[Ok the back story is one of my archaeology lectures was on one of the Chinese emperors that was so afraid of death that he had this massive grave burial temple built before he died and it's so big and dangerous to enter that the majority has yet to be excavated. But that's the place where they found the 5,000 terra-cotta warriors.
Anyways, that got me thinking about death & the afterlife and I spewed out whatever this is. It's rlly not the best but I was going with the flow and procrastinating. Enjoy :) ]

1

"Dallon Weekes?"

The knock on the door brings everything to life. I'm not sure what I was doing before then. I don't remember looking or hearing anything until someone spoke and the door creaked open.

It takes a moment to register where I am. I don't know where I am, but it feels familiar. It's just an empty room with complex wall structure, covered in blank wallpaper and washed in pale yellow light. There are no windows, no doors, nothing. I don't know where the knock on the door came from. I think I should be panicking, but I feel nothing but calm. I should be freaking out.

I turn around just fast enough to see the wall swing shut, but I don't catch enough to confirm or deny whether or not my mind is just playing tricks on me. Standing on the outskirts of the middle of the room is a woman. Her blonde hair is pulled low into an intricate style, but wisps still frame her face. She's holding a clipboard against her grey flowing dress.

"Sorry to keep you waiting." She says. Her voice sounds like honey. "I have a lot of people to sort out today."

"Where am I?" I ask. My body feels numb but I know it's all present, I can feel it. I can see my shoes and my pants and I can touch the my shirt. I know I'm not missing any pieces but it sure does feel like something is weird. Not a bad weird, but certainly not a good weird.

She flicks a dark blue pen out of thin air, glances at the silver watch on her pale wrist, and scribbles quickly on the papers attached to the clipboard. "How familiar are you with religious views regarding the afterlife?"

"...Not very acquainted with it."

She nods. "You're in the waiting room. There's absolutely nothing wrong with getting sent here here, but the technical term for this state of being would be 'Purgatory'."

I should definitely be freaking out right about now. "Purgatory?"

"Yessir," she lifts the top page and begins to sift through the rest of her papers, "a place or state of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven, defined by the doctrine of the Roman-Catholics. They aren't exactly right, but neither is everyone else. I think they phrase it fairly well.

I should have taken that religious studies class in college. "Is this a joke? I'm not in a state of suffering? What am I doing here?"

"I did say they weren't exactly right, Dallon."

"Who are you? What is this?"

She blinks out of existence and appears across the room, standing in front of two chairs. Two little blue chairs that look like they were stolen from an elementary school classroom.

"They are used for that purpose." She says. "They tend to give the illusion of comfort and familiarity."

"Can you hear what I'm thinking?"

She nods and gestures to the chair across from her. She takes her seat and continues to write on the clipboard. "Sit. We have a lot to discuss."

My instinct says no but there's the overwhelming feeling that there is nothing bad that will happen here. I might as well go along with it. What's the worst that could happen anyways?

She holds out her hand when I sit down so low to the floor I feel like my knees would touch my chin. "You can call me Taylor."

I shake her hand, once and she lets go. "Dallon."

"I know."

"I don't think we've met before."

Taylor doesn't look away from her clipboard. "I haven't known you for long but I still know who you are. It's nearly impossible for you to have met me before know."

Maybe this really is purgatory. Is this what the afterlife is like? It's really fucking bland.

"You can change this room to anything you'd like if you hate it that much," she snaps her fingers and the walls shift to pitch black, "just name a place. Any place."

"My bedroom."

She snaps her fingers again and we're sitting in the middle of my childhood bedroom. The walls are blue and plastered with dumb posters of bands and action movies. All my little league trophies decorate the shelf near the bed, and every single item on my dresser is exactly how I remember it, even my fish.

"Interesting choice." Taylor stares at the Jurassic Park poster tacked above my unmade bed.

"Who are you?"

"Taylor."

"Fine. What are you?"

She purses her lips and sighs. She begins to flip through the papers again. "There are many words and phrases to describe that. I think you would best understand if I tell you I'm a reaper."

