American Literary Magazine
Skeletal Remains Hannah Sjovold The day I died began as an ordinary day. Scuffling feet from the floors below, coffee beans shaken in a grinder, squeaky doors unlocking, hissing water pipes, and gentle sunlight caused my mind to leave my dreamscape of altered reality. I resented it all. Rather than springing out from under my cocoon of covers to take on the day, I wallowed, hoping the sights and sounds were illusions and not the sign of morning. With a groan, I heaved off my comforter, the chill air conditioning making my neck tingle as goosebumps sprung up along my arms and legs. Stumbling through my mess of a room, I lumbered towards my bathroom, fumbling for my glasses to make out everything around me. I lazily brushed my teeth, even letting my toothbrush hang for a minute because moving my arm back and forth seemed like a herculean task – one I was unable to handle in that moment. I turned on the faucet, peeled off my ratty T-shirt I had slept in, and waited for the water to warm. As I scrubbed my scalp, my mind drifted, planning what I was going to wear that day. Mostly, I wanted to stay in my warm sweatpants and worn shirt, not restrictive jeans or business casual wear. Eventually, I coaxed myself out of the hot steam and back into the frigid, stale air. When I finally collected myself, I strode towards the mirror, my green eyes hauntingly staring back at me. I wish I were dead, I thought to myself, like words mumbled as an unconscious afterthought. Oh boy, how naive I was that autumn day.
Hood up, headphones clamped over my ears, I braced myself for the brisk wind and heavy streams of people making their way to work. I pushed open the heavy metal doors and began my usual route to the subway, averted eyes keenly studying the cracks in the pavement at my feet. The usual stench of piss and rotting trash lingered in the structural bones of the subway platform. My train came to a halting stop, the double doors slid open, and I entered. Latching onto the cool metal pole, all I noticed was the gentle tug of the train leaving the platform and the jostle of the tracks underneath my feet. It was only when I glanced up to check which stop we were nearing that I took note of the other passengers around me. A leaden dread seeped into my bones, crushing me, crumpling my body like used tin foil. The normally awake but dazed expressions of commuters were nowhere to be found. Donned backpacks and jackets were present, but the muscles that held them up were absent. Pale ivory fingers peaked through when a stranger checked their back pocket for their phone. Hollow eyes and hinged jaws filled out Sudoku and crossword puzzles. A deep terror electrocuted my bones – shakily, I removed my gloves, tugging off one finger at a time. As it slid off, I stared dumbfounded – slender white bones protruded from underneath my sweatshirt. Absolute silence from the sudden absence of my heartbeat and rhythmic breathing clouded my head, a daze descending around me. The doors squealed open, I sprinted – a single glove left on the floor of a dingy subway car.
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