Cause of Death: Desolation

The Autopsy of Dakota Tyler

They are there. Here, aggressively on you, groping your brain space. You realize the menace of the unknown. There was no sense of safety. Only fear consumed this room. No matter how it was decorated, no matter how it was cleaned, it was a sterile chamber of dread and death. Did you get stabbed? Shot? Throat ripped out? Or is there only a couple of pieces of you left in this realm of existence?

Even in death, it was no fun lying there naked. At least, you assume you're dead. All those years of naming and renaming, never making your own choice until settling on what you claim to be the most boring name for the most boring person in the world; Dakota. You keep your last name, what the hell else are you supposed to do with it? That didn't matter now. You were dead.

Death by: Loneliness. Never draw attention.

The futon you slept on in your cousin's place was a medical slab table, clean and primed for your autopsy, ready for the high and mighty practitioner to dig into you and read their personality based on their organs and blood type. You wondered what your blood type actually was. Who could you save or who could save you? It didn't matter. You were dead.

That boy at the store, the one with the deaf ears and googly eyes, ogling you at the register, he was probably a med student. The way he gazed at you, analyzing every inch of your body in his vision with a hunger you couldn't understand but doctor's could. Although, fascination with the body did not end with those who care for the ill living or the ashen dead. You stared at him for a while, telling yourself it was to intimidate him out of your circle of Hell but it only made him stay. So you examined him: taller than you, like everybody else. Licorice hair, thick and sugar-filled. Wheat thin colored skin, veins that didn't pop so viciously it repulsed you but just enough to make you wonder where his blood was rushing as he stared at you. But you don't remember his eyes.

You were thinking about him in the night. You gripped your comforter in panic, why were you thinking about him? He repulsed you. He gawked at you like you were some new exhibit. Like name-brand sneakers for sale. Too good to be true. You toss and you turn, face diving into the pillow. River had just done laundry. At least that was some sort of comfort. His smell was fresh like the field, like the flower crowns and corn scepters, like the border of maize beyond where your pair of green eyes could see.

"I'll make sure you're alright, alright?" Yeah. Alright. That's the last good memory of the field.

You had to clean up the shit fest that the googly-eyed fuckhead and his party of pricks had left after he bought that stupid metal thing. You barely even knew what it was. It had a flat part that was rusted on the inside, curling up like a wannabe abstract piece that would've been tossed into recycling if you had anything to say about it. It was clear he wasn't an art student, with the blatant royal purple and yellow violating your eyes in the already bright fluorescent store lights. Unless he was gonna have a weird thrift store garbage bonfire with his buddies, he had no use for the thing. The only use it was was an excuse to talk to you. And you hate that thing for doing it's job right.

Store 304, Seattle location was on top of the donation scale. At least thats what River said. He said that ever since he hired his little cousin, everything and everyone was on top of the game. Whether that be because of your inane anxiety telling you to organize or be patronized or because your resting bitch face made you look like you were birthed from an iceberg, intimidating rowdy customers/coworkers.

"Have you ever been to Portland Pride?" He asked you. Stomach acid tickled your throat. No. You hadn't.

Maybe he wasn't so bad. Unless he was one of those assholes who went to Pride just to drink and scream. But he mentioned his dad. And his other dad. Not that a gay couple couldn't raise an absolute prick who ruins retail worker's days. They probably throw everything into their little boy. Their stupid, annoying little fuckhead boy with fuckhead friends in a fuckhead city. They were probably rich too. Rich asshole twinks. Rich asshole twinks who didn't know a goddamn thing about working retail.