I'm alive.
It wasn't that he felt dead. It was a feeling of weightlessness, a disconnection. He felt pain, the recoil of the gun, and pleasure…the softness of her lips.
The lights hadn't gone off. They had grown brighter, blinding. He was in a waiting room, but he wasn't sure what, or who, he was waiting for. He had a vivid imagination, but he wasn't sure it was good enough to recreate life. He couldn't replicate the pinprick of fear, guilt, disgust, relief. Relief was the worst of it. 'Thank God it wasn't me.' or 'It could have been worse.' If this wasn't life, his life, he wouldn't have that boredom kneading him or stare bleary eyed at the clock. He wouldn't create this life just to punish himself, or so he liked to think.
My name is Will Graham.
He didn't know what that meant anymore. His name didn't connect him to anything or one. It put a gun in his hands. His shaking sticky red hands that had poured a little too much Johnnie last night to kill the demons inside, but left his brain starved and his heart pounding to the real monsters. They embraced him like a drowning lover.
Pictures spilled into his head. A boy scouring the sea. The waves came over his head. It took everything he had to come up to the surface and breathe.
It's 6:30PM.
The floor was wet. He was fully dressed, but the bed was rumpled. Like he had slept, but he never slept. Not really. He just stayed there and waited for some semblance of sunlight and energy.
Winston whined at him, bumping his hand with his nose. "It's okay, boy."
His feet stuck to the floor.
The blood was real.
The pop of a wine cork, the feel of skin on his, soft music playing—something familiar, something written in his history—his name being called.
To die, to wither, to be forgotten and to live on the breath of a name and inhale dusty bones was not an existence, it was hilarity. He was being mocked.
Mountains made out of bodies, their arms stretched to touch him. He saw faces in buildings. Their eyes were windows blinking closed.
A phone was ringing. Rain pelted the window, masking the ringing…the knocking at the door.
His head throbbed at the intrusion. His thoughts crumbled as if a pillar of ash.
"Will? Are you in there?" Beverly called.
Will didn't want to let her in. He started to pace. He wondered if she could hear him breathing heavily and walking back and forth. He stopped, glancing at the door. It was quiet. He unlocked the door, put a hand over the knob, but didn't turn it.
"Bev, it isn't a good time." But then again it was never a good time. He pulled open the door and stepped back a few paces. Beverly came in like an old friend, dumping her bag by the door.
"I'm worried about you."
Will laughed. "Yeah well, you're not the only one."
"I called. You could have answered."
"Sorry I…was out."
Beverly raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "It's cold in here, you leave a window open?"
He felt it now, the cold air made him shiver. He folded his arms over his chest.
"Are you alright?" She knew not to ask him that. "What day is it?"
"It's Tuesday." He looked down at his bare, dirty feet.
"Where do you think you are?"
"Home, I'm home."
"Will. Wake up. You have to wake up."
"Why?" He looked at her like a dog about to be put to sleep.
"It's going to be okay."
"Don't tell me that."
She smiled, but it didn't assure him of anything. He tried to reach for her, to take her hand, but he couldn't. Something pulled his arm back.
The blanket was thin and mostly soaked with his sweat. He was shaking so violently he had bitten his tongue. The taste of blood made his stomach turn. His wrists were red and itchy from rubbing against his restraints.
His eyes snapped open trying to escape the nightmare, but instead he woke up to it.