“What do you remember from your life when you were still alive?” I asked after a long silence. To be honest, I was scared to ask him that question. I figured it might be something he doesn’t want to talk about. Something that he’s trying to forget. After all, he didn’t take this risk of journeying to find out how he died.
The long silence was deafening. And I was determined that he wouldn’t answer the question. I was about to say sorry when he opened his mouth.
“I was an asshole,” he started and I looked at him in my periphery. He was still looking at the ceiling. As if by doing so, it would be easier for him to talk about it. As if doing so, it would he find the words he needed to say it. I let him. I didn’t say anything and just waited for him to say anything. To continue what he start
