A/N: It's often said that the arts imitate our real lives. This piece is living proof. Before I begin this, I'd just like to give a shout of thanks to MidnightBlue88, Bittersweet words, w84u and Michael J. Evans for their kind praise and support. You're amazing.


DECEASED, read the letter.

It was like ice in his hands, numbing against the dry, dusty backdrop of his small-town world. He wasn't a verbose man, but it was clear enough:

DECEASED,

in faded red ink.

He tried to make sense of it all. He was secured to the spot, frozen, listening to the blood pounding in his ears, listening to the sounds of the hustle and bustle of everyday life. It was as if their eyes were upon him, scrutinizing, judging, evaluating, boring through his skull as though to discover the secrets lurking there.

He had too many.

DECEASED,

and his heart refused to beat.

DECEASED,

and his gut lurched and dropped like a wayward roller coaster.

He didn't want to believe, couldn't believe. His eyes would not cry; they were as raw as sandpaper, tired, heavy. His face felt gaunt and stretched over years of wrinkles, his stomach hollow like an empty safe.

DECEASED,

and he said nothing. He spoke with his eyes, cried with his hands, but said nothing. Jack would have understood.

DECEASED,

and there were seven numbers to dial.

DECEASED,

and he died seven times.