Legal Stuff: Jessie, James, Meowth, Butch, and all other related characters are copyright to Nintendo, GameFreak, CREATURES, 4KidsEntertainment, SoftX, and TVTokyo.

started: 02/21/02 finished: 02/21/02 modified: 04/11/02

By Fellowship

I have these dreams, horrible, awful dreams. In them, I see Butch dying, Jessie dying, Meowth dying, and I'm burying them all, having a funeral for them at my home. But they all have no eyes. Haunting eyes in empty eye sockets. Empty eyes...and then I wake up and stare at them in the mirror. My empty eyes.

I tell myself it isn't insanity. It can't be insanity. I can still count to one hundred and name all the Presidents of the United States. I insist it isn't insanity as I brush my teeth and comb back my hair. I catch the angle of my face and am surprised at the harshness of my jaw. How can someone cradle this face? Was my life before this real? Or was it all just a prelude to the desolation of running the funeral home?

I tell myself that I am James woodson. I run a successful funeral home. I am a deacon at the church. I whisper my life to myself in a mantra, a single reminder of the person I used to be. I whisper them to myself in the darkness, because I am no longer sure if they are real, or if I am real.

I stand in the scalding hot water of the shower, letting the water sear my flesh. I miss the touch of my lover so much I would rather burn the skin off than feel the mocking reminder of...nothing. I stand in the shower until Jessie flushes the toilet three times and bangs on the floor of the bathroom with a broomstick. My skin comes out red and sore and I put on my suit to hide it.

I walk down to the kitchen. Even, perfect steps. Fifty-four in total.

I am in control.

"Good morning, James," Jessie says to me, setting down a plate of eggs and toast, with orange juice, in front of me. She makes no mention of my shower, or that my skin is red and blotchy. Meowth comes in to sit next to me. Surprisingly, it is he who notices my delirium. Or unsurprisingly. Jessie gives him breakfast as well, eggs that taste like rubber and toast either just stale enough to be a hockey puck or so floury that it mixes with your saliva to make a paste, and walks away.

Meowth stares at me, longer than he has in months, years. "James," he says softly. "You feeling alright? Your skin is so...red."

He is quiet, so as not to include Jessie. And is respecting my privacy, as no one respects his. The more I meet Meowth, the more I realize we've all seriously underestimated him. "I'm...under the weather," I stammer out, barely looking up at him. If I meet his eyes, I'll crack.

He gives me a long, scrutinizing stare. He doesn't believe me. I don't believe me. Help me! my mind screams, and yet all he does is turn back to his breakfast and shovel the eggs into his mouth. I start to eat my food, and we start our day.