Brand New Monster

At the age of 45, Peter lost momentum. I write more, then delete it, then repeat the process over again, then again. The backs of his dry hands. The whine of bare tires on asphalt. The crunch of gravel as the truck pulls to a stop. The silence. The hum of insects. The smell of dust settling. The distortion of the smudged windshield. The tickle of sweat running down the back of his neck....

You'd be surprised the number of things I've written in my head that never made it out. No you wouldn't. You'd be shocked that I'm not the person you thought I was. No, of course you wouldn't. You knew all along. You'd be scared to know I'm trapped somewhere between night and day. You'd worry. No, that's stupid. We're all trapped. You have your own worries. Well,...

I wouldn't call myself a rotting corpse, although maybe I should and just be done with it. Sure it's a stretch. I know that. I know I'm no corpse, you have to be dead to earn yourself that word, but then who actually earns anything these days? Who waits for anything at all, come to think of it. Not me, far as I can tell. It might seem like waiting, but it isn't. It's not the same thing,...

I'd been visiting once when he'd suddenly reached out and stuffed a note card into my hand, which I have to admit, took me by surprise. Not so much the action itself--because like I've said, there were notes on everything, so why not in my hand--no, what took me by surprise was my own reaction. It was like I was in a coma or something, but aware, or maybe like one of those freak surgeries you...