NEW: Lingering, a Short Story

It's been a while since we've had a new story here, so I decided to post one I wrote a while back for a competition--it was originally intended to be the start of a new novel that never took off. It didn't receive any recognition, and I thought I would give it a second shot at being read by someone other than myself, so here it is for you to critique:

My first thought was that I was dead. My second was that I hadn’t been that lucky.

 Everything was cold. So cold that it raised goose bumps on my flesh, the hairs on my arms standing on end like soldiers frozen in salute. The darkness that surrounded me was a wet darkness; dripping inky blackness that stained the floor beneath my feet, forming puddles that rapidly grew into an ocean that pressed in on me like the suffocating folds of a shroud, threatening to crush me with its sheer force. The scent of flowers lingered, sickeningly sweet, smelling at once both of the freshness of flowers just cut and of their decay as they begin to die, cruelly torn from the ground to decorate this barren room that is colder than the hands of death. I could still smell the flowers; long after the bouquets had been carried away, heads drooping, petals falling to the floor, only to be crushed underfoot by the quiet footsteps made by polished black heels that waver as they walk.

For well over an hour I had stood in those wretched heels, legs shaking beneath the dark folds of my dress. Face aching from the strain of not crumpling, lips twisted in some macabre smile, fingers throbbing from the shaking of so many hands, ribs sore from the repeated catching in backbreaking hugs of strangers as they attempt to assuage their own grief by pretending to comfort me in mine. The lights appeared garish, reflecting off the polished glass of the picture frames, disorienting as I made my way from stranger to stranger, exchanging words of comfort and empty embraces, limbs growing cold and vision fading in and out like some old black and white horror movie.

When the crowd finally disappeared I did not wish to linger. My freezing hands shook as I lifted the cold porcelain pots that held the flowers, funeral bouquets that would have been beautiful in any other circumstance, but that are ugly because they serve such a grim purpose, and began to make my way through the quiet halls, wobbling on my tired feet, until I can set the pots in the back of the car. I think with regret that the car will smell of the flowers for days, but there is nothing to be done; they cannot be left here in the empty rooms, rotting in the cold and the dark.

I returned to the room, crushing the fallen petals beneath my feet. The lights continued to grow dim, and I could feel the texture of the plaster walls beneath my fingertips, wondering why they are not as smooth as they appear in the instant before I fell forward into the merciful darkness, the scent of crushed flower petals lingering in the faded carpet.

 My first thought was that I was dead. My second was that I hadn’t been that lucky.