BUT WASN'T
BECAUSE IT HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THE REST OF THIS STORY
You can hear it ripping up a log right near the door of the tent. You hold your breath and assure yourself nothing will happen, nothing like, oh, say, certain death? Of course not. You can�t die. But that pesky little thing called uncertainty lurks in the back of your mind. It says, �Hmm�a situation you have absolutely NO control over. Shucks. Should�ve stayed home.� It says, �I hate to be the one to tell you, but somebody�s gotta do the dirty work. And since I�m in your mind and you can�t strangle me: you�re screwed.�
Help?
Every noise you hear could very well be your last, you think. Soon that bear will prance right around to the open window you didn�t think to close, and then you�ll REALLY get to make an acquaintance with your murderer. A rare occurrence. How quaint.
Your mind creates an imaginary scene of what is happening outside, since it�s so dark you wouldn�t notice a paw full of claws flying towards your face until a few teeth were knocked out of your mouth. Maybe it�s a good thing the moon went behind a brick wall of clouds so you can�t really see the bear.
You kind of wish for something to put you out of your misery and just hurry up the process. Get it over with. Fin. The suspense is going to give you a heart attack, especially if you have to wait any longer. Just go away Mr. Bear! Take your picinic basket and go! You�re not wanted here!!!
You want to reach for a notebook and scratch your goodbyes to people. Tell them the things you never got around to saying before because you deemed in unnecessary because, you can�t die. Oh, how you�d give anything to see all of those people. How badly you want to hug your parents and tell them that you truly appreciate them for who they are. You want to hug them harder and explain that these past two years have been a mass of confusion for your mind to handle, and now faced with death, you understand how trivial suffering is, and how it�s meant to be fought and discarded and not to be accepted as a reason for living every day in pain. You want to tell them a million other things that would result in conversational run-on sentences. But no, you don�t reach for your notebook. They might find it amongst your mangled corpse, but it might be too bloodstained for anything to be legible.
The moon comes out, more luminous than before, allowing you to see shadows. And shadows you certainly see. STUPENDOUS! �Oh, don�t worry Michelle,� your mind jests. �You did NOT just see the bear�s shadow lengthen vertically � in other words, STAND UP. �Well, you�re full of crap. You did. But I�m sure it just got tired of standing on four legs. It wants to be cool. It WISHES it was cool. So it�s going to slay you and take your pants and sport the latest trend about the island. Yes, that�s it. Well, maybe you won�t feel a darn thing. Just maybe. It�s aaaaallll a 50/50 percent thing here. It comes down to this: you die, or you don�t.�
It�s so bizarre, and much too dramatic for your liking. Too many morbid thoughts infiltrate your mind, thereby disturbing you even more. What would it feel like to be ripped apart and gutted by a grizzly? What would it look like to watch your entrails be used to paint the grass around the campsite?
Gross!
Yeah, you�ve always played around with the thought of dying, but it was never something you wanted to have to experience. Death is intriguing until it�s seriously a yard away from you.
So where are you now? Camping. On an island. Camping on an island that your parents insisted upon, regardless that the family down the hill informed your parents about a grizzly residing on the island. Your parents� logic goes something like this, �Well, nothing has happened�YET.� It reminds you of a Celebrity Jeopardy on Saturday Night Live when Keanu Reeves wagers �eleventy billion dollars.� He�s told, �Uhh, Keanu, that�s not a number.� Keanu raises his index finger in protest. �YET.�
What�s wrong with you? Why are you thinking of Celebrity Jeopardy at this time? Why are you even trying to blame this on your parents? It�s not their fault. It�s YOUR fault for not demanding you stay home under the condition that you�re a wuss who�s scared of death by bear mauling. It�s YOUR fault that you had to bring along your own back-packing tent and sleep in it twenty yards away from the huge three room tent the REST of your family decided to stay in.
You bring your mind back to the bear standing outside your tent. It hasn�t come crashing down on you yet (YAY!!), and its shadow slinks back down to a relatively normal size. You wish it would continue slinking down until it disappears completely.
The bear snorts around the right side of your tent, the side you chose to sleep closest to. All you can do is wait. Wait for it to meander around to the back window. Then that�s it. You�re going to die. There�s not doubt about it. It�d be like passing up a tent full of Belgium chocolate, which, you admit to yourself, would be a poor choice indeed.
It paws around the tent, crunching on a substance of some sort, making sure to throw in a few Hollywood-esque bear sounds, you know, grunting, snorting, the works. It sounds so much more menacing when it�s a few inches from your face. No wonder Hollywood�s allegedly �scary� movies could never scare you. Of course, it doesn�t matter that this suddenly makes sense to you.
You wait. And wait. You can still see the bear�s silhouette moving around, doing god knows what. It gives you ample time to think of what you�ve done with your life, which turns into, what you haven�t done with your life because you�re just a mangy teenager who can�t do JACK SQUAT. �Well, you can get eaten by a bear!� Your mind helpfully suggests. �That�s gotta account for something, right? Only a selected few people are stupid enough to put themselves in situations where they can get eaten by bears. It�s unique! You�re special!!�
You can hear the bear stride along the grass toward the back of the tent. Yay, it�s going away, it�s going away away, away �away to�THE WINDOW! Now you are aware of nothing but your heart throwing itself against your chest. It feels like it�s trying desperately to escape from your body. You can�t blame it. What body part REALLY wants to be shredded like goat cheese? �Exactly.
You lift your head a few inches and stare out the window, and at a very unattractive bear rear. You see it ambling along back into the woods, making sure to take its sweet time. You think you couldn�t be shaking any harder. Your mouth has become so dry you couldn�t scream even if you had the desire.
So, tired. Too much shaking. Too much adrenaline.
You lie down in your sleeping bag and listen. You�re so exhausted; you don�t even care if it decides to come back. It doesn�t matter. Just play �1979� by The Smashing Pumpkins at the funeral, you think.
You suddenly feel like you�ve been drugged with a sedative. You can�t keep your eyes open. You can�t move.
After awhile, you can�t hear the difference between the grass blowing in the breeze or a bear walking through it. You don�t remember if it came back, since you must have passed out shortly thereafter. In either case, you woke up the next morning.
You marveled at everything: the grass, the lake, the smell of the cat crap tent you slept in (and almost died in). It was more brilliant than you have ever remembered it. YOU are here, to see it, once again. How lucky. How quick you were to neglect the magnificence of being alive, of breathing, of seeing the next day. It seems so slight, but it�s not. It never is. Any moron who is so ignorant as to take it for granted will be quick to learn how much they value living when it is almost ripped from them.
