"I want to fall asleep. It's been weeks now. I've lost count, to be honest. Days and nights are starting to trail each other without announcement. I've heard there is a music for that. A music that is the day and is the night in unison with each bubbling moment of sound."

Flora took the three tablets given to him and tucked himself in. He began to see red. It was a deep rich sort of red that he had remembered from childhood. It reminded him of a stomach. His own stomach squirmed. The warmth and humanity of the hue began to unsettle him and he wondered if it was a bad idea to let someone harvest your organs. Regardless, he was unable to rouse himself from the steeping stupor so he decided to try and enjoy it. He knew that, just like everyone else, he would have to die one day. Why not sell his organs and pay off the loans that had his wife and child shackled in debt. He was exhausted with worry. He was ready to trade it all for a solution and a good long eternal sleep.

Two men entered his small hotel room. His wife thought Flora was at a concert in the city. She had wanted to come but he insisted she stay back. The two men were instructed to make it look like a homicide. The taller fellow wore sweat pants and a jersey. The stout one wasn't wearing a shirt. They had an adidas duffelbag and a baseball bat.

Flora woke up next to his wife. Their child was two years older and talking quite well. He pinched between his eyes and whinced. His wife asked him if he had a headache or something. He embraced her and their daughter jumped on the bed and played with Flora's fingers, counting them out loud, one through ten. Flora looked at his chest. There were scars here and there but he felt spry and well rested.

The years passed and his daughter grew up to be beautiful. His wife grew older too and managed to keep her beauty remarkably. He watched the laugh lines grow deeper and deeper on her lovely face and he occasionally pontificated on the beauty of age. His face was keeping its youth so well he was almost disconcerted. By the time his daughter graduated from university, this phenomenon was quite clear to him. Whenever he brought it up with anybody else however, they shyed away from the topic most uncomfortably. This of course frustrated him but he gave up on it after a while. The thought was never far from his mind, however, and not a day passed without him staring in the mirror anxiously, plaintive and pensive.

The years continued to twinkle by. Flora looked a lot like his thirty one year old grandson. His wife was arguably beyond the sunset years and well into the sundown.  Flora's daughter had died of liver failure for no explicable reason. That had been eight years ago. The family hadn't taken it well. He had watched his male friends die one by one, largely alienated from him despite their feigned ignorance of his athanasia. In his spirit he too felt ready to move along from this world. He felt ill at ease with the world. He felt he had outgrown it, in a spiritual sense. It had nothing left for him. Great frustration would surmount him every morning when he woke up, frustrated that he was still alive and that this insufferable promenade had not herald any proof of concluding.

That night, full of disgust with his youth, he went to his wife's room and intimated his concerns. The subject wasn't taboo, it was forbidden. So desperately had she avoided this discussion. But it was clear she could not pretend any longer. It hurt to ignore the grief it caused him, though the alternative was much worse. He explained his disembodiment from his spirit and how he eagerly awaited death. She listened, nodding softly, growing more and more upset. His tone gained weight like the air before the rain. He began to spout his frustration. He wanted to grow old with her and discard this earth! Like a dirtied garment he was finished with wearing. He didn't expect her to know why he had remained in this static state but he wanted her conjecture. Why hadn't he aged?? He was exasperated. He was indignant. 

There was a long silence between them. A thick fog of the Past unpast built up between them in the fleeting moments. She was crying, moaning groggily when she exhaled. The weeping rocked her whole body. Flora wanted to desist but his lust for an answer kept prevailing. He pressed, softer now, without so much accusation in his tone.
"I just want to finish with all this, my Love. Just like you and all of our friends are doing."
She sobbed bitterly.
"I just want to be done with life and finally go to Heaven. Go to Heaven or just cease altogether. Wherever people go when they are done with all this tireless living."
"But Flora," she wept, "You are dead. This is your Hell."



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