"A reaper? Like from Supernatural? Oh my god, did you kill me?"

"Yes, like from Supernatural. No, I didn't kill you. My purpose is to simply guide you to your next phase in life, not take your soul from your body. I have no personal say in where you go. Your actions speak for themselves."

"So I'm dead?"

Taylor nods. She folds her hands over her clipboard and stares at me. "Yes, Dallon. You're dead."

Oh, man. That has to be a mistake. "No I'm not."

"Yes, you are. The afterlife is no joke. Do you have any questions or would you like to begin the placement process?"

I have a lot of questions. "How did I die? I don't remember dying."

"Currently, you're laying in a hospital bed, in a coma you will never wake up from. We don't normally collect souls so early, but as I said, you won't be waking up. It's best to start the process early sometimes."

I try to shake that image from my mind. I don't want to think about that. "Okay, but you still didn't answer my first question."

"You were in a car accident. Drunk driver slammed into the side of your car. You skidded off the freeway and flipped four times before sliding into a ditch."

I'm really glad I don't remember that. "Did anyone else..."

"No. It was just you and it will only be you that passes on from the accident. We actually didn't receive the news that you'd be moving on until a week after the accident in your time."

"I've been in a coma for a week?!" That is some cheesy romance novel shit. I didn't think that actually happened.

"At least you'll be moving on. Better late than never, yes?"

I don't feel as relieved as I feel like I should. "Can't I say goodbye to my friends and family? Brendon? Can't I let him know I'm alright?"

Her eyes drift to the rug beneath us. The white fluff is still stained with the red fruit punch I spilled when I was seven years old. The accuracy of my surroundings only makes the situation feel twice as real. "That goes against the rules."

"Can you check? I was caught in an accident, it's not like I had time to prepare to die or anything. There has to be a rulebook for this shit, right?"

Taylor sighs again. She reaches behind her and pulls a thick book out of thin air. The leather cover is coated in plastic and labeled with a red sticker on the spine. It looks like a library book. "I'm really sorry, Dallon, I am. You can read the book yourself. You'll have all the time in the world to do so."

I take it from her and hold it on my lap. I don't have to read it to know that I was just grasping at straws. I can't believe I don't get to say goodbye.

Taylor watches me for a second before sliding the papers out from the clipboard and adjusting them in her grip. "Can we begin?"

"Sure."

"Wonderful. Would you like to review your actions or skip straight to the good stuff?"

"What's the good stuff?"

"Where you're ending up. Heaven, hell, or staying here."

"I have to choose right now, don't I?"

She feigns a smile. "You seem worried."

I mean, I don't exactly want to go to hell. "Aren't most people? What if I've been the worst person alive and I have to spend forever in hell?"

"Only the worst of the worst end up in hell. This process is usually just a formality. Unless you really were a horrible person, I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"You don't know where I'm going yet?"

"We don't receive any information prior to the process. We're supposed to be unbiased as we answer your questions and help you understand."

I look around my bedroom again. I wish I could tell my past self that this would happen so early. I would've gotten married a lot sooner and I would've gone skydiving when it was offered to me. There's so many things I'll miss out on, not to mention the people I'm leaving behind. "Can we prolong the decision?"

Taylor purses her lips and turns to the fourth or fifth page in the small stack. Her finger traces down the paper lightly. "December second, two thousand and ten. You were nine and you plagiarized your report on Vincent Van Gogh."

"I was nine."

"Plagiarism is wrong, Dallon." She skims further, onto the next few pages. "In fact, you have eight accounts of it. Six in middle school, just two in high school. None in college so far."

Duh. I had barely started college. "Middle school was difficult, okay? It's not that serious, right?"

"No, but it's still noted. You also shoplifted when you were five."

"It was a packet of M&M's."

"Actually, it was a candy bar, but you knew that." She says. "That's twelve thousand and forty three lies."

"Twelve thousand?!" I haven't lied that many times. That's a lot.

