Who would have thought waking up in a morgue could become so blasé? But I guess you’ll have that after doing so over the past few hundred years. I haven’t spent all of my long life with a bottle in hand—there were quite a few centuries where I hardly touched the stuff—but these last dozen decades or so have been troubling.
I fear I may have lost what little faith I had left in humanity. This isn’t a new thought; I’ve been struggling with this for quite some time. There have always been awful things that sicken me to my core, and sadly it will probably always be this way. It just seems that this newest sickness coming from the human race has a foul, wretched stink to it that could drive any man mad.
The only thing that helped me stay sane these last many years was to numb myself. I need to consume a great deal of many things to get the desired effect. It can sometimes become a bit of a chore if I’m honest. But compared to the wickedness surrounding me, I don’t mind the chore. Not one bit. Nope.
The one silver lining in my fucking pitiful excuse of existence is my financial comfort. I’ve been able to acquire a handsome nest egg throughout all these many years. To have something, all I need to do is want it and it’s mine. Of course, the irony is not lost on me that the only thing I want more than anything, for humanity to get their shit together, can not be paid for. No matter how many people try.
So now I spend my days under the influence of anything I can get my hands on. Partying so hard that those around me think I’ve met my demise has become commonplace. I always wake up in a cold box feeling fresh as a daisy. This has become my life. All this time amounted to nothing beside wallowing in my own filth.
With no place to be, I tend to wonder about freely. It’s normally on these trips that I discover new reasons to numb myself all over again. People fighting each other instead of figuring out how to help each other. Injustice being committed on a global scale. It’s enough to make my head spin.
One night though, things changed. I took a seat on the sidewalk, resting my back against a building. I brought my knees close to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. With my face buried in my knees, I tried to get a hold of myself so I could make it back home and sell off the rest of the world.
That’s when I heard it. “Here you go mister.” The voice was tiny and low. When I looked up I saw the face of a little African American girl standing in front of me with her mother. She was cute and adorable in all the ways that small children are. She had a wrinkled five dollar bill in her hand. “I think you might need this more than me,” she said, handing the five over.
I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. There was so much I wanted to say to her but I couldn’t find the words. All I could say was, “Thank you so much,” as I tried to smile.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, waving happily. I watched her as she skipped down the sidewalk holding her mother’s hand. There she went, leaving me feeling better than I had been in a long time.
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