You Can't Fix Death

When a house fire killed her father, Miss Woerpel fell into a psychotic stupor. And it's a fate far worse than death.

She walked through the cafeteria alone as always. These people didn’t want the likes of her roaming around. She didn’t understand why she had been tied down to this place, she’d never seen it in life. But she had to settle for what she got for now, until the afterlife finally claimed her and took her off this wretched planet.

            Her death had been terrifying, slow and painful. She was forced to suffer through it as her skin had been burned off her body, watching her father go through the same fate right before her eyes. She remembered spending countless amounts of time in a clean white room, something she thought was heaven. But she’d been wrong, it was just a strange in between time and then she turned up here. Her skin fresh and new like the day she’d been born. Just another product of being dead she supposed.

            Each day was followed by a period of blackness, a time where she couldn’t remember what happened to her. She always awoke in the same place, doomed to walk the same path each and every day. It was dull, intolerable, but she didn’t have a choice. She went through the motions, ensuring that everyone she met along the way knew her fate. She didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression.

            They all believed her, except the ones in white coats, the ones that claimed to be doctors. They always tried to tell her she was wrong, that she was alive. But it was a foolish trick. They mocked her, stirred guilt in her for killing her father. It hadn’t been her fault, and they died together so it didn’t matter. But still the doctors persisted, always in her face, always trying to make her confess. They wanted her to hurt, to feel pain, but the dead don’t feel pain, they feel nothing.

            She settled into the exact chair she had the day before, and the week before. She didn’t really feel the seat, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t have to feel it to occupy it. Some of the patients glanced her way, all terrified of her. Anyone would be, a ghost in the midst of all the living was not something you could take lightly. She stared blankly out the window into the fenced off yard. She wanted desperately to go outside and feel the breeze in her hair, the soft grass between her toes like everyone else could feel. But it was something she’d never experience again. She’d never smell the flowers or be able to lace them through her hair. Never hear the birds sing their song.

            Instead she would hear the patients cry in the night, the screams of those forced into submission. She would feel cold, unable to warm herself. She would only experience the things that existed within these cold stone walls. Only allowed to witness new patients come and go as they switched wards. She would never move from this ward, it was her prison until heaven finally found the room to accept her.

            But there was always the chance that heaven was never in her future. Maybe she committed an unseen sin. Something drastic enough to warrant this cruel punishment. She desperately wished this was not the case, but feared it most likely was. Her life had ended, and her death was just beginning.

                                   *   *   *                                  

The doctor’s watched carefully as the newest patient made her way through the cafeteria. She didn’t take any food, rather just sat alone in the corner, staring blanking out the window. She wasn’t bundled to protect her from the cold like the other patients and her skin was pale. Her figure was far too small from refusal to eat, but nothing they tried would get the food into her system. They had resorted to sedating her and pumping nutrients in through an IV daily to get her the proper nutrition.

            The institute was proud of her, happy to have her after a long battle with another psychiatric ward across the country. Dr. Valencik was assigned to her case, and anything her tried yielded no results. She was too far in her delusion, too set on the fact that she had died with her father that day.

He got up from the doctor’s table and went to settle in beside her. “How are you today Miss Woerpel? Feeling any better?” he asked kindly, pasting a soft smile over his features.

            “As good as one can when they’re dead, Doctor.” She responded vaguely, never turning to meet his eyes.

            The doctor sighed. “You need to live your life Miss Woerpel, this is no place to call home.” He said the same set of words each day, the repetition adding to her belief that she was reliving the same moment in time.

            “I have no life to live Doctor, the other patients believe me, why won’t you?” her voice grew louder with her frustration. “I died in that fire, the one that killed my father.” She whimpered the words, tears beading in her eyes.

            “But you didn’t die that day.” Doctor Valencik placed his hand on hers. “Look, your flesh is solid, you are alive.”

            “You lie, this is a trick, an illusion.” She countered, yanking her hand away. “If I was really alive would all these people ignore me?” she gestured around her, encompassing the entire cafeteria with one motion.

            The doctor sighed, hanging his head. “They ignore the ones they do not know. They are not sure if they can trust you yet.” He explained, but the words just went through her. “You have a disorder Miss Woerpel, one we can cure if only you’ll let us.”

            “My disorder is death.” she spat, staring him in the eyes. “My corpse is six feet under and I’m trapped here in this dreaded placed.”

            “You suffer from Cotard delusions, not death.” he explained, the term going over her head like it always did. “I can make them go away.”

            “No one can bring the dead back to life Doctor, especially not the likes of you.” She crossed her arms over her chest and got up, walking toward the exit. Dr. Valencik watched her go, knowing that pursing it any further would break the illusion. She was right of course, he couldn’t fix death. And as long as he kept the pattern consistent he wouldn’t be able to fix her.