That guy: That day

He blinked. Eyes opening gently, softly, he assessed the situation.

Where am I?

He was lying down. His head was on something soft, but there was nothing comfortable about it.

I’m in a bed. How did I get here?

He peeled his face off the pillow. The dry drool made an unpleasant crackling sound as it separated from the fabric.

What happened?

He tried to make sense of the colors and images floating through his head. The incomplete memories swirled around, hinting at things, but leaving him empty like wrapping his hand around a wisp of smoke.

He rolled onto his back. The warmth of the covers he was buried under sunk in. He stretched, feeling himself out. Everything seemed to still work. He waved his hands in front of his face. He lifted the covers and watched himself wiggle his toes. Excellent.

What’s going on?

He glanced about his surroundings. Everything was out of focus. He rubbed his eyes. It hurt. Everything hurt. The sudden realization of pain surprised him. His throbbing brain made everything blur further. He cradled his head. Reaching over, he found his glasses on the bureau.

I’m in my bed.

He put on his glasses, and the room cleared up. He looked at the clock. 7:18. Everything came back to him. The morning amnesia lifted. He understood why his head hurt so much. He understood why he felt so tired still. He remembered what had transpired the previous night. And it dawned on him.

It was that day.

He bridged backwards and reached behind his head, shuffling his hand about trying to find what he was looking for. His fingers brushed the glass, chilled from the night air, and he closed his hand around it. Bringing it to his face, he sat up at the same time.

I’m sorry.

This object that he had kept for so long had only one purpose. To burn.

He shook the covers from his body, and stood, feeling how cold the room was, and the headache creeping further into the depths of his skull. With the object still in his hand, he dressed, slowly, without a purpose. Once he was clothed, he plunged his free hand into his pocket. Finding a lighter, he placed the object on his windowsill. He pulled the curtain up, and was forced to turn his head to the side. It was too bright outside. But he would endure. There was purpose in this self-torture.

He brought the lighter up, and flicked. A tiny stream of flame jumped awake, and danced in his hand. He put the fire to the wick, and the candle he had been cradling came alive. He put the lighter back in his pocket.

I’m sorry.

He bowed. Gently. Ever so slightly. The flame bowed back. It acknowledged his commitment, and thanked him for his contribution. It knew that it would have to wait until next year to serve him again.

He turned away from the sight, with a solitary tear making its’ way down his cheek.




11/24/04
RIP Kris