confused. I thought that this must be the place where atheists like me come to serve out eternity, God’s joke on them for not believing in his infinite goodness. I felt lost, unhappy and at home. Where did I hear that phrase again? I couldn’t think. 

About 15 minutes into my searching my deepest inner being for answers I was tapped on the shoulder. I turned to see a young man of no more than 20 standing before me in full combat fatigues. He asked:

“I’m sorry Sir but I was just wondering if you had a cigarette?” his Texan twang was very pronounced. ‘Good to see nicotine addictions carry through’ I thought to myself

“No I’m afraid I don’t smoke.” I said this as I tapped the chest pocket of my pyjamas.

“Thank you anyway” he turned to walk away. I called him back:

“Wait a second, what’s your name?”

“My name sir, my name’s Trey Miller” he stood statue straight.

I extended a hand which he shook.

“Please to meet you, my name’s Paul Rasmussen. I’m assuming you died in combat.”

“I guess so, it all happened so fast, either that or I’m dreaming” he scratched his head.

“No I don’t think you’re dreaming, I died a couple of hours ago. I was dying for quite some time so I was expecting it”

“It felt like a dream floating towards that light. It got boring after a while though” he smiled

“Yeah I was disappointed that there wasn’t any music, even elevator music would have been better than nothing.” I smiled back saying this.

“Ha, Ha..that’s exactly what I was thinking man. Some Pearl Jam would have been great. We used to hook them up to the PA system on the tank when we rolled to engage the enemy.” he pointed over my shoulder as if an abrams was there, ready and waiting to fire to the tune of ‘black’. I posed the obvious question:

“Were you in Iraq?”

“Yup good old I raq, Well at least I don’t have to clean my rifle and boots anymore!” again he smiled.

“Yeah you’ve gotten out of that one! I was in Kuwait in the first Gulf War as a journalist”

“No way man, was that when the I raqi’s had it?” he asked.

“Yeah, there was talk of it being invaded so the London paper I worked for at the time sent me over in expectation of war. Where in I raq were you?” I changed the subject.

“In Mosul, that fucking hell hole, pardon my language. It was so god damn hot and the flies, the flies were everywhere. That’s another thing I’m happy to be here for….ha, ha” he chuckled. 

At least he had a sense of humour I thought even if he, like most Americans, can’t pronounce Iraq properly.

He then put on a serious face as he asked:

“Did you leave anyone behind?”

I knew what he meant but felt I just needed to clarify it.

“Woman wise you mean, yeah?”

He nodded.

“Yes, I left my ex-wife and a nurse I lusted after”

His face brightened:

“Did you get to...you know...the nurse” he made a suggestive movement with his index finger and the closed fist of his other hand on the words ‘you know’.

“God no, the last sex I had was with a prostitute in Amsterdam 3 months ago. I took a trip over there with a few friends on a sort of Stag weekend. Well stag weekend in that, instead of it being a way of seeing me off before I got married, it was a way of seeing me off full stop. Did you leave anyone behind that you were...” I made the appropriate hand movements.

“Well kinda. I wasn’t screwing her though. I loved her, I loved her since Junior High but she never knew. I regret it now. I was gonna tell her when I got back. My brother sent me an e-mail saying how a picture of me in my Marines dress uniform made it on the paper back home before we shipped out. He said that his girlfriend, who’s sisters with Chloe’s best friend said that Chloe told her sister that I looked hot in the uniform. So I was planning to ask her out when I got back. Oh well that’s life I suppose or death whichever way you want to look at it.” he shrugged his shoulders.

I felt a certain something in the middle of my stomach. It was not pain but rather a sort of melancholy. Oh my god, I think it may be empathy! I then thought about it this way. I was a middle aged man who had lived some semblance of a life and here before me was a guy who was not that long out of secondary school. I broke the awkward silence by interjecting in mock seriousness:

“I’m sorry, your sisters, boyfriends cousin?” At this, he burst out laughing. I joined him and we continued to talk for a long, long time until we got to the question of where exactly we were. We hadn’t noticed that as we were talking, we were walking and consequently had covered some amount of ground. We looked around and found ourselves in the middle of train tracks, in the middle of the countryside. I picked the purple foxgloves and put the flowers on my fingers in a Freddie Krueger manner, much to the delight of Trey who was bent over in laughter. I didn’t find it that funny but if he was laughing, I was good with that.