"That's average. Nothing to worry about. The previous five people that were your age had much higher totals than you. We also count absolutely everything you've lied about, good or bad. The sweater you said you liked? Fibbing about the time you went to bed in elementary school?"

"Those are insignificant then?"

"Essentially, but we are legally obligated to keep count. The big lies are the things we look at the most. Would you like to review some of those?"

Why not. I'm dead. It's not like I lied to a judge during a murder trial. Not to say I killed someone, but that's not the point. "Alright."

She flips back and forth through the pages. "The worst lie you've ever told... you told your current partner that you loved him even though you didn't mean it yet."

"The key word is 'yet'. It just took time."

"I'm not saying you don't love him now, I'm reading what the system pegged as a lie. You didn't mean it when you said it that day, so it was technically a lie."

"Well, I don't think it should be counted. He said it to me first anyways. Was I supposed to tell him I didn't love him yet?"

"It's not a bad lie, just the worst of your life. Trust me, you don't want to know the other things people have said." She clenches her jaw at the thought of it. "Your record is pretty clean for the most part. Just petty lies and stupid crimes."

"How stupid?"

She squints at the pages. "August tenth, two thousand and twelve. You were eleven when you decided to stand in the fruit section at the grocery store and eat as many grapes as you could."

Come on. Everyone does that. "That is the natural instinct of a human being. You can't tell me you never did that."

"I never did that."

"You aren't human."

"I still never ate eleven dollars worth of grapes in a single sitting."

"I ate eleven dollars worth of grapes?!"

"And then you puked on the floor."

I do remember that. I didn't recall the price of my crime, but I think it was worth it. "Yeah, because I ate eleven dollars worth of grapes."

She frowns. "Can we get back to the lies?"

I barely nod but she picks up on it and continues.

"Tell me about Brendon. Who is that?"

"We've been friends forever and together for, like, four years. Shouldn't you have records of him or something?"

"We don't have records of people that aren't slated to die soon." She stares at the page and then at me. "If you've known each other for so long, why did you lie and tell him you support him last month?"

My stomach twists into a knot. "I just... I just don't think he should go travel abroad for school."

She purses her lips. I don't think that's what she would've said. "Mhm."

I have to cover my ass, even in death. "I just mean that I'm not sure it's a good idea. He's never left the country before, let alone traveling to Europe all on his own. He's book-smart, not street-smart."

"That's not the whole part of the story." She raises her eyebrows, tapping her toes on the carpet. "You just don't want him to leave you, right?"

I don't have much to hide. Obviously she knows everything about me and the things I have been hiding won't stay secret anymore. "Y'know, yeah. I don't want him to go because I don't want him to leave."

"That is a very selfish thing to say."

"Yes it is."

Taylor clenches her jaw and stares at me like she wants to bitchslap me to hell. "You had just turned nineteen?"

"Unfortunately."

"And you've been with him for...?"

"Four years. I told you that."

She nods, impressed. "And you were still afraid of him leaving?"

I shrug. It sounds ridiculous when you say it aloud but my fear wasn't derived from pettiness or jealousy. "He's eighteen. And I said he isn't street smart. He'd probably get stabbed in a back alley within the first five minutes."

"How would you know if you don't trust him enough to go off on his own in the first place?"

I just know. I told her we had been together for four years. I pay attention and I care about him. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."

"Well, you didn't do too hot during these last four years," she trails her index finger down a page, "you... started lying a lot more."

"About?"

"Your feelings, for one thing. You said I love you' dozens of times and didn't mean it. Same goes for 'I miss you', 'I cannot wait time see you', and many more variations of that."

I'm speechless. Anger simmers in my chest. I can't look her in the eyes. "Whatever. Is it a crime? Is it a crime to lie about that?"

"It seems like it is when you've been carrying a ring in your back pocket for six months. That's a very selfish thing to do when you don't mean what you say."

"I asked if it was a crime, not if I shouldn't have done it."

She frowns. "It's not a crime, but it skews your moral compass."

"Alright then, I don't care. Can we move on?" I wave at the pages and pray she continues to whatever shit I did next.

