Michael was an individual of no great importance and his death was of no great consequence to the world at large. He kept to himself, had a small circle of friends and held down a job so bland that no one seemed to ever remember where he worked.
On the day he was murdered, he had thirteen things on his mind. He’d never listed them out loud or ever attributed any level of importance to any one point, but they all received a horrible clarity as the assailant began to rough him up.
One does not wish to die with the need for stationary supplies apparently more urgent and pressing than the half brick that was merely making polite acquaintance with one’s head. Michael’s apparent disinterest in the brutal assault shocked the mugger-come-murderer to such a degree that he returned home crying to his mother.
Michael couldn’t tell what all the fuss was about, and suddenly came to the realisation that his passing was one of the most liberating experiences of his life. A normal individual would be depressed at the thought, but Michael had transcended such emotion. The thoughts that he wouldn’t be able to watch his taped soaps, or enjoy his traditional lunchtime smoothie, were also relegated elsewhere.
The pain and fear of that single and intense moment had left him appreciative of his surrounding environment. The train platform’s bitumen surface was suddenly more important to him than all the staples that weren’t in the office. The yellow of the painted “caution line” brought him to tears. The apparent distraction of his fellow commuters interested him.
Michael followed the stares and shocked expressions of businessmen, students and labourers. He noted his own body, calmly spreadeagled and dangling gently over the platform.
He suddenly had a shocking appreciation for being detached from a situation.
“Did you see that? He just took it!” A young receptionist spoke, shaking like a leaf.
Michael had noticed her before and thought her plain, but now the sun illuminated all her beauty. He found himself entranced by her fretful gaze, those worried eyes, those trembling lips.
“Did anyone get that guy?” A businessman spoke, jerking to attention. “Did someone stop him?”
Michael was puzzled; he didn’t really see the point of the man’s argument any more. Some part of him gave a strangled cry of protest and lust for retribution, but it was silenced by the cool wave of peace that was washing over him.
“Shouldn’t we help him?” A young man stepped forward, dropping his bag and kneeling by Michael’s former shell.
Hadn’t he already been helped? Everything that was so brutally mundane was now beautifully magnificent. Had he known more words, Michael would have made full use of his vocabulary.
“He’s beyond help, call the morgue.” A tradesman noted. He stepped up to the train that arrived. “You can hang around if you want, but I’m late for work.”
“How can you say something like that?” The receptionist cried, snapping her pretty face around. “In a place like this? A time like this? Don’t you care?”
The tradesman gave a world-moving shrug. “My boss doesn’t, and neither do I.” He stepped into the train’s open doors.
“I’ve called the police.” The businessman stated. “They’ll sort this out.” He too stepped onto the train.
Michael smiled at the concerned faces that were peering out at him. Before he had a fear of people and the public, but now he felt he could stand naked in front of the world and easily carry out a tax report summary for the previous financial year.
“I’ve got a pulse!” The young man shrieked in excitement. “It’s faint, very faint, but his heart’s going!”
Michael became aware that the brilliance of light around him was fading. Pains that had left him, were now returning.
A guard from the train leapt down and knelt by the student, “good work. I’ll take over.”
The receptionist was weeping now, but she cradled her phone, recording the event.
“Bless you.” She managed, sobbing uncontrollably.
Michael took an involuntary step towards his shell. Fear rose inside of him. He was at peace; he didn’t need the worries of life to be clawing back into his mind. The thirteen last thoughts scrambled back in, pushing out his previously pleasant experience with worrying efficiency. Bitumen and yellow paint became the background, and not a miracle of innovation.
“He’s breathing!” The train guard called. “Bloody hell, he’s breathing!”
Faces on the train began to change. The fear that they once had was now leaving them and now smiles began to show. Some cheered. Others were weeping. The tradesman checked his watch.
Michael stepped forward again, trying to pull himself away from the shocking head wound. He was drawn closer still as he saw his husk’s hand twitch.
“Come on, you can make it!” The young man called, cradling Michael’s battered head. “Pull through!”
Michael felt the last tug, saw the last vivid dream of his separation, and wept.
“Bloody hell mate,” the train guard exclaimed, “you’re made of stern stuff! Can you speak?”
The contents of the train had spilt out onto the platform, crowding gently around the scene.
Michael coughed, and regretted the pain in his skull. He looked up and recognised his sobbing wife. He looked further up and into the grateful eyes of his brilliant son. He smiled weakly, a tear leaking out of his eye.
“What is it, Dad?” His son said, drying his own tears.
“Oh son.” Michael managed, a hoarse whisper over the dregs of pain that swam through his body. “Have I told you how much I loved you?”
“Loved? Michael?” His wife asked, kneeling in close. “What do you mean?”
Michael smiled, wincing. “I say in past tense because I have been past. I died, I came back, and I gained something.”
“What is it?” She asked, her voice as quiet and humble as a petitioning parishioner.
“Perspective.”
