Does anyone else who's ever had a near death experience just... sit up and think about it sometimes?
Thinking about how much you've been through despite the odds?
Wondering if you really had died, and this is your life flashing before your eyes, as something that's already happened, playing as a distant memory?
Or do you wonder if you aren't alive fully, living as a zombie or a ghost, without even realising it?
I think about it sometimes. A lot, actually. Every time that scar on my head itches, or aches. It's something I don't talk about a lot, not with other people. I don't know why. I feel almost ashamed of it. I guess because I'm unsure if I was supposed to survive? So now if I do anything the slightest bit wrong, my brain resorts to saying I'm wasting my chance at survival.
I don't talk about it much. But I kinda want to. If you don't like gorey details, stop reading now.
It happened when I was just a kid. I think I was about 7 or 8. I remember because that same year, I got a dog, and considered 8 to be my lucky number because of it.
Things were just so... normal. Too normal, I'd argue. I was at my dad's house, 500 miles from home. Usually my dad would pay attention to me for the first few hours, but once the luxury wore off, he'd tell me to go and entertain myself while he went to play Skyrim, or a Sonic game.
I'd spend all day by myself, getting yelled at by my dad if I bothered him, and getting yelled at by my grandparents if I bothered them while they were watching Only Fools and Horses. This was just my normal. It sounds like a tragedy, but it wasn't. This was routine.
It was night time. My nan was cooking in the kitchen, my grandad was yelling at the football game on TV, and my dad was upstairs on his computer. I was so, so bored. I sat by the window and wished, just wished they'd pay attention to me. I wished to end my boredom, to end the neglect, and feel like my family cared for me.
After this wish, I got spooked by a hallucination. I've suffered from psychosis my whole life. This was part of my normal. But this vision was something else entirely. I could feel it. A cold, dead hand, leaving the shadows, clawing into my chest, trying to grab my heart.
I screamed and ran like any rational kid would. I was 8, of course I did. I ran. I tripped. Dyspraxia is my curse. I had caught my foot on the rug, and fallen.
And smashed my head on the solid, cold, stone wall.
It wasn't cold for long. I remember that pain, that agonising pain, so well. The hotness of my blood coating my face, and the wall, and the floor, and my favourite butterfly shirt. It was gushing everywhere. I could feel myself getting dizzier. I could barely hear my nan's screaming, my ears were ringing so loud. Everything was muffled and dead, like they weren't talking at all, just murmuring like in their sleep. My vision was blurred and colourless, like the brightness and joy had been sucked out of the world.
Yet I felt absolutely nothing. I felt the agonising pain, but that was it. I felt no fear, nor sadness. I just felt tired. Like I'd just woken up from a nap. Time felt like a thick jelly. I can't remember much else, because I'd lost too much blood by that point. But I got my wish.
I woke up a few days later. At least I think I did. I can't remember if I'd woken up at all before then. This was just where my memories picked up. I remember trying to look for my mother, and being met with tension all down my head. Not pain, but numbness, and tension, like my hair was pulled back into a too tight ponytail.
Somehow even then, I didn't know if I was alive or not. I never figured that out. Even when I got older.
My skull had received massive damage. It had cracked. The nurse told me they superglued it back together, but once I got older, I figured I had a minor surgery. My head had to be sewn back together, from the top down to the back. The scar is still there. I feel it sometimes when I'm thinking. Sometimes if I poke it wrong, I get dizzy. It aches and itches constantly. It won't let me forget it's there.
I should've died. I've heard that ever since. People either told me I was lucky, or that they wished I hadn't survived, depending on context. My parents have said both at some point. It's the only thing they really have in common.
I don't know if I love or hate it. I laugh at calling it a lobotomy with my friends. I sob into my pillow about why I had to endure it. I sit motionless in the shower, staring at the wall, wondering if it was my wish that had caused this. Or if my hallucination was my warning.
