Willow's Choice

I was walking home from work when I took out my phone to check the time. That was all it took for three men to approach me. The street was dimly lit—one of those shortcuts I always told myself I shouldn't take but did anyway because it saved me ten minutes. Ten minutes that would cost me everything. They tried to take my backpack and, of course, my phone, and I fought for my things. I fought harder than I probably should have. Looking back now, it seems ridiculous—dying over a phone with several payments left on it. But in that moment, all I could think about was how I'd worked overtime for three weeks to afford it, how I'd skipped lunches and walked instead of taking the bus. That phone represented more than just a device; it embodied every sacrifice I'd made, every hour of my life I'd traded for it. I still have several payments to make. Or rather, *had* several payments to make. That phone was the last decision I made in that life. The last thing I chose before everything went dark and then... bright again. I remember feeling the edge of the knife against my chest. It wasn't like in the movies—there was no slow-motion moment of realization, no dramatic pause. Just a sharp, cold sensation, followed immediately by warmth. My own blood, spreading across my shirt like spilled wine. I remember thinking, absurdly, that I'd just bought that shirt. I heard screams. Mine? Someone else's? I couldn't tell. The sounds blurred together, mixing with the rush of blood in my ears. I saw lights like car headlights, bright and blinding. Someone had stopped. Would they help? Would they call for help? Or would they just drive away, not wanting to get involved? I pressed on the wound as if I could stop the bleeding, as if my hands could hold back death itself. My palms grew slick and warm. The pressure made it hurt worse, but some instinct told me to keep pressing, keep fighting, even though I could feel my strength draining away with each heartbeat. I also felt the cold floor beneath me. When had I fallen? I didn't remember my knees hitting the pavement, but suddenly I was there, kneeling as if in prayer. Maybe I was praying. I can't remember if I said any words, if I called out for my mother, if I begged God for another chance. The cold was the last thing I remember from that life. The concrete was so cold, even though it was summer. Or maybe it was my body that was cold, my blood no longer warming me from the inside. And then... nothing. Or not nothing. Something else. Something impossible. Minutes later—though it could have been hours or days or years for all I knew—I woke up. I felt much better, which was the first sign that something was terribly wrong. People who get stabbed in the chest don't wake up feeling "much better." They wake up in hospitals, if they wake up at all, connected to tubes and machines, with doctors hovering nervously nearby. But I wasn't in a hospital. I was in a large room—luxurious and old—with the smell of wood filling my nostrils. The scent was rich and deep, like aged oak or mahogany. It was the smell of money, of history, of a world completely different from my tiny apartment with its peeling wallpaper and perpetual odor of the neighbor's cooking. Perhaps this was some kind of private hospital? A very expensive one? I thought to myself: *What a strange hospital...* The bed I was lying in was enormous, with posts at each corner carved with intricate designs—vines and flowers and creatures I couldn't quite make out in the dim light. The mattress was so soft I felt like I was floating. Heavy curtains hung at the windows, deep burgundy fabric that looked like it cost more than everything I'd owned in my previous life. I hadn't even gotten out of bed, hadn't fully processed where I was, when a flood of images came to my mind. It felt like someone had turned on a television inside my head and set it to fast-forward. It was like watching a movie sped up, all the scenes blurring together but somehow still comprehensible. I saw my death—watching from outside my own body as I bled out on that street corner. I saw the ambulance arrive too late. I saw the paramedics shake their heads. Then I saw my wake. A small affair, because I hadn't had many people in my life. The funeral home had those harsh fluorescent lights that made everyone look sickly and pale. There was a closed casket—of course there was, after what had happened to me. I saw my grave. A simple headstone, because who would pay for anything elaborate? My name, my dates. A life summarized in two numbers and a dash. People who weren't even close to me were crying. Coworkers who had barely spoken to me were dabbing at their eyes with tissues. Neighbors who had never invited me over for coffee were shaking their heads and talking about what a tragedy it was. Even my ex-boyfriend was there, with a sad face. How pathetic. We'd broken up eight months ago after I'd caught him texting another woman. He'd cried then too, begging for another chance, swearing it meant nothing. And here he was crying again, probably enjoying the drama of it all, the attention he'd get as "the boyfriend of that poor girl who got killed." My friends were crying too. Real tears, these ones. Sarah and Jennifer stood together, holding each other up. They'd been the ones to identify my body, I realized with a jolt. They'd had to look at me, at what those men had done. There was even an argument at the funeral, though I didn't understand what had happened. Someone was shouting, pointing fingers. Had someone blamed someone else? Had my ex said something inappropriate? The images moved too fast for me to tell. I didn't even get a chance to cry about my own death, didn't get a moment to process the fact that I—the *I* who had existed for twenty-eight years in that world—was gone. Didn't get to mourn the life I'd never finish living, the dreams I'd never achieve, the person I'd never become. I didn't get that chance because immediately, without pause or warning, I began to see someone else's memories. They flooded in like the first set had, but these were different. These weren't my memories. These belonged to someone else entirely.