I woke up to find my self dead... Lying there completely motionless; my body lay before me, a very bloody and mutilated corpse for that matter

Where was my judgement day? Had I been forgotten about? The irony of this whole thing was that I didn't feel very dead, not dead at all. But it is true if I were dead wouldn't I at least feel dead? It was like being exiled from my own body, now my body what was left of it anyway was an empty lifeless shell.

I could almost taste a the putrid smell that engrossed the air around my very soul, a decomposing smell, my body that lay before me was rotting away and I could not do a single thing to slow down the process. I was hopeless like a new born child, I had no power over it, not even a single ounce, I was like a fish out of water but I was not out of water but out of my very own body. The room in which my body shall lie till forever more was dark and damp, the wallpaper was pealing off the ghastly wall's as though by it's own accord, the floor board' were also creaking upon there own accord, but how? Was there someone there, walking over these very rigid boards, I almost could feel their presence; the feeling was coming from the pit of my translucent stomach. Wouldn't I be able to see whoever it was? But I couldn't see them, the thought that someone was there was driving me insane, I couldn't stop pondering over it, as thought it was compulsive to do so. I set adrift and floated towards the window with great difficulty, the pane of glass which sat in the window frame had become a home to many minute specs of dust which made this home over the centuries. The window was cracked from corner to corner, like a grin that was stretching from hear to hear.

The noise in the room was deafening despite the apparent silence in the room, the high-pitched vitriolic squeal in his mind propelling pain through his limp body and when opening his dark eyes sending fresh agony into his disfigured opaque face. Broken shards of the shattered mirror lay around him, blood oozed through the deep gashes in the top of his head, dying his greying brown hair a thick murky red; and as the mirror his life lay on the cold hard boarded floor.

I departed from this place and drifted towards a slightly ajar door; I peered through it and then almost instantly without intending to do so glided through it. I was in a long and winding corridor, with a colossal oak door at the end. I drifted gradually along the long rigid flood, till the door became more pronounce and was standing before me; I pushed the door...

I was in the graveyard now, it was winter and it was as cold as ever. The leaves from the trees lay scattered on the floor, turning a crisp brown and they crunched as I passed over them, pushing their remains deep into the brilliant white snow. The crunching of the leaves was the only sound around; I was in a forest as far as the eye can see. The forest I was in, looked aged and slightly morose, it wasn't like any other forest which portrayed it's brilliance with the swaying of the trees and the singing of the birds. This forest was different. It wasn't the same. There was something wrong with the mood and you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. There was no anecdote in the air; there was no sincerity, there was nothing, but the harsh wind blowing violently through the branches of the tress.