Instead, Taylor folds her hands and stares off into space, deep in thought. "Your file said you pushed a lot of people away. You said a lot of harsh things that are out of character."

Maybe I did. "And? It didn't matter anyways. None of the people that I pushed away gave a fuck when I decided to drift off."

"Your grades have been dropping."

"No, they haven't."

"You passed away around dinner time on an empty stomach."

"I wasn't hungry."

"The records show you hadn't had anything for lunch either."

"I forgot. I was busy. Is that a crime now too? What kind of bullshit system is this?"

Taylor raises her eyebrows and dives into the folder again. "Well, it says..."

The room falls silent as she reads to herself. As soon as she reaches the bottom of the page, she freezes like a deer caught in headlights. Her cheeks pale and she bites her cheek as she rereads the last paragraph a few more times.

My nervous heartbeat kicks into gear with every second that passes by. That can't be good. "Is everything okay?"

She clears her throat and sits up straighter. "I-I'm sorry."

Oh, god, I'm going to hell. "Sorry for what? How hot is it in hell? Do I get a tank top or is the heat and suffering subjective because I honestly think I do worse in cold weather."

She clips the papers back together on the board, then waves her hand and the book in my hands fades into thin air. She snaps her fingers and my bedroom turns into the room I was in originally, shadowed in yellow and a newfound eerie emptiness.

Fear washes over me all at once. I hadn't felt scared the entire time, even though I should have. I'm going to hell. I never should have cheated on that chemistry test in high school.

Taylor reaches out and forcibly takes my hand, shaking once and squeezing tightly before she lets go. There's an echoing thump that shakes the room, and it continues at a steady pace. Thum-thump. Thum-thump. Thum-thump.

"What's happening?" I ask her.

"There was a mistake." She says. The beat grows louder and louder with every second that passes. "The system must have short-circuited, just this once."

"What the fuck does that mean?!"

The beat overwhelms the room. The floor is shaking. The walls are cracking and the ceiling threatens the cave in. I can barely hear myself think. The room is collapsing in on me and I'm going to fall into the devil's arms.

"Dallon," Taylor's voice echoes above the noise, "it wasn't your time to go."

"What?"

She checks her watch as the wall behind her disintegrates and darkness begins to sweep the room. "I'll see you in forty seven years."

2

The first breath I can feel myself take burns like hell and feels forbidden, and for a second I do think I'm in hell. I've never felt like my internal organs were being pulled through my throat before. It feels like my esophagus is halfway exposed and my brains are being tweezed out through my nose. I can't see anything but pitch black and the occasional flash of white light. The high pitch beeping in the background accelerates with every second that passes.

Immediately, the rest of my esophagus is yanked out and the tubes of my lungs start to go with it. The beeps sound faster and faster. Sets of hands clamp down on my arms and forehead, holding me down while I suffocate and die all over again—

Oh wait, hold on. I'm not dying. I just died.

I stop resisting pretty quickly after that. The hands slowly subside until there's only one, touching my cheek and running through my hair. The beeping slows to a steady pace. It hurts to breathe but at least I can.

An overwhelmingly loud voice booms in my ear. "Dallon? Can you hear me?"

I try to say something but nothing comes out. I can't even see who's speaking. It's probably God. I nod my head the best I can.

"Wonderful," God says, "do you know where you are?"

I shake my head. Oh, no, I don't know where I am. Maybe this is hell. I've always been deathly afraid of hospitals.

Ha. Deathly afraid.

"Do you remember what happened?"

I remember Taylor. Taylor the reaper, telling me I died in a car wreck. I don't remember much else anymore. I nod. I try to say that I died, but nothing comes out again. She totally sent me to hell and was just lying to make me feel better about it.

There's rustling all around the room but nobody addresses me again for what feels like hours. The beeping overshadows every other noise in the room, including the voices.

Slowly, very slowly, my surroundings start to prick into sight. First it's the speckled ceiling tiles, then the painting hung on the wall in front of me. Then the cluster of nurses, then the three blurry people standing behind them.

