Living
[inspired by the first line of the first song I listened to when I got to work this morning - who knows? this might be the start of a meme. Get on board now, before it gets popular and you have to start sneering.]
"Come on, take my hand. I want to contact the living."
I took Randall's offered hand across the table, and placed my other hand on the tv screen. It was hard to tell which was colder, deader. Randall had closed his eyes and was muttering under his breath. I'd never managed to work out what he said during these little anti-seances, but it seemed to help him. He'd drummed into me the importance of doing something, anything, of having a purpose.
Not that we had ever managed to contact the living. We saw them hidden in the static on the tv sometimes, or in the reflections in windows. I could hear them in the other rooms of the house, but they would always be gone when I'd burst in, my "a-ha! caught you!" echoing off the walls.
Randall said we had to keep trying. What if this is the time we get through, he'd say. I didn't want to tell him that I thought we're never going to get through. I've been here for years or hours, I'm not sure. There's no day or night, and I don't remember needing to sleep.
I've seen others on the street outside, other lost people. They walk with furrowed brows, or eyes as wide as the sky, but they're always gone when I get outside.
Randall had sweat on his brow, and his hand was gripping mine so tightly it would have hurt if I wasn't dead. Suddenly he opened his eyes, staring straight at me, and said in a voice like breaking glass, "Can you feel that?"
That's all he said. He let go of my hand, slumped back in the chair. I rubbed my hand gently to get it back into shape. When I looked up, he was gone.
"Come on, take my hand. I want to contact the living."
I took Randall's offered hand across the table, and placed my other hand on the tv screen. It was hard to tell which was colder, deader. Randall had closed his eyes and was muttering under his breath. I'd never managed to work out what he said during these little anti-seances, but it seemed to help him. He'd drummed into me the importance of doing something, anything, of having a purpose.
Not that we had ever managed to contact the living. We saw them hidden in the static on the tv sometimes, or in the reflections in windows. I could hear them in the other rooms of the house, but they would always be gone when I'd burst in, my "a-ha! caught you!" echoing off the walls.
Randall said we had to keep trying. What if this is the time we get through, he'd say. I didn't want to tell him that I thought we're never going to get through. I've been here for years or hours, I'm not sure. There's no day or night, and I don't remember needing to sleep.
I've seen others on the street outside, other lost people. They walk with furrowed brows, or eyes as wide as the sky, but they're always gone when I get outside.
Randall had sweat on his brow, and his hand was gripping mine so tightly it would have hurt if I wasn't dead. Suddenly he opened his eyes, staring straight at me, and said in a voice like breaking glass, "Can you feel that?"
That's all he said. He let go of my hand, slumped back in the chair. I rubbed my hand gently to get it back into shape. When I looked up, he was gone.
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