THE JOURNEY OF SHEIRA HART

Whoever coined the famous saying "There's no place like home," I want to tell that person I totally agree. Home is where I don't need to be worrying about what to wear. It's where I don't need to put something on my face to look presentable because home doesn't care if I have dried saliva on the side of my mouth. Home doesn't care if my head looked like a bird's nest. Home doesn't care if I have something on my eye. Home is where I could just be myself. Home is where I could rest from society. But here are also several things I hate about home. One is the alarm clock on my table. For some reason I hated it. It's summer vacation and whenever I hear the sound of my alarm clock, it makes me want to throw it across the room. It reminds me of school. Those dreadful days when I have to wake up too early to catch the bus. Another thing I hate is the window next to my bed. I hated why it was positioned there. I wanted to sleep in for the whole morning yet the sunshine pouring into the window wakes me up. I also hated the color of my room. It was a bright white plain paint and it's just very...plain. Another thing is my mother's voice downstairs as she shouts at my siblings for being so noisy early in the morning without her realizing she's louder than the two of them combined. And my father as he kept on knocking on my door, waking me up. He'd always fuss that I should sleep early every night and I hated that I had to sleep early and miss my favorite shows which airs late at night. But I have to admit, sneaking out of my room to turn the wi-fi back on was kind of exciting, and turning it back off was a challenge. I never liked the sound of the neighbors shouting at each other. I mean, who does? They scream at the top of their lungs as if there are seven mountains between them and I wanted to scream at them too. I never liked the smell of the street that somehow finds its way into my room. I've always asked my parents that we should move and I know it's not that easy. My father's job is here as well as my mom's. It would be hard for me to transfer schools since it's my last year in high school. But I just want to piss them off with my absurd suggestions. I never liked the smell of flowers. My mom liked them. My father doesn't. But he does a good job at hiding it. I, on the other hand, doesn't even bother to hide my grimace whenever my mom picks flowers from her small garden and puts it inside the house. I've always told her I don't want it inside my room but for some reason, it was the first thing I smelled the moment I opened my eyes. I wasn't on my bed but on the table. I never sleep on my table but I found myself slumping on an unfamiliar table. Did I study too much and fell asleep? No, that's absurd. I don't like studying. And the surrounding was unbelievably noisy and that's when I realized I wasn't on my room but in some sort of a café. The smell of flowers apparently came from the huge vase beside me. It was carefully placed on the table where I was sleeping. The smell of coffee filled the room and there were many people around. I looked at the counter and the signage FunLife was plastered across the stone wall. I could see a guy around my age behind the counter, cooking something and then gave it to a little girl around 7 years old. Then he looked at me and winked. I raised my brow at him. Then I took my time scanning the area and I could see people enjoying their food on the table and talking to each other. But something's strange with them. I'm not sure if there's a vintage party but some of the people inside were wearing clothes as they existed a long time ago. But what bothers me most was the fact that I am in this unfamiliar, weird café, with a staff who randomly winks at strangers. Why on earth am I here? The man behind the counter earlier walked towards me bringing a tray of food. And when I realized it was for me I waved my hand. "Sorry, but I didn't order anything–" "No, Miss Sheira. It's on the house," he said as he laid the food on the table. "Okay. This is getting creepier. How do you know my name?" "I work part-time for Mr. Grim and I memorized all the people's names here just like him." "That doesn't answer my question. I don't even know you. Who are you? And who is Mr. Grim?" "Oh. My apologies." He placed the tray down and extended his hand. "I'm Raphael and Mr. Grim is the owner of this café." "I'm sorry to ask this but where am I?" I asked and looked at the food on the table. I had to admit they look appetizing but I am not eating it until I know where the hell I am. "I'll take it from here, Raph," someone behind Raphael said and he was probably someone in his late twenties. Raphael gave me a small smile before he went back to the counter. The man, who's probably the owner, Mr. Grim, extended his hand to me. "I'm Mr. Grim and the owner of this café. You're Sheira Hart, I believe," he said and I took his hand. He looked like a charmer and could charm anyone if he wants to. "I'm sorry, Mr. Grim but where am I and why am I here and why do you know my name?" But he just smiled and tilted his head before he said, "You're in the Silver City, Miss Sheira. I know your name because you were on my list. I fetched you earlier though I doubt you have any recollection of it," he adjusted his glasses and gave me his brightest smile as if he's about to deliver the most wonderful news, "but you died several hours ago." I stared at him for a few seconds. "I'm sorry, what?" He cleared his throat. "I fetched your soul several hours ago after you died—" I roared with laughter. I didn't care if the others were now staring at us but it was probably the best prank someone has ever played on me. I hit his shoulder jokingly and he just stared at it before his eyes went back to me. His face was unmoving and he was just looking at me curiously. As if wondering why I was laughing. "Wait, who paid you to do this?" "The Higher Being—" "Oh my God!" "Exactly," he said and still stared at me. "No. I mean, you're so good. How long have you been doing this?" "Millennia—" I laughed. "This is hilarious. I don't even recognize where the hell I am." "You're not in hell, I'm afraid but I can arrange for you to go there if you want to." I cleared my throat and drank water. "Alright. You can stop this now. You got me." I raised my arms but he just stared at me. I looked around and the other people inside the café were also looking at us. They were giving me curious stares as I try to process what's going on. "Wait. You were serious?" "I swore under an oath that I would never lie so yes, what I said was all true." I was about to open my mouth when I saw someone entered the café. But he didn't use the door. He walked through the wall. He freaking walked through a wall! I looked at Mr. Grim who was also looking at me. And the moment I roamed my eyes around, I almost shrieked at what I saw. The people – they looked fine earlier but then I could see someone with a knife on his heart. Another one with a hole on his head. And when I turned to look at Raphael, he was a metal bar pierced through his throat. I covered my mouth and when I saw my reflection, my knees buckled and the chairs turned over as I took a step back. Because on the glass wall was me, wearing a pale blue dress, bloody and wounded. I couldn't recognize my face. It was brutally wounded and my arms were at odd angles. I blinked and it was gone. I touched my face but there were no wounds there anymore. I looked around and the people don't look bloody anymore. And when I looked at Raphael, he was smiling at one of the customers. And it slowly dawned on me. It was probably the most absurd thing I have ever heard but nothing else could explain the things I saw earlier. Then I realized, death could happen to anyone. No exceptions. I sat on the remaining chair and let it all sink in. That I just died and I don't even know how.  * * *