I always thought dying would be easier; my soul wafting away on a cloud of light or darkness and that would be it. I'd always lived as if it was what I did in this world that mattered, not the next. So it was a shock to see the warm, welcoming light that people talk about, but I saw it as if through a dirty window. I couldn't reach it. I could feel the tentacles from behind me that gripped my soul and refused to let me move on.

I have no idea how long I fought to get to that window ...