Bohemia Village Voice

This story came fourth in our ultra-short story competition earlier this year. The judges’ comments included ‘ I liked this’, ‘another Gothic-style tale’ and ‘effectively chilling’.

I could just about hear my own footsteps as my soles crushed the frosted grass beneath them. Each single step sent a chill down my body as the fresh December air bit at my face and enveloped my ungloved hands. I thrust them deeply into the pockets of last winter’s coat, and my fingers traced the outlines of the objects. But my mind didn’t register what they were – it was somewhere else entirely, though where I couldn’t quite decide. It is amazing how trivial observations can provide such a relieving distraction.
After all that has happened – is still happening – my only interest is how the bare branches of the trees resemble the long, bony fingers of Death himself. Pointing upwards towards the ominously stark white sky, as if promising a different fate, or perhaps threatening one. It was impossible to decide. I felt numb, the chill morning air emphasising my mood and encouraging it. I continued to walk, not going anywhere in particular, and barely even aware of my own existence, seeing everything around me except myself.
It’s cold now, I feel it, but it isn’t refreshing. I can see the wind blowing through the branches of my haunting tree, but it escapes me.
They say that when you die, there is a bright light or a tunnel, or maybe the said Reaper comes. That didn’t happen to me, but as I walked down the deserted streets and across the familiar fields and paths, I knew that I had died.