Triomphe, Paradis, Culpabilité (I)

1951 

Paris, France

Awake. My eyes squint as the blazing sun shines its warm rays of light down on me. I can distantly hear the sound of an accordion and the smell of gasoline in the air, as my eyes begin to adjust to the brightness. I’m on a bench in a large plaza city life bustling all about me, and suddenly I remember everything the memories of my past striking me like a metal rod slams against a bell to chime it.

‘I’m supposed to be dead right? I did kind of shoot myself in the head just five minutes before, or at least I thought so? Is this France?’, I rush these thoughts through my head rapidly and stand up stumbling forwards in confusion and in about of losing my balance. I look up and smile at a young man walking by and get up. The breeze was wonderful, and even with the overwhelming smell of cars chugging away down the road to my left I also smelled the glorious scent of fresh baked goods waft by me. I assumed this was surely some sort of afterlife, some perfect world built from all our far off dreams we concoct during our pitiful lives. Then again this seemed all too good to be true, the music, smells, wonderful weather. Or maybe I just chose the right time to visit afterlife France? Was that Reine de Musette? I really like that one, it’s a fun French waltz. Memories of her, again. Dancing in a field in my hometown. The screams and anguish of Syndicate fill my head. By shooting myself I shot him and by shooting himself he shot me… I sit down by a cafe and sighed in exhaustion. Who knew being dead was so difficult.

So I can gather one thing, this place is perfect and almost completely revolves around me. I can talk French now as well and for that matter any language. I think and I move, I move and I think. Maybe this is the universe's way of thanking me for sparing billions of people from some sadistic fate at the hands of some future me with eugenist inclinations. If so damn is this nice, I can gather this is the 1950’s or sometime around then, but without the pressure of post-World War life. It’s so happy, melodic, and simple. No pings and buzzing of the modern world, our devices pulling us away from the simpler things in life, and honestly more enjoyable moments. Who knew drinking a coffee or a biscuit in the Paris breeze over a balcony could be so simply enjoyable. I’ve been here for days, weeks, maybe more but I truly have lost track. I met this wonderful girl called Eloise, and even though I’m pretty certain she’s part of this whole post-life illusion it’s been great. Great family and damn does her mother know how to cook. I think I could get used to life like this, it’s pretty nice. 

My conscious finally caught up with the body today, and now I realize I left my little sister alone, she has no one now. Or does she? Maybe this is something separate it has to be. I cried a bit at the thought of her alone, especially considering how trusting and caring she was of me, she really saw me as her guardian after our parents passed. Maybe what I did was selfish, killing myself to end the painful cycle or maybe just maybe… this was supposed to happen. What if my pain I feel now, is something I must live with for eternity, an everlasting stain on this little paradise of mine. I frowned in disgust at the thought, what if he’s alive.