I Can’t Think of a Title

The young man’s ears rung somewhat menacingly. Tinnitus. Nerves sent electric jolts through his injured arm. Nerve damage? He was tired. Very tired. He had no reason to exist, but his wanting of a reason seemed reason enough for now.

He laid in his bed, his faithful hound nearby. She was the only friend he had left. She was the best friend he’d ever had but he wished she could talk. He was afraid to speak to people. His social skills had broken. If they could be fixed he was not sure. Was it psychological or neurological? Agoraphobia kept him inside.

The young man knew he was the laughing stock of the town. His dignity was forever gone.

He asked himself again why he lived, to which no good answer could be found. He laid in his bed. Ears still ringing. Very tired.

Well at least I have a bed, he thought. His depression was not alleviated.

He could do nothing while waiting for his injuries to heal. He had nowhere to go and no one to see. He didn’t know he was already dead.

The crash had killed him instantly upon impact. Just like he wanted. Was it true they used cola to clean blood off the pavement? He didn’t know. He didn’t remember any of it. Not the paramedics hauling his broken corpse from the vehicle; his head a broken eggshell with with red yolk oozing from the cracks. He didn’t remember how they went back to retrieve his severed arm. It was all thrown into the plastic bag with the rest of his remains and sent to the morgue. The crumpled vehicle, the inside now resembling a chum bucket, was impounded. The people he hit had been in a large truck and were completely unscathed. He didn’t remember.

As far as he knew he also survived the crash with minor injuries. A fractured arm and a minor concussion. He didn’t see his family members sobbing over his closed casket. Ululating over the mahogany box that held his grizzly remains. His brother, completely traumatized, made a scene of pounding the coffin as he wailed. His face contorted: a red swampland of mucus and tears. He didn’t see the countless nights they spent grieving or the deep depression they had all fallen into. But it seems he felt it. He longed for death.

His roommates noticed the strange occurrences. Knew immediately from the countless horror movies that it was a ghost. Neither of them believed in ghosts before this. Now they knew.

His blender, that he made his breakfast smoothies with, was left out each morning. His roommates kept putting it back in the cupboard. They questioned each other. “No I haven’t been using it.” It took them only a couple days to realize that the other wasn’t lying. They could hear him singing in the shower. It was the song from that damn commercial with the singing dog. It was undeniably his voice. Opening the door it immediately ceased. They exchanged looks of shock and horror before turning off the water. They moved out a month later with a story they would tell their grandchildren.

The young man laid in his bed, the thought of death his only comfort. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill himself. He drown his worries with a long shower. He sang the lyrics to a commercial from the early 2000’s.

“Hello mother! Hello father! Fleas ticks mosquitoes! Really bother!!” It was now 2056 and the young couple who had recently bought the house had no idea what it meant. They wouldn’t be staying long. It was too bad. The young man was very lonely.

  • jay


  • Smoochiboochi92

    Very good!