The Afterlife's Typewriter

A Mental Health Day

The dragging of sheets across his skin. The hint of sweat and iron in the air. A night terror, perhaps. Light began creeping in as a warning of day's approach through the window shades.

Life is going to go on.

The lingering scent of eggs and toast caressing each nostril lured him down to the dining room. Adorned with a muscle tee and basketball shorts, he sat down at the table with a plate of food left waiting for him. The rest of the table sat empty.

Life is off.

He gazed at the clock's hands on the wall. It stood still at 8:03 AM. The clock must have died, he dully noted. The children are already off to school and his wife is on her way to work. Yesterday, he called in for one of his sick days to be expended today. He didn't feel the grip of any ailment other than those within his own mind. He required a mental health day. There was a choking sensation in the back of his head that he was suffocating on life.

Life is a blissful curse.

He finished breakfast solemnly while drinking away at a mug of room temperature, Columbian roast coffee. He traced his way back to the stairs. He felt lost. Confused. In a trance. He ignorantly blamed it on exhaustion and continued up the steps. The front door swung open whilst his wife entered the house. She forgot her financial quarter assessment, she had yelled out. He responded, but it went unnoticed.

Life is a tease.

She raced past him. He almost lost his footing on the stairs midway through. His breaths became more forced and light. He briskly followed her with what little energy he had left from his morning exhaustion.

Life is leering.

She entered their bedroom and looked around confused. She turned up her nose to the stench of the room. Curiosity took the better of her, and her face had never looked any more terrified. She opened the bathroom door wider. The sound of liquid dripping every few moment resonated, but no other sounds left the bathroom. A shrill and tantalized shriek left her mouth.

Life is off-putting.

He followed her in. The fatigue gripped his body even tighter. There a body was. Where a face had once been, now sat a gruesome scar on the mind of his poor observing wife.

Life is strange.

His wife began to sob. She began to lurch over the cadaver. Her tears streaming down her dolled up face. She was crying over her husband's corpse. Bullet hole and all.

Life is over.