“Go Fuck Yourself.”



Loud banging pierces through the still air, bellowing thuds coming one after the other, relentlessly hammering away just before a familiar, annoying voice follows.

“Tilton! Time to pay up! Just because there’s mermaids falling from the sky, doesn’t mean you don’t owe your rent anymore!”

All too quickly, my surroundings fade from glorious gold and rich amber to a familiar darkness. The feel of warm, plush cushions dissipates immediately, giving way for cold air and a small, hardened mattress. The intoxicating scents of cedar and sandalwood are instantly replaced by that of faint mildew and stale, unventilated air that refuses to be masked by artificial tangerine.

The banging ensues—as do the rude ramblings of my landlord, Roger Kirk.

“Open up, Tilton! I don’t have all fucking day,” he continues, pounding on the already frail door even harder.

I’m back in my room, lying in my tiny bed alone as my consciousness slowly but surely takes over. I stare into the darkness as the loud pummeling forces me awake. I blink at the nothingness that surrounds me, finding it a little hard to breathe as a very strange sense of longing ripples through me.

The reaper is…nowhere in sight.

I can’t see him.

Can’t smell him.

Can’t hear him.

Can’t feel him.

He’s gone.

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