Dearly Departed

Each eccentric face that peered into hers had a tale written on it; locked away and hidden behind its owner’s expressions.

The nightclub, termed “Dearly Departed,” was brimming with chronicles of history, and Ophelia was interested in every single one. There was not a thing these strangers shared, except that Death came for them all.

Experiences with the living were treasured, and people’s narratives were remarkable, especially now that they would never encounter another living being again. This was the currency here. Tell a secret and be admitted into the club. Have no secrets to tell, or no secrets you wish to share, and remain excluded.

The music was a mix of nostalgia and absurdity. There were heartbeats woven into the notes, breaths integrated into the chords. It was so distinctly alive, yet they were anything but. The strangers were dancing discordantly, each one hearing their own beat, their past life. Some moved with melancholy, as though something was weighing them down, while others danced without inhibition, arms moving wildly and bodies twisting.

It was abnormally cold down there. The kind of temperature that would have them hiding under the covers, with a warm drink, cuddled with a loved one when they were alive. But now, the chill remains only as a nuance of the dead.

Ophelia was standing by the bar, watching the man with bones instead of flesh as he mixed various concoctions, when suddenly a cold hand grasped her bare shoulder.

“You look familiar … did I know you back there?” The voice is soft and melodic, and Ophelia almost instinctively relaxes.

The question causes her to pause and think. Ophelia doesn’t know what to say. Did she know her up there? Her life past now seems so far away, and things are starting to seem fuzzy. She glances at the woman, who is waiting expectantly.

“I’m … not so sure.” She replies, voice quiet and reserved. The woman in front of her looks as though she had lived a life complete. Her head full of gray hair, her face crinkled with eyes so full of wisdom. Ophelia suddenly decides even if she did not know this woman, she would like to get to know her.

The woman is still staring at her, the hand once placed on Ophelia’s shoulder now at her side, fingers clenched into a fist. Her ring finger displays a golden ring that glimmers beautifully under the beaming lights.

“I am Gertrude.” She says, introducing herself.

Ophelia nods and smiles, introducing herself and shaking the old lady’s hand. There’s a shine in Gertrude’s eyes, and the younger woman knows the story she has to tell will be legendary.

She’s staring at her with a faraway look in her eyes. “Ophelia,” she mutters. “That was my daughter’s name.”