Going Home

I awoke from what I was certain was my death.

I remember it quite well.  I had been in traffic, aggravated because I needed to get home. But why had I needed to get there? The landlord. The landlord had called and said that he was coming to my house because the neighbors had reported water leaking out my kitchen door. And I had to get there.  I had to get there before him.  Why?

I know I was in my car, stuck between 39th and 40th streets on Darcy Avenue, waiting to merge onto a grid locked Interstate.  I wasn't going to make it in time.  He was going to go in before I got home, and that couldn't happen.

There was stress in my life for sure, and the chest pains hadn't been abnormal. But I remember the dizziness and the steering wheel coming at me with the Chevy logo looming large in my eyes.

And now here I am, sitting on a hillside.  There are high hills with rocky outcroppings all around me, lush grass covering all the soil with green life. And I'd take that a positive sign, but the skies are constantly cloudy. I am not comforted or reassured.

There's a stuffed animal face down on the ground two feet from me.  I think it's a rabbit.

I had to get home.  Why did I have to get home?

"Mister, is that my bunny?"

I didn't hear her come up behind me.  But with the soft grass and a light wind in my ears, I probably wouldn't have even if I'd been concentrating.  She has come to stand next to me as I sit cross-legged on the ground.  Peripherally, I can see she is six or seven, a dark blonde, dressed in a pink tee and fuchsia shorts.  Her bare feet look pale in the soft green grass.  She looks a bit skinny.  I won't look her in the eye.

"It's okay, mister. I found my bunny and you'll find what you're looking for."

She makes no move to pass me and get the bunny.

"It'll come back to you, mister." She puts an arm around my shoulders and squats down next to me so she's got me in a sideways hug.

"What will?" I speak for the first time, still not looking over at her.

"Whatever's missin'," she says somewhat melancholy and then leans her head on the side of my arm.

We sit like this for a few minutes, until I try to bring up a new subject. "Are you hungry? You look like you don't eat much."

"We don't eat food here."

That confirms it for me, I am dead.

She turns her head in towards me and snuggles in closer, her head now almost on my chest. I turn my head to the left and gaze at the endless hills to that side so that I avoid looking down at her.

We sit like this for a few more minutes until I feel something dripping on my pants. I at first think she's crying, but there are no sobs. I flick my eyes downward, to a spot below where her head rests on my chest, to my pant leg, which is dotted in crimson.  I hope she's got a nosebleed.  I look away again.

"They found him," the bubbles in her voice tell me where the blood is coming from, "the little boy behind the basement pipes." The dripping on my pants becomes a constant drool as she talks.

I have found what I lost. I remember now why I was in such a rush.

I can see her head turning up towards my face, and I can smell her hot, coppery breath getting closer to my neck.

I am going home.