everything to fear

Death is a pathway to the next world. It is a chance for you to reunite with your maker. They don’t believe that. If they did, they wouldn’t fear death. Because if they did, death wouldn’t really be death as we know it, would it? They fear the dead. They fear the dying. They fear the living. They live in fear. Nothing to fear but fear itself. No. They have made fear a pillow companion. Everything to fear but fear itself.  

The small room was tucked away behind the behemoth hospital. To get to it, you would have to navigate the confusing corridors, that seemed to follow no plan, of the sterile hospital. Lights would flicker, warning you away. The dim corridors would serve as a premonition. You would enter a clean patio. Stones lining the ground. A tree in the center of the courtyard. An ambulance standing in the back. A few taps, and a trough for the water to spill into as it made its way towards the sewer. Right next to them was a small room. It was here that you would come. You would wish never to come here. But once you were here, you wouldn’t care. Riddle me that, would you? It was here they would bring you. You and some of your family members. Others would drive here too. Park by the entrance. People choosing to ignore or just generally blind. Park by the entrance. Walk in. Ask at the reception. Be told in hushed voices. Pointed in the general direction. They would find their way. And arrive by the ambulance as they’d be taking you out.

A preacher would walk out from inside, turban, robe, beard and all.

Some of it would make sense. Some of it wouldn’t. But isn’t that all of human history? Egyptians made pyramids. No point. They embalmed their dead, protected by preservatives. Fairly useful. Kings were buried with treasures. No point. Others were burned. The ashes could fertilize the land. Human history.

In short, some of it would make sense. Some of it wouldn’t. Pressing on your stomach to relax and move the intestines to let any remaining feces out. Respect for the deceased, so your body wouldn’t smell. At least not of shit. But more importantly, so that insects that like the smell wouldn’t start to spread over your body in search of the very smelly defecation. Washing your body. Same. Some wouldn’t be able to wash it. Those close to you. Or weakest. A combination, maybe? Wrapping you in a white shroud. Ritual. No point, other than to appease those who would come to stare at you, especially the ones from among those who love to criticize others, and never look inwards. Of those were many. Even in your circle, undoubtedly.