Fiction: Two Types of Perfect 

Two Types of Perfect

Words by Emily Fong
Image by Neely Johnson 
QuailBellMagazine.com

Dear Dr. Everett,

I died 9 years ago, 6 years after the day I was born. I don’t remember what it was like to live, only that I didn’t know enough to savor it when there was still something left to remember. First grade was my last year of life, actually, so I suppose I died 8 years ago, not 9. And the funny thing about my death was that I didn’t even know I was dead until they resurrected me 3 years later. But this new life that they gave me, it wasn’t real. It was different from the snippets I remembered from the past, different from the life that God gave me, the one I wanted back.

But the funny thing about this concept called death was that I got used to it. This was my one and only reality, the only one I’d ever known. The flashes of Before that I still remembered…those weren’t real, because they were just too perfect. And life wasn’t that perfect, right? If life were actually that perfect, you would’ve thought that God would give it back to a little girl who had done nothing to deserve to have it ripped from her hands. You would’ve thought that a little girl would’ve gotten to live it a little while longer. Would’ve remembered more of it.

I pray every night that He or a miracle or science or just anyone will bring me back to life. To the real life, the one that everyone else gets to live, and not the unbelievable, fictional hell that has become my reality.

Now some people…some people were dead before they ever lived. They were dead when they were born. They don’t know what it’s like to miss it; they don’t know what it’s like to be alive. But I was alive for more than half a decade.

I know.
 
A.A.

#Unreal #Letter #Living #Perfect #HumanCondition
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