They say that when you die your whole life flashes before you but mine just carried on until I walked into the gallery where my friend's paintings were displayed. It was the anniversary of his death and I felt like I was being called there, pulled by invisible strings and unheard voices to see the works of someone who'd been resting in peace while I'd been walking in the shadows of the living we'd left behind.
I barely remember how we died anymore, just the pressure against my face and neck as the side of his car crumpled like wet paper. His death was instant according to the morticians, they said I lived for a half hour and passed as soon as they'd cut me free from the wreckage.
I tried to remember more as I walked by the landscapes and portraits he'd poured his heart and soul into until I got to a self portrait that didn't seem to fit in at all. It was meant to show him staring up at the sky but he was staring at all the living faces around him, mouthing the names of familiar people until our eyes finally met.
The dead man in the painting wept as he realised I could see him too. The rest of the gallery seemed to flow around us like we didn't even exist as he held out his hand and I stepped forward to take it. A part of me will miss moving around like I was still a piece of the world but at least I'm not alone for now.
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