[ WP ] What if after you die , you wake up with a bong in your hand and your alien friend asks `` How was it ? `` .

He wakes up with a bong in his hand, and his alien friend asks, `` how was it?'' 
 
 He cries at that. Tears stream down his cheeks, his chest heaves. He's not crying because he's sad. He's crying because that's the only thing his body can do, in response to *that*. That experience. It's the carnal response to it. 
 
 `` Woah there, what are you doing? What is that coming out of your eyes?'' 
 
 `` I-It's a-a thing th-at happens *there*.'' 
 
 `` Where?'' 
 
 The field they're in suddenly seems infinitesimally large. His brain feels like a melancholy song. Perhaps that's what life is supposed to feel like. He'd heard about this before. He did n't think it was *this* intense. The darkness of the night is overwhelming. The three moons in the sky provide little light. The only sound is his sobs. Jesus, his chest hurts from that. 
 
 `` W-where ya go.'' 
 
 `` Is it really that bad?'' 
 
 `` Lordie, it is. Y-you do n't know until you *feel* it.'' 
 
 `` What happens?'' 
 
 This entire thing was his friend's idea. But, oh, that experience was indescribable. The first bit is fuzzy, he does n't know why. He ca n't even remember how he came into that- that world. He only remembers the man telling him about it, how it'd been a violent ordeal. An entrance full of screaming, and tears, and blood. How he'd lost the woman that meant the most to him. He misses that man, he realizes. He did n't think he'd be able to feel that, in *this* body. 
 
 `` You kinda just get thrown in, an' I d-do n't really remember the first bit, honestly. But there were other, well, things there,'' he struggles to find the words, `` they told me about the first bit.'' 
 
 `` What did they look like?'' 
 
 `` Their skin was peachy, I dunno, it was so weird. They looked like us, but that skin. It was n't green. And everyone's eyes were n't black. There-there were so many different colours. His were brown.'' 
 
 `` Jesus, maybe this stuff's too strong.'' 
 
 He thinks about the years following that moment. Or at least, it felt like years. He'd loved the man so much. *Love*, it was so new to him. But not new at all. He'd never felt it before. That ache. When he was away from them too long, he felt homesick. *For* them. He misses him right then. He misses laying down with him in bed, curled up and comforted. When he had those dreams. That was crazy too. *Dreams*. He was awake without being awake. The sobs bubble up again. 
 
 `` I love that man.'' 
 
 `` Love?'' 
 
 How could he describe it? It's something so abstract, so intangible. You do n't feel love, really, but you know when you do. It falls apart so, so hard. NO matter how bad someone's being, you love the good. No matter how fleeting that is. It was looking into the man's eyes. Him pulling him into his chest. Beard tickling his forehead. 
 
 `` You have to feel it to know it.'' 
 
 Does he love his friend? Sure, maybe. 
 
 `` Well, what happened after the fuzzy bit?'' 
 
 `` There was a lot of pain.'' 
 
 `` Pain? You got hurt? We should get you to the hospital-'' 
 
 `` Not like that. Like, my brain was hurting.'' 
 
 `` That-'' 
 
 `` No, not physically. Everything I thought hurt. Every emotion, too.'' 
 
 `` Huh.'' 
 
 The friend does n't understand. How could he? He'd never felt anything apart from `` fine'' and `` curious''. 
 
 The pain he felt though; that was real. He remembered when she broke up with him. Something that'd never hurt before. Not *here*. But *there*? He did n't think he'd ever felt that pain. The man had coddled him after that. Given chocolate. `` Everyone's first hurts a lot. More than anything'll ever hurt in your life,'' and that smile. Then, when he realized he loved men. Lusted after men. The pain he felt in his stomach. That *clench*. He'd been so anxious. But the man just smiled and said he did n't care. He was his son after all. Why would who he loves change the fact that he loves him? The hug after that. That's what got him. 
 
 The pain he felt when his second love broke up with him. The pain of exams. The pain of having to work so hard. Times where all he'd wanted to do was go down on his knees, and beg for it to be over. 
 
 `` It's like breaking a bone, but in your thoughts. Y'know, there are millions and billions and trillions of stars, and I was down there, fussing over scars. It was... Exhilarating.'' 
 
 `` Right.'' 
 
 The other is staring at him confused. 
 
 The pain he felt when the man got older and older. The pain when that man died. Fuck, that'd been horrible. He'd missed the man so much. *Fuck*. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt. He'd been upset when his dog had died. But this? It came close to nothing else. He'd cried so much. He'd knelt down, hugged the tombstone and begged for the pain to be over. Begged for his daddy back. It was so unfair. He'd been only seventy-five. He screamed, so, so, so loudly. His body, not just sad, but desperate. He did n't know what to do. He'd felt trapped, weighed upon by expectations and needs and wants. He just wanted his daddy back. 
 
 `` But- but there was a lot of good too.'' 
 
 `` Yeah?'' 
 
 The man picking him up and twirling him around, when he was little. The man hugging him, twirling him about, when he graduated. All three times. His first kiss, with the man who would be his husband. The kiss at their wedding. Laughing and being stupid with his friends, all through his life. The birth of his first son. And then his second. And then his third. Seeing them graduate, and learn, and grow. Seeing them have babies of their own. The sex with his husband, god that'd be a highlight. Going up and up in his job. His husband doing the same. 
 
 There were so many moments. Some good. Some soul-crushingly bad. All worthwhile. 
 
 He'd lived a lifetime. 
 
 He wants to go back. 
 
 `` Should I?'' 
 
 `` You'll regret it forever.'' 
 
 He knows he will. 
 
 He's seen so much, loved so many, hated so much too. Passion and disinterest. Writer's block and pure inspiration. So much. And he can never feel it again. Not in the same way. He wants his dad back. His husband. His children. 
 
 `` Should I?'' 
 
 `` Yes.'' 
 
 And with that, a newborn came screaming and fighting into the world. 
 
 He did n't know the life of sorrow ahead of him. He did n't know the pain. The scars he'd amass. 
 
 He did n't know how he would n't know about them at all, as he grew and loved and cared, and never became bitter in the face of it all. 
 
 
 

