mystic_savage

Because it was Monday morning, Joseph knew he was close to death.  He lay on his futon, aching everywhere, doomed by the HIV / brain tumor / H1N1 / plague that he'd contracted overnight.  From where he lay, about 8 feet from the kitchenette, he could see fruit flies hovering around the half apple he'd left out of his pink refrigerator the night before.  He'd swear he could hear them buzz, but "I heard a fly buzz when I died" had already been taken.  He'd have to think of something else, and quickly, before Melissa woke up.  There was no point in having chosen your last words if there was nobody there to hear them.  He just hoped he'd last that long.

It was a drag crashing at his older sister's place, Joseph thought, and wondered if there might be some possibility there in that verb.  "Like a computer loaded with Window's '95, I crash," he croaked dramatically.  Didn't quite cut it.  He rolled over, feeling the spears of hostile aliens probing his brain.  His feet poked out of the not-quite-long-enough comforter, and he noted that his toe nails needed painting.  Black this time, he thought.  It would suit his mood.  Not that he was Goth or anything.  He didn't have to be.  There *was* nothing more gothic than getting through a Seattle November, even if he never left this futon again, which at this point seemed highly likely. 

The loud and obnoxious sound of the Bangles emanated from his sister's room.  Melissa had different alarm tones for every day of the week.  Monday's lyric "If I had an airplane, I still wouldn't make it on time..." blared out and he groaned.  Maybe "I'm catching the early train" would be good last words to whisper in his final moments.  Particularly if he died this morning, at the tragically young age of 19.  

"Rise and shine!"  Melissa bounced out of her room, perky as ever.  She worked as a receptionist downtown, and "perk" was more than just her 9-5 persona.  Joseph couldn't imagine how they'd come from the same parents.  Maybe they hadn't.  Maybe (he thought, for the millionth time), he'd been given away by his real parents, genius scientists who were kidnapped by a hostile foreign government.  He groaned.

"Headache?" Melissa asked with a smile.  She bustled to the kitchen and got a plastic bag, tossing it to him as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows.  "Make sure those get into the glass bin -- the pick up is tomorrow."  Perfect.  She'd been harping on to him about his bottle collection for weeks and she'd chosen now, the hour if not the moment of his death, to insist that he get rid of it.  Something about glass maybe?   He remembered something about being immortal until the second glass of wine...but maybe that was "mortal".  He couldn't remember.

He listened to Melissa getting ready for work, and sat up when she brought him coffee.

"Thanks, " he said.  He took a sip.  He couldn't think of any good dying words this morning.  Probably best to go on living until he was more inspired.