That was all there was for Sammy: cold, empty darkness. The burning had stopped; he could no longer feel the weight of the necklace on his chest. The all-encompassing stillness made him slip into an odd state of peace; rationalizing, even moving, became an irrelevant notion. His breathing stopped, and he felt himself smile a bit, letting previous events wash away—like waves receding from the shore. For the moment, he was in a complete state of stasis.
This must be what a coma feels like… I could get used to thi-
"Stop grinning like an idiot." The same raspy voice from earlier echoed from the darkness. There was something different about the voice this time, yet Sammy couldn't quite place it.
I guess those theories about being able to hear people while you're in a coma were right. I'll have to remember that when I wake up. Speaking of which, how did I fall into a coma in the first place?
"Were you planning on opening your eyes or just sit there looking stupid?" The voice came again, taking a tone of slight agitation.
I wonder who he is talking to. I must remember to ask him about what was wrong with that necklace. How many people are in my hospital roo-
Sammy's reverie was shattered but the sudden impact of something large and heavy. His eyes fluttered open, with a particularly girly yelp, as he recoiled from the blow to his head. Stumbling a bit, he looked around to see what had hit him. Lying next to him was a large, weathered book. Sammy bent down to retrieve it. The book was leather bound, and worn from countless years of abuse. This guy really doesn't take care of his stuff. One could tell by the flaking gilded letters on the front and spine, and from the bookmark tassel, that it was handmade. The front read Keep Calm, Everybody Dies: Guide to Dealing with Your (Un)timely Passing and the Afterlife. Below the title was a grayish smiley face with X's for eyes and a large, toothless grin.
Refusing to entertain the prospect of being dead, Sammy glanced around the room, hoping to gather some clarification as to what was happening. It took several moments before his surroundings actually registered. From what he could tell, he was in a room—more specifically, a black tiled dining room. It was a medium sized room, equipped with the usual dining room ensemble. In the center stood a wooden table about the size king sized bed. Each of the chairs surrounding the table were taken by an unmoving occupant , as if they were frozen there. The gothic style detailing of the table complimented by the rich, dark red staining and polish gave the impression that it had recently been bathed in a fresh coat of blood. The chairs stood tall next to the table with a similar theme. Around the room, banners and tinsel were strung up along the walls and over cabinets. Confetti littered the floor as if a group of drunken pixies blew their brightly colored, sparkling chunks all over. Strewn about the table were what appeared to be decorated boxes of varying sizes. Some were patterned, while others had words and numbers on them. Each of them had some kind of tear in them, while their previous contents lay next to them.
It all finally clicked for Sammy when he saw the new skateboard his father had given him. This was his dining room. Once the pieces of the puzzle finally started fitting together, he started taking in the big picture.
The occupants of the chairs were the partygoers. It was as though they were frozen in time, their faces suspended in expressions of fear and surprise. A few were caught mid-gasp, some of the younger girls were screaming, and one boy sat picking his nose. The adults were pointing up at the ceiling just above the seat at the opposite head of the table from Sammy. Well, all the adults but one. An elderly man, the likes of whom Sammy had never seen before, was staring straight at him, who was too busy attempting to process the scene to notice.
Sammy followed the gazes of the other occupants of the room. They were staring at where his mother's favorite chandelier hung. Well, had been hung. It was currently suspended in the air a couple feet below where it had hung since he was born. The chain had broken, and nothing but a couple inches of air stood between its plethora of sharp pointy bits and—Sammy; except, it wasn't Sammy, who was currently standing at the opposite side of the table, mouth agape, staring at his doppelgänger. Dumbstruck, he rushed over to inspect himself. The other Sammy was clad in the exact same clothing. From his well-worn black Nike sneakers, to torn denim jeans and his Doctor Who t-shirt. The other Sammy's shoes even had the angel that his friend Sarah had drawn on the back of the heels. The only difference, he noted, was the fact that this clone was wearing the pendant and he wasn't.
"Ahem." The voice cleared its throat, as if to draw attention to itself.
Sammy, having forgotten he wasn't alone, panickedly glanced around the room, attempting find the source.
"I know you're young," spouted the voice, impatiently, "but I didn't think you were stupid."
Sammy's gaze finally came to rest on the elderly man, who was staring directly at him. His icy blue eyes sent a chill down Sammy's spine and hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He was leaning back in one of the chairs, kicking his feet up on the table. Something about this old man, with his silver-streaked black hair slicked back against his head and his crisp beige pinstriped pants and vest fitted snuggly over a bleached white dress shirt, that made a little voice in Sammy's head plead that he run for the hills. It could have been that he was dressed like someone from the Victorian era, or the fact that the longer he stared at the old man, he looked less old. Whatever it was, he stuck out like a Wookie in the Vatican. Sammy wondered how he failed to notice him before.
"H-hello?" Sammy hesitantly whispered at the old man, who hadn't moved apart from the backwards aging.
After a moment, the statue-like old man grinned from ear to ear and gave a little wave.
End of Entry 2