Don't Dream It's Over

I'm in the airport bar again.

I can't really remember how I got here. Lately, I just go where my legs take me. I don't prefer standing in a single place too long; It allows me to feel the muscles in my body wither away and decay. It doesn't feel too pleasant. So, like the other cold bodies around me, I move, slowly and silently, from one place to the next.

My fingers brush against my hoodie and I look down, noticing a rather large red stain.

How did that get there? I should really change. I've been wearing this hoodie for as long as I can remember.

What was I talking about?

Oh, well.

My memory isn't what it used to be. I can't remember anything of my previous existence. I can't even remember my name. My name, for Christ's sake. All I can remember is that is began with "R". Or, maybe it didn't. It feels right, though.

Being dead isn't at all as bad as people think it'd be; despite the dead part. We carry on our lives to the best of our abilities just as anyone else would do. We shuffle around. Well, those of use who haven't lost our legs. We communicate. Every once in a while I'll see the same face and utter an audible "Arrh". They'll communicate back to me and then we''ll both be off to do our own thing.

I have a friend. A best friend, actually. I don't know if he knows it or not. I visit him almost everyday if I happen by the bar, where he usually chooses to stay. I don't know why he chose this place, of all places. Maybe it's instinct? Maybe before all of this happened, he came here a lot. This is where I first met him. His name is "M". That's all he ever says.

I shuffled over to the termite-eaten bar and sat beside him, grunting my presence.

He looked over at me, the chipped shot glass still in his hand, and said, "Mhnm."

This is why he's my best friend. The enriching conversation.

I let my eyes roam over the bar as I sometimes did and hunched over in my seat. Something caught my eye. A man and a woman embracing sweetly, smiling. It was one of those -- What do you call them? -- pictographs? Phoctures? Something.

I lifted my hand and pointed a slim, gray finger in it's direction. "Arrh."

M looked at me, following my finger. He dipped his head slightly and scraped the shot glass against the bar top. "Mhnm."

I knew what that was. Somewhere, lost in the empty space in my brain, I knew what that was called. I know I did. I felt it before. At least, I think I did.