6 Conrad
"So my whole life…everything…all I get to keep are thoughts and memories?" - Georgia Lass
"It's all we ever had, Peanut." - Rube Sofer
Conrad shot upright. Adrenaline raced throughout, vertigo seized him. His hands thrashed about grasping for anything to stop his falling. His hand landed on his nightstand and he caught sight of his desk and chair. He was here in San Francisco…not back in Ohio…and in his bed. He was covered in sweat, again. Same fucking dream, again. It was dark. Still night. His clock showed 3:20. Shit.
According to Taylor holding over someone who had died as badly as his own drawn out death was unusual. He'd only been dead like three months and it was a rare night he didn't relive some part of those weeks of hell he endured. When he had died and appeared next to a reaper, the guy told him he wouldn't be crossing over, that he would be held over to become a reaper. Back then he was just relieved the fucking pain had stopped. But, now, he was learning though he had escaped the living hell that made up the end of his life, the memories followed him in death. Hell it seemed could take many forms.
He didn't turn on the light. He didn't want light, not yet. If he still had something left maybe he could get back to sleep and maybe, God, please, maybe he wouldn't dream. The bottles on his nightstand were easy to make out. And they were empty. He got up and tried to pull up a memory of where he might have left something. There. On the kitchen table was half a bottle of the good stuff. A vodka strong enough to peel paint off a car. He always bought the hardest he could find. He put it down in a dozen gulps. It burned with each swallow. In this new post death existence pain was real but not the damage. No need to finesse the application of tonic here, in the dark, alone, just him and God, wondering why in the fuck God was doing this to him. Half was enough to put him down, but he knew he would be up in the morning. And his reaps were almost as bad, having to watch people die in one accident, or senseless stupid murder, one after another, day after day. And he'd heard this could go on for a hundred years, or even longer. What had he done to deserve this?
A tingle was taking hold. He stumbled back toward his bed and fell onto it. He thought he really should pull the blanket up, or he might catch his death a cold…now that was almost funny…almost…