Ah, what the fuck. Wires and tubes are everywhere. I think my skin has been replaced by bandages. My nose feels numb but I can feel it burn to ashes all the same. I probably broke it, along with every other bone in my body. Taylor said I skidded off the freeway and flipped four times. I should most definitely have stayed dead.

God speaks up again. "Can you tell me the last thing you remember?"

Someone leans down close to me. I assume it's God, wanting to hear what I have to say.

"Crash."

God takes a second to ask another question, probably trying to make sense of the single word I wheezed out. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hell."

God laughs. "You're not in hell."

I sit and watch the group of people scribble on paperwork, make calls, and adjust knobs and wires on all the devices scattered around the room. The three blurry people are frozen in place as they watch the scene unfold.

I keep expecting Taylor to reappear and snap me back into my bedroom. I was dead and I was moving on. What did she mean when she said the system had made a mistake? Am I supposed to live another forty seven years knowing there's life after death? I can't start preaching what I saw, I haven't been to any type of church since I was seven. I don't think anyone would listen to what I have to say anyways.

One of the nurses leans down, just a foot away from my ear. "How do you feel?"

I feel like my soul was crammed back into my body through my nostrils. Every bone in my body aches like a bell rings. Every beam of light that forms in my vision shatters my train of thought with a jackhammer "Dead."

Her fingers skim gently across my cheek. "I know, I'm sorry. We're getting everything ready as fast as we can. In the meantime, I'll ask you a few questions, okay? Can you move anything? Wiggle your fingers?"

My fingers and toes twitch involuntarily at the request.

"That's good, absolutely fantastic." She says. "How does your throat feel?"

It feels like it was run through a paper shredder and doused in lemon juice. "Okay."

"That's good, that's good. Can you tell me what your name is?"

"Dallon."

"Do you know where you are?"

"No."

"M'kay. Do you remember what you were doing before the accident?"

I remember... I remember shoplifting the M&M's. I remember eating a lot of grapes, ripping information from the internet for papers, sitting on a blurry bed in a fuzzy room and feeling guilt. I remember the grapes very clearly. "Grapes."

Someone speaks up from the corner of the room. I think it's one of the three blobs of color. I can't hear what they say.

The nurse turns back to me. She starts to ask another question until God speaks to her. I can't pay enough attention to hear what they're talking about.

Her hand runs through my hair again. "Now that we know you'll be okay, we're going to try to make everything a little more comfortable, okay?"

"Okay."

"You can go back to sleep if you'd like," she says softly, "we thought you would've passed out again by now. You've been awake for a while."

"Okay."

"Okay. Go back to sleep, alright? We'll be waiting for you when you wake up."

"Okay."

3

Everything is so much clearer when I open my eyes again. The beeps aren't as loud, and the aches are dull. In all honesty, I could probably go back to sleep. I wish I could sleep forever, but I don't think I wish I could die again. I just want to sleep for a while.

Someone rushes to my side immediately. He squeezes my hand and kneels at the side of the bed, touching my cheek like everyone seems to be doing. My head aches so badly, I can't focus on his face.

"Hey," he whispers, "how do you feel?"

"Eh."

"Okay, okay, okay. I'll, uh, I'll get the nurse. She'll know what to do." He reaches above me and fumbles with some plastic device. Thirty seconds later, a small squadron slowly enters the room, staying as quiet as possible.

In total, there's about six people standing over me. They're all just watching and whispering amongst themselves as my headache begins to subside and life comes into view again.

God steps forward. It's nice to put a face to the name. "Dallon, do you feel well enough to talk?"

I nod, or at least I try to. I think they all get the gist of what I try to say even I don't answer the question properly.

God clears his throat. "You're at the Green Meadows hospital. You've been here for a week in a coma. A drunk driver drove you off the road on the freeway and you crashed into a ditch."

"I remember."

"You broke a lot of bones and suffered from a lot of external and internal bleeding. It's going to be a while until you're back on your feet. Thankfully, the damage shouldn't be too long term. No paralysis or anything like that."

