Face Down


He lay in bed. Shadows danced in his room from his closed blinds. Trees swayed in the wind outside as the sun oversaw the whole scene. No one was sure where the clouds were. But they simply weren’t there.

He lay face down - thinking - realizing how bored he was with the girl that wasn’t his girlfriend although she and her best friend probably wanted her to be. He liked her - not too much - but he did. And now, as he lay face down in his bed with shadows dancing in his room like a muted television, he realized he hated her. He hated her for making him feel like there was a certain way he should treat her. For limiting his own decisions about sex, freedom, and other emotions he rarely - if ever - felt. He was mad that a series of genuine emotions - none of them that strong - had led him to a place that wouldn’t be pretty to get out of.

And get out he wanted.

His honesty had once again led to his downfall. He wanted something new, something different. Something that he - right now - didn’t have. And that’s why he wanted it. His antagonistic feelings freely flowed through his body - no doubt aided be the alcohol that was still in his system from the night previous.

The reigns were loose and he wasn’t limiting himself. He was just there, on his bed, being. Invariably, he became guilty of being so purely - there on his bed. He turned his head on his pillow. His guilt of being so real and so honest began to gain recruits in the office of paranoia in the recesses of his brain. It was one of the largest bureaus in his mind, and today it had another long day ahead of itself.

A scorned lover - a man - would drive up to his house. It wasn’t anyone he knew nor would they have any indirect connection via a woman scorned or any such thing. Simply put - this guy was pissed off at some girl neither of them knew at all and he was out to express his rage. Fate took him to the guy’s house - where the guy was laying in bed, face down, thinking of how bored he was and how he intended to remain drunk until Monday - when the real world would come knocking again.

The scorned lover would calmly walk up to his door, knock, and as soon as he got off his bed and opened the door - excited that something was actually happening - a handgun of an unknown caliber would materialize in the scorned lover’s hand and shoot him in the chest and/or face.

And as he now presently lay - face down - thinking of how possible this ending for him could actually be - part of him felt relieved at the thought of dying on this sunny day. Why not? It would be something unexpected, something different.

He scanned his memory - which, admittedly, was shoddy at best - and realized that - yes indeed - he had never died before. Later he would confirm it by logically deducing that - well - if he was there right now, on his bed, face down, seemingly alive - that he indeed had never died before. Reliance on his bad memory was thankfully not needed with respects to the question of whether or not he had died at some point in his life before he got to the part where he was laying in his bed, face down, thinking of the question of whether he had ever died before or not. Or of the degree to which he was alive.

His final conclusion being that getting shot in the chest and/or face by a random scorned lover would indeed lead to a series of events - mainly death - that he had never experienced before. Uncharted territory was about the only thing that kept him going at this point. His mind - despite the waning blood-alcohol level - continued its exaggerated work of worrying about everything that he had no control of.

The office of paranoia was moved to a new, bigger office.

The faint memory of the historical definition of “just war” was erased to make room.

The bigger office was needed to house the additional staff the paranoia bureau required to worry him even more than he was now currently worried. They got to work immediately on a project of depressing him by pointing out to his consciousness that when the alcohol finally wore off - which, barring a case of full blown alcoholism (the possibility itself worried him - in addition to) he would no longer think that getting shot in the face and/or chest would be a good idea.

The questions would rage in his head: How could something feel so much like not a bad idea at one point and then be so ridiculous a few hours later? The power of alcohol was the topic on his mind now. What if he failed to report to reality on Monday? What would happen? Who would be affected? Who would cry at his disappearance from reality? Would he enjoy to see them cry?

He turned his head back to where it was when he first realized he was awake and worrying about things that were beyond his control. His head had swollen to a point where he began to realize he could no longer take it. And - as if he had control of the switch that turned his mind - along with the now bustling office of paranoia- on and off, he was awarded a gift by the god he didn’t believe in and sleep arrived.

The machine came to a screeching halt and now he was simply there, laying face down on his bed - with the shadows of swaying trees dancing upon the walls of his room.

He dreamed of nothing.



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