Hello to all of you who read my words, since you can no longer hear me. First of all, I would like to introduce myself… I’m not going to give you my real name—after all, it doesn’t matter. But I will tell you my nickname, the one all my friends know me by… My name is Carli, and I’ve been dead for ten days.
I’d like to start this story with the tale of my death, as it’s something that still haunts me. Though, little by little, I’m starting to come to terms with not being alive anymore. It all happened very quickly. I was on a motorcycle with a dear friend (who, sadly, has ceased to be one, given the circumstances). We were leaving a party and had had a couple of drinks. We were happy but not drunk. I had been in Miami for a few months, a super cool city where I thought I might find a future among the clouds... I don’t want to talk about my past dreams, since all of that is over now… But it saddens me.
I don’t know what happened; I think it was something on the road. A branch, an animal… I felt a hit and was thrown off. I broke my neck when I landed. It was quick, too quick... I didn't have the chance to see my life flash before my eyes, like some of my new friends did. I simply fell, and then I saw myself with my neck broken in the middle of the road. I was looking at myself from outside. I was a disjointed puppet lying there in front of me… The worst part came after. A car ran over me. I saw blood—my blood—and my own face, staring at me with empty, lifeless eyes. Three more cars drove over me while I watched myself being tossed from side to side, unable to do anything. I wanted to scream: “Get up, they're going to kill you.” But I was already dead…
It took me a while to understand it… I felt angry. It all happened so fast. It wasn’t the time. Why me? Then I thought about my companion, the one I thought I loved. He was lying on the roadside with his hand shattered, screaming…
I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t do anything. I couldn't lift him or touch him. My hands went right through his body. That’s when I realized that I no longer belonged to the world of the living.
Afterwards I fled, I got lost among the fields and marshes. I didn’t want to see anyone, just to be alone and cry... Cry for my death, my own death... I felt terrible until dawn… When the sun came up, something inside me improved... A little, but it was something. Seeing the light after the darkness brings some comfort, even when everything is lost…
I hardly remember it now, but I think I retraced my steps and went back to where I died. That cursed road. I saw traces of blood, but I was no longer there. They had taken my body away. I’m not really sure what I thought. I think I somehow went back to my house. In the United States, if you don’t have a car, you’re almost homeless. But I flew—I was like a plane—and in seconds I returned home. No one was there… I spent the whole day there, reflecting on what to do… I thought of my family and felt so ashamed for having let them down. I left Spain with the idea of making it, of succeeding, and now I had taken my own life away from them... I would never return again. I would never be able to prove to them that I was a man of success. I cried, though no tears came out of my eyes…
Then I decided to return home to Madrid. For us, the dead or ghosts, it’s easy to get around. We just have to think we want to go somewhere, and we’re there...
The return trip was very quick. From Florida eastward. I stopped for a while in the Azores; I’ve always been fascinated by these lost islands in the middle of the ocean. I gazed down at them in admiration. So near, so far. But I didn’t want to stop, and I continued on. From the Azores to Lisbon... And then to follow the Tagus river up to Toledo, and from there to Madrid. I didn’t really enjoy flying over Spain. I was eager to get to my home—well, my parents’ home, really. When I arrived, no one was there. My parents and my sister had gone out. I wandered around the house sadly, so many memories... And now none of it mattered, because I was dead.
On the dining room table there was a newspaper. ABC, to be precise; my parents have always been very right-wing. It was open to the obituary page. I glanced at it absentmindedly, but there it was: my name and the date of my death. It had to have been my parents that published it—always so proper... The ceremony was happening right then, and the church was the same one where I was baptized and had my first communion. Of course… I’ve never been religious. As a child I was, but out of obligation and tradition. When I grew up, I simply stopped believing and going to church. I don’t consider myself an atheist, just agnostic. When I died I didn’t see any tunnel or any light, just myself lying dead on the road. I don’t care. What I don’t believe in is the Church. They don’t think about God, only about their own pockets, and that’s something I’ve seen a thousand times.
Something told me inside that this time, I had to go to church one last time—I had to be there at my own funeral. I barely thought it, and suddenly I was there.
I saw many familiar faces—my parents, my sister, family friends. I also saw my cousin, accompanied by a man with a beard and glasses. Her new boyfriend, I think. My poor cousin—her old boyfriend left her a week before their wedding, and I think that really affected her. But now she had someone else. I wasn’t very impressed by him at first; he was yawning, his face openly bored while my cousin sobbed—I believe sincerely.
It was at that moment that I noticed a woman who was staring intently at that man. She really stood out at the ceremony because she wore a long dress from another time, full of lace and embroidery. I didn’t recognize her either. What was she doing at my funeral? I moved closer to get a better look at her and she fixed her gaze on me.
I’ve only been dead for two weeks but I already know very well how to tell the empty gaze of the living. Empty towards me, because they don’t see me and their eyes look right through me. I’m dead, I’m a spirit, and human eyes cannot see ghosts. But this woman was looking at me—not through me. I approached her, and she greeted me:
- ПРИВЕТ, КАК ДЕЛА?
I felt very strange. She wasn’t speaking Spanish but some strange language, yet I understood her perfectly. She was saying: Hello, how are you? - You can see me? I asked.
- Конечно, как я не увижу. Of course, how could I not see you?
She was speaking another language, but her words made perfect sense in my mind, naturally. It seemed this phenomenon worked both ways because she also understood me without any problems. And she smiled at me. How beautiful she was... A beauty from another era.
- It’s very hot in this temple; would you mind accompanying me outside to cool off?
- Of course...
I didn’t feel hot or cold, but I wanted to be by the side of this mysterious woman. I didn’t care about my funeral or my family anymore. I just wanted to know what this princess was doing at my funeral. Was she an angel to take me to paradise, or a demon to drag me to hell? The reality was much more prosaic but also more interesting. We walked around Madrid for hours, talking nonstop. She was neither an angel nor a demon, just a ghost like me. Only, she’s been dead for more than a hundred years already...
Her name is Ilina and she was a princess in life. She died in Saint Petersburg and spent an eternity locked in a cemetery during the communist years. It was my cousin’s boyfriend who unknowingly brought her to Spain from Russia. The same one who was yawning at my funeral and who made such a bad impression on me. Apparently, he is a bit of a medium and accidentally communicated with my new friend. Ilina took the opportunity to escape and ended up in Spain. But he treated my friend badly, was afraid of her, and kicked her out of the house. That’s why she ended up in that church.
It doesn’t matter much how she got here—we found each other, and now we aren’t alone anymore. We are free spirits, young and eager to live and discover this wonderful city that is Madrid. The world is ours and no one can stop us. We enter all the hottest parties like VIPs—no door is closed to us. We simply go through them. We don’t need drugs or alcohol (it wouldn’t affect us anyway), just music and a good atmosphere. Pachá, Joy, Bombay, Penélope are our destinations. Ilina is a wonderful companion. She has everything: she’s beautiful, intelligent, and has a gift for conversation, always witty and interesting. And if we get bored, we simply watch the living—they are very funny. The eternal night is ours because we, too, are eternal. I have to confess I like being dead, enjoying my spirit freed from the body, with no hangovers or consequences waking up the next day. Because we, the dead, never sleep.
