(no subject)
He felt around in the darkness for a sign of life. He found his own remains, the blood on the wall where his neighbour had shot him and the hole in his skull where the bullet had entered. The skin surrounding the abyss was singed.
He had become a ghost he supposed, though the moments between being corporeal and entering the ethereal were unknown to him. He wondered why the room was dark when he recalled sitting in the bright light of his lamp before being shot. Had Derek, his neighbour, been polite enough to switch the light off before he left? Graham knew little about his neighbour, other than that he was an avid environmentalist. Perhaps his concern for the fossil fuel shortage drove him to the act. Or perhaps, having no qualm with his parents, he wanted to save them the bill. They wouldn't be back home now for a day and a week - a mighty long time for a light to sit on in a room devoid of any sentient activity.
Graham felt upset. Not because he had been shot, nor because he was dead. But more specifically because he had been shot in the head. As a consequence, his ethereal avatar sported the spoils of his death sentence. It was not an accessory he imagined getting used to very fast. And so he resolved to avoid mirrors for a while - until he could get his head around it, no pun intended.
This would have solved the problem if it weren't for the tv ads and the newspaper covers. Pictures of his corpse were on every sidewalk and corner faster than conceivably possible given his parents were still on leave. He had assumed that nobody would find his body for weeks. And was the media usually this gruesome? Answers to this and other questions Graham hadn’t thought of yet were ready and waiting to be found. But where were they ready and waiting for him?
In the next journal post.
He had become a ghost he supposed, though the moments between being corporeal and entering the ethereal were unknown to him. He wondered why the room was dark when he recalled sitting in the bright light of his lamp before being shot. Had Derek, his neighbour, been polite enough to switch the light off before he left? Graham knew little about his neighbour, other than that he was an avid environmentalist. Perhaps his concern for the fossil fuel shortage drove him to the act. Or perhaps, having no qualm with his parents, he wanted to save them the bill. They wouldn't be back home now for a day and a week - a mighty long time for a light to sit on in a room devoid of any sentient activity.
Graham felt upset. Not because he had been shot, nor because he was dead. But more specifically because he had been shot in the head. As a consequence, his ethereal avatar sported the spoils of his death sentence. It was not an accessory he imagined getting used to very fast. And so he resolved to avoid mirrors for a while - until he could get his head around it, no pun intended.
This would have solved the problem if it weren't for the tv ads and the newspaper covers. Pictures of his corpse were on every sidewalk and corner faster than conceivably possible given his parents were still on leave. He had assumed that nobody would find his body for weeks. And was the media usually this gruesome? Answers to this and other questions Graham hadn’t thought of yet were ready and waiting to be found. But where were they ready and waiting for him?
In the next journal post.