posted on Oct, 22 2016 @ 11:34 PM
The day I died came very unexpected, to say the least. After all I was only 3 years old and had not yet had a single thought about death.
But there I was, 10 octillion atoms within my cells organizing themselves to shut down. I had a dislodged jaw, a fractured skull and a broken neck. My
senses were still intact and my brain registered sounds via the ear canals.
I heard loud chattering coming in closer from the distance while I felt a cold blade piercing at my skin in the region of my heart. I knew this to be
death about to have me when those noises grew clearer and manifested themselves into about ten or twenty black angelic type of otherworldly beings;
maybe nuns, as my young comprehension seemed to categorize them. The tallest of them shouting at death to take its leave, accusing it of not being
sure when it’s supposed to take a victim's life and when not.
“Go sort your entries” I heard the angel say. Death disappeared at once and the black veiled beings gave their attention to me. They started
clapping their hands, some rhythmically, others as in chaos, producing negative and positive vibrations. My skeleton’s frequency was affected by
this and quickly disengaged connections to the rest of my body, leaving me feeling like a jelly fish.
”This is a perfect corpse just super ready and pliable”, “perfect in the way it is stretched out”, “stop the atoms now, revitalize the
cells, the life force has to be saved”, “still so young”, “time to manifest new bones”. I heard all kinds of suggestions and felt their
focus burning inside my body; others supported their dark friends with singing the songs of my life.
Meanwhile my mother was in disbelief. “No” “No”, she only just had screamed, “not into the tree”, but it had been too late. My little feet
moved too fast running down the slope of a hill where we only just had been playing. I aimed to run into a tree that would stop my speeding legs. I
knew I would not make it into my mother’s arms that had encouraged me to fly into them.
My mother was distraught. Devastated. She tried to make me breathe, to live, to laugh again as just before. But I wouldn’t. She had laid me on my
back and had caressed me, had whispered in my ear to live. “Live, live!”. She pleaded with god to save me. But nothing changed. Finally she had
looked at her dead child and it was her who had changed.
She scooped me up into her arms to take me to the nearest hospital, to a doctor. To have her child pronounced dead. I looked at the black nuns and
said fair well. “It’s not going to be easy”, they said as they faded away. It was only me who saw my first skull and bones stay behind
underneath that deadly lifesaving pine.
When the doctors at the hospital told my mother that there is nothing wrong with me, she knew that could not be right. The second shock hit her hard
and changed her to even worse. She felt scared of me.
“This is not my child”, she yelled. She could not think of anything else anymore. After a few days of torture she took what she believed to be of
the devil and placed me on the steps of an orphanage.
I recognized the black angelic nuns straight away and loved them for the memory I had. But I could never figure out why they did not recognize me and
why they were mean to me for the next ten years of my life.