The answering machine beeped every once in a while, and by now he must have amassed hundreds of messages ranging from 'WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU' to 'THIS IS THE TENTH TIME I'M CALLING TO TELL YOU TO CLEAR OUT YOUR DESK'. Fragments of a mortal life he once enjoyed recorded on an answering machine; most calls he cared little about, some calls... perhaps he should have answered.
He'd been on a wild adventure, filled with some ups but mostly downs. He'd spent a long time just lying there in a darkness that chewed him up, spat him out and licked at the open wounds. It was strange to be lying here, watching the Sun cross the sky through the glass panes on the ceiling, able to move now but choosing not to.
It felt like a lot has changed since his untimely departure. It felt like a long time, but he knew it wouldn't have actually been that long. He forgot to put the world on pause, and it was like coming to America for the first time all over again. Except this time he wasn't all that willing to explore the place, to integrate with society, to pretend to be someone he wasn't. Maybe he'd do something when he was done drinking the pain away and decided that he was tired of being tired.
Intruder alert. Stranger in the house. Knife on the floor, blood in the water.