I wonder if this is a punishment for unofficial members of hell. I shouldn't have eaten so many grapes when I was a kid. Satan is punishing me for the grapes I stole. "Okay."

God glances over his shoulder and someone steps beside him. He's smaller, but not too small. His dark eyes are lined with bags and it looks like he walked through hell and back. There are tears streaking down his red cheeks.

"Do you know who this is?" God asks. He nudged the guy towards me and he grabs my hand, squeezing gently.

I nod. "Yeah."

God frowns. "What's his name, Dallon?"

I look at the person beside me. I scan his face a dozen times and stare into his soul like I'm trying to steal it. I just can't put my finger on it. It's like there's an itch in the back of my head and I can't scratch it.

"Rob."

The guy clutching on to me for dear life bites his lip and wipes at his eyes. God pats his shoulder, as do some of the nurses.

"Not quite," God chuckles nervously, "do you want to try again?"

"Ted." I say.

He could pass as a Ted. I don't know who the hell he is, but I don't want to be rude and admit I don't recognize him.

Ted shakes his head and leans down beside me, resting his chin on the sides of the bed. "I-I'm Brendon. We've been together for, like, four years? We went to the same high school, and now we're in college together."

I get the overwhelming feeling that I should know him. I should have years of memories associated with him, but my mind draws a blank. Now I just feel like an illiterate monkey being forced to type up a screenplay.

I don't remember him. "Sorry."

His breath shakes in his lungs and struggles to leave his body. "That's alright. I remember you."

"You hit your head pretty hard, Dallon. We expected this." God steps toward a bit. "You'll be able to be discharged in a day or two. Then you'll go home with Brendon here and start to get back to your normal life. Of course we'll check in on you, but something like this will just take time."

I nod as best I can. "Okay."

Time. Lots of time. And I have all the time in the world.

4

I feel real bad when I'm discharged from the hospital. Not because I can't even roll myself out, but because I keep forgetting everything. The only constants in my memory are bits from my childhood and my experience in purgatory. Ted has told me his name twenty times and I still forget.

"It's Brendon." He says after I thank him for helping me climb into the passenger seat. "Not Ted."

"Sorry."

"It's alright," he sighs and turns the key in the ignition, "it's perfectly alright."

I don't think it's alright, but whatever. I wish I knew more about him after spending so much time confined in a dumb little room with him, but he hasn't exactly been an open book. It's not like I can remember much about him anyways.

It's a nice day. It's the middle of summer, the sky is littered with small clouds, and the ice cream truck rolls around into the closest neighborhood. Something itches in the back of my brain, something familiar that dances just out of sight and out of mind.

We stop at a red light just before we turn onto a ramp. To my right is a crowd of bright signs advertising tacos and burgers. To my left is an endless stream of boring grey cars.

"I'm sorry. I don't know what to say, really." Brendon pushes a button on the screen between us with his knuckle. Soft guitars and strings echo through the speakers.

The light flashes green and he speeds on the ramp to catch up with the other vehicles. We pass the bright food signs and zoom past gas station ads. My favorite billboard has two dogs on it.

"What music do I listen to?" I ask. He's played five songs and they all sound the same. Light guitars, steady beats, airy singing.

That catches him off guard. He frowns and focuses on the near vacant road, tongue in cheek. "Depends on your mood."

"I thought you were supposed to help me remember everything."

He sighs. Deeply. His jaw flexes with a dozen words he suppresses for another time. "You listen to everything, babe, I don't know what to tell you."

"That does not help my memory. I can feel my last string of knowledge slipping into the void. Maybe I'll forget how to breathe next."

The corner of his lip twitches up in a small smile. He does glare at me for the comment though. "The last time we were in the car together, you played Post Malone for an hour straight."

I don't know what or who that is. "Oh."

He keeps the wheel in one hand and swipes through the car's screen until he finds a list of artists. A few places above the bottom, he clicks shuffle on a little circle. Heavy beats and vibrations shake the seats in no time.

"Is he really a rockstar? Like the song says?"

