So, another week, another flash fiction.
It seems that I cannot break this habit. Though, honestly why would I want to?
So here is my newest story, this time written without a contest to guide me.
A spur of the moment idea. I hope you guys like it.
So let’s go….I present my latest piece….
Ramblings of a Dead Man
It was the fifth time today, and it was just as bad as the first. It’s not exactly a feeling that leaves you. The pain alone is excruciating, awful, horrendous, mind shatteringly awful, salt and lemon juice and sulfuric remnants on the skin of your eyes bad. The English language is really not equipped to express the realities of dying, and that’s just the pain. Death has a taste. It starts off as a copper tang, like pennies are coating your tongue. Then it moves into the flavor of ash, mud that you licked off your hands as a kid or dried grease on month-old fries.
Sounds disgusting; because it is. Fast food is ruined for me. Vampire films started to make me gag. Not for the obvious reasons, mind you, but because of the drinking scenes. To think something could stomach that. God, it’s the most disgusting thing imaginable.
How I got like this is a mystery to me, and the others like me. We got together in a club you see. Swapped stories, and ideas.
I still go sometimes. But it’s lost its luster. Back at the beginning, before the club became a cult, we just acted like a family. You know, exchanged cupcake recipes and suicide attempt stories, just real neighborly stuff. I used to know all their names, but it’s begun to fade. That’s the thing about pseudo-immortality, you still have the same brain you started with. Your memories are finite, you see, and the brain can only hold so much. You could call me scatterbrained, but it’s further than that. The memories are simply gone. If it weren’t for written documents and the occasional picture, I would have completely forgotten them; whisked away from my brain matter so it wouldn’t burn out, wouldn’t turn to pulp inside my skull. You could say that is a morbid look at things, but it’s hard not to be morbid when you die constantly.
I’m sure the first question that you have is “how?” I can’t help you there, not at all. I have no idea either.
But the second question you want to ask, yes, I can give you that. You’re not going to like it though. No one ever does.
Darkness, that’s your answer. A frigid darkness. You’re not alone however. There are so many others, an endless sea of squirming wailing bodies, half glanced in the dark.
The difference between me and them though, is that I don’t stay there. I get yanked up, out of the pile. By what, is anyone’s guess? But it has a tentacle. It’s this long suckered, pink thing. Barbed, too. Not that you can feel it. The dead, thankfully, don’t have nerves.
I wish it stayed that way when I rise back up. The pain of death is only dwarfed by the pain of coming back to life. It’s a pressure, that’s the best way to describe it. Like your head is about to pop right off your shoulders. I always wake up with a nose bleed, and a broken rib-cage. It heals over the next few minutes, and then I’m right as rain. But during those moments, the pain is so bad you just jump right into your subconscious. Fantasy world, fairy tales, and nursery rhymes. Or worst things.
That’s where I’m talking to you from, actually. My head space. I’m coming back. This guy shot me in the head, that’s what killed me. Then, as he walked away, I got back up. He freaked and shot me again. Wash, rinse, head explodes, repeat. Five times now. I’m getting really bored with it. But, I lift my body back up again, sticking my tongue out at the incrementally more terrified man. Crossing my eyes too, just for good measure. He shoots me in the head again. Of course.
But I figure he’s got to run out of bullets eventually.
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