Behind Death’s Door
By Sophie Quindara
March 31, 2026
Graphic by Nikki Nguyen
One day, something deep inside me knew that it was time, and something immature just accepted it. I lived January 5th, 2015 as if it was my last day alive, wondering if anyone else knew it too.
It’s the last day of winter break — I’d be back in third grade tomorrow. It’s Texas-cold outside, meaning a hoodie and leggings would suffice. I tie my hair back into a bumpy ponytail, getting my unruly curls out of my face.
Only I’m not going back. Tonight, after I go to sleep, before I can wake up for school, someone will break into my house, come into my room, and kill me with a gun.
I’m young enough that I still get sad at the little things – a toy breaking at the hands of my little sister, a scraped knee from falling off my scooter – and yet, I hold a certain wisdom. I exist outside my body. I see my life through the eyes of someone much older, much wiser, much more versed in the tragedies of life.
I know the future. You live, and then you die. That’s all I really need to know, anyways.
Then again, I’m still a kid, so I let myself imagine. The ghost of Christmas would follow me to school as it had in years prior. Kids would show off their new jackets and new water bottles and tell the tales of visiting grandma and going on an airplane. I would tear up walking in, missing the whimsy of being on winter break, opening gifts, playing Mario Kart, baking cookies.
But that’s not until later.
Right now, I’m being taken somewhere. I don’t know the plans, I never do, I just follow along and indulge in what interests me. It’s my mom and my older sister and me – I’m just glad they’ve taken me along. I sometimes feel insignificant to them, jealous of the time they spend together, going to soccer practice, going grocery shopping. I take any chance I can get to be included.
Our first stop is the daycare. It’d excite me if it were any other day, but today is my mom’s day off. I love coming here to relive my pre-school days, getting special treatment from staff and peeking into my mom’s class through the window. But the toddlers already learning remind me of going back to school, and so I feel a little sad.
Luckily it’s just a quick drop in to give a belated Christmas gift, and I greet Ms. Jessica with a smile and a hug. She mutters something about her broken phone, which is ironic because I know for a fact my mom is about to hand her a gingerbread-patterned phone case.
We make our rounds, waving to all the activity directors who were there to raise me. And now we’re off again, only this time it’s somewhere further. I stare out the window and play with my seatbelt. My sister and mom are talking about something, but they sound faraway. I try to identify the words that I hear on the radio, 104.1, the same station that plays every morning over the speakers of the Toyota minivan.
Ella Herderson’s “Ghost” comes on, and I feel the song resonate with me. I keep going to the river to pray, sounds more like a calling than a song, and I feel special at the sound.
We stop somewhere new – I don’t think I’ve seen this part of Houston before, and if I have, I've already forgotten it. My memory is a weird mix of vivid pictures and fuzzy images, all in third-person like I’m watching myself from above. But I know this place is new based on what my mom says:
“I need to take you guys to Corner Bakery. I used to come here all the time in San Antonio.”
At this point we don’t really have a choice, so we get out of the car and walk into the dimly lit restaurant. I order something off the kid’s menu, and my mom gets hummus for the table and a random breakfast plate. We take our seats at a booth, and I’m hit with realization.
This is the last time I’m going to be here.
There’s a note of finality in the air, washing me with sadness and tainting the conversation. I go quiet. I push my food around my plate.
We take my pancakes to-go, but I’ll probably never eat them. I don’t have enough time.
The purpose of the outing makes itself clear by this point; we’re picking up something in Houston for my sister. Nothing to do with me, but I’m happy to have gotten a courtesy invite.
Graphic by Nikki Nguyen
I follow the motions the rest of the day. Go to the store. Get home. Watch TV. Pack my school bag. The thought haunts me – this is going to end. Not just break, not just the day, but the living part of it, too.
It’s nighttime now, and we ate dinner a little bit ago. My mom suggests ice cream despite the slight chill outside, and we pile into the car again for drive-thru soft serve. This is my last meal, I think. I’m glad I get to end it on a high note.
As I eat my caramel sundae, the same song comes on. It’s not a rare occurrence by far, I’ve heard it dozens of times the last few days, but this time it’s different. This is my last time hearing this song. This is my last ice cream, my last car ride, my last everything, because I wouldn’t be alive much longer. I begin to cry in the car, but it’s dark outside, so no one notices.
It’s reaching my bedtime, and as I get ready to sleep, I’ve already accepted it. I wasn’t fighting the sadness anymore; I am grateful for the day I had and the memories I made. I peek my head into each of my siblings' rooms to say goodnight, holding back the urge to warn them of what was to come. It’s better that they don’t know. It’s not like they could stop it.
When I lay down for bed, I’m expectant. I go to sleep knowing I won’t wake up, and I’m at peace with that fact. I play the events to come in my head one last time, just as I had all day.
In the dead of night, a man dressed in black and armed with a gun will break into my house. He will find his way to my room, open the door, and shoot me as I wake up startled. I won’t survive.
I wonder how long it’ll take for people to find me. I think about what they’ll say at school. I contemplate trying to fight, but I know it’s no use.
So, I close my eyes and go to sleep.
____________________________________________________________________________
When you’re exposed to mortality so young, death is everywhere. Death is on the roads, a car rear-ending my mom’s minivan, propelling me out of the window and into the street. Death has a place at every table, one allergic reaction or airway obstruction away from taking me. Death is in people’s faces. I ask myself at every person I meet: are you capable of murder?
It’s sad for a while, but it’s inevitable. I knew this from a young age. My visions of dying were vivid – so vivid I believed them, because what choice did I have? I didn’t know any better.
I didn’t want to die, but I knew that I had to sooner or later. There was no point in fighting what was true.
____________________________________________________________________________
I woke up the next morning and dressed for the cold. I tied my hair out of my face and I went to school. I shed tears as I was dropped off. I heard tales of Christmas gifts and vacations. I never thought I’d live to tell the story of my own brush with death. ■Other Stories in Life
© 2025 SPARK. All Rights Reserved.