Brendon shrugs. He checks the side mirrors and eases into the lane to his left. A large red truck speeds by as soon as we're out of its way. "Yeah. You also like a lot of weird indie bands and classic rock. I remember finding your secret jazz playlist on Spotify a few months ago."

I also don't remember anything associated with those things. "Cool."

He nods. "Are... are you hungry?"

"I don't even know what I like to eat."

"Burgers. Burgers bigger than your ego. And pizza, but it has to be greasy and loaded with cheese."

Just the thought of it makes my stomach growl, but I think we're going home, wherever that is, and I'm intrigued to see where we live. "What do you like to eat?"

He shrugs and swerves gently into the far right lane. He follows a curve off the freeway and to another intersection. We roll to a stop and watch the traffic in front of us. "I like breakfast food."

"We sound very different so far."

Brendon smiles. "Just a little bit, but I don't think our relationship would be the way it is if we were the exact same person."

"How is our relationship?"

"Wonderful," he says, "you used to say we're the template for romance movies."

That is the cheesiest shit I've ever heard. I remember Taylor telling me the lies I've told him. Guilt scratches at my insides. It'll be different this time. I won't lie about that again.

Brendon inches out as traffic dies down and holds tight to the curb as he turns. We pass by a little shopping center lined with small buildings with lots of windows. 'Winco' sounds familiar.

He points to the glove box at my knees quickly just as he makes another tight turn to a weird neighborhood of hotel entrances. "There's a sharpie in there."

I tug on the handle and a large stack of manuals and insurance forms tumble into m hands. I hand him a thick silver sharpie and shove everything back into place.

He turns between a brick building and sleek white one, backing into a parking spot behind the brick building. The car turns off as soon as he pulls out the key and uncaps the marker with his teeth. Brendon takes my broken arm and begins to write on the inside of my cast.

"Dallon Weekes. Traumatic amnesia. Blythe apartment complex, room 937. Please call or return immediately." I read aloud as he wedges the cap on the marker and drops it in the cup holder. "Can you mention the broken bones so nobody fucks with me?"

"They can see the casts. They can't see the neurological damage induced by a physically traumatizing event."

"They obviously aren't looking hard enough then."

"Who is they?" Brendon undoes my seatbelt and gently maneuvers it around my shoulder.

"I don't know."

He purses his lips and pats my head. "I've heard that phrase too many times today."

"Sorry."

He reaches behind him and pulls his black backpack onto his lap. Then he slides the keys into his pocket and tucks his phone with it. "You don't need to apologize. Stay there and I'll come get you."

I see him the rear view mirror. He walks around to the back of the car and pops open the trunk. I don't see anything until it's shut and he's kicking a wheelchair into position at my car door. He yanks it open as far as it goes and tries his best to lift me out of the car. It doesn't go well. I lift myself out even though every part of my body aches with a stabbing pain all at once.

He locks the car and struggles to push everything up the slight incline. I feel bad for not helping but the thick and ugly casts on both legs wouldn't allow me to even if I got up and started walking.

The building is old and looks like it would smell like cat piss if the inside hadn't been renovated. The lobby screams early 2000's. The chandelier is coated in a thin layer of dust, and the plastic plants look dead. It's weird. It feels cursed. There isn't even a person at the front desk.

The elevator arrives quickly, thank god, but it also looks like it would drop ten stories if someone stepped on the wrong tile.

Brendon notices my distaste quickly. "I know it's not the best, but it's close to campus and it's moderately cheap."

"I'm not complaining." I would complain but then I'd feel bad. We probably don't live somewhere better for a reason. Do I have a job? Not that I can really go to my job, but still.

"Yes you are." The elevator hits the ninth floor and the doors slide open. "We do have a roommate. I told you about her a few times but I don't know if you remember."

I don't remember. "Okay."

The hallway is long but our room is close. The door is marked with little scratches at the bottom, like a whiny dog tried to force its way in.

And now I'm in a writers block and I realize that this idea is only adequate and nothing matters because we all die alone in some way