30.09.25

I hear the driver’s voice, soft now, as if she’s trying not to wake me. “We’re here.” she says.

I’m barely awake, my head still heavy, but she’s careful when she takes me out of the seat and lifts me, cradling me on her hip. She supports my neck too, as if I might slide into consciousness otherwise. My body feels too relaxed to fight it— so I don’t. I rest my head against her shoulder, drifting in and out of sleep as she carries me inside, reality becoming a semi-lucid blur.

We move through the house quietly. She avoids the rooms where laughter and loud voices spill out, guiding me instead down the hall where my paintings hang, from ones my parents hung to the ones my children made. I can almost hear her eyes lingering on them as we pass by. But she must get me to bed, because I am tired.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear my friends calling my name— looking for me. She knows that. She keeps walking, her careful pace through the quiet rooms giving the soundscape a soft glow as I drift away. I’m smiling now, though I’m not sure if I’m awake enough to register why. Something warm wraps around me. I don’t resist. It’s gentle, and I let myself sink into the soft bed below me. Just before she leaves, I hear her pause, and then— that lullaby. She tucks me in. The door is opened, just a crack, and the muffled noise of the party creeps into the cracked door.

I can’t make out any words, but I know all the voices. They belong to people I love, muffled by the door but unmistakably theirs. It feels like something I’ve missed, that same feeling I used to get when my mother would begrudgingly carry me from the car to my racecar bed after a long drive. The room would be dark, lit only by the kitchen light and shifting of shadows, moving with their voices, and I’d hear my parents drifting in from the next room— laughing and chatting late into the evening. I know I wasn’t supposed to hear, but they felt so human in this moment.

And then there is a thumb on my shadow— back and forth like a metronome, scratching like velcro. The lullaby stops, and I feel a final warmth on my forehead as I sink into my dream and the lights go out in my home.

author's note

i suck at narrative guysss!! this is a sister-piece to (the far better) piece 'store below 25c' as they were both for the same conceptual metaphor assignment. i like the concept here, of using a childhood home as a conceptual metaphor for one's life, and the imagery of death being a visit back through it and revisiting all the memories and people you've loved as if one big house party. i think it would work in a bigger piece with actual characters rather than just a scenic prose but i had VERY few words to work with!! oh well, not my finest work but i loved the concept that i had heavily based off of a tiktok (i will not be able to find it sorry!!) of a lovely little animation of a skeleton being carried to bed after a sleepy car ride with wistful music and the same title of 'i hope death feels like'.