He looked up and was awestruck. Words failed, and even conscious thought stumbled for a moment. What confronted his eyes (did he even have those any more?) was a tapestry of the surreal. Colors and shapes swirled before him, voices drifted out of the mist, pregnant with emotion yet wholly unintelligible. An eternity passed before Johnny became aware of where he was and what transpired around him. In an instant, the gravity of the situation crashed in upon him and his soul was afraid.
Johnny concentrated with whatever willpower that was left in him and slowly the events leading up to where he found himself began to drift into shape. Why was it so hard to remember? It had only happened a few minutes ago, hadn't it? He recalled the overwhelming despair, seeming to permeate every fiber of his soul, as he sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Johnny seemed to think he used to have a wife. Her name and face danced on the edges of his consciousness. Something had happened, something serious and it involved her. If it was so important why didn't it instantly spring to mind?
Time had no meaning, the only thing that mattered was memory. It took a colossal effort, but the most Johnny managed to dredge up was an argument, and a feeling of despair, and then a whisper of hope from a voice inside. A voice that promised to bring an end to the suffering and pain that Johnny's heart was writhing in. That voice was no stranger. It had been with Johnny his entire life. Sometimes loud, sometimes barely audible, but there nonetheless. Like a single termite gnawing it's way through a tremendous redwood, it ate away at his sense of self worth over the years. Time was the only thing that stood between this mental termite and it's goal, and time had no meaning.
Johnny remembered the revolver that he kept by the bed "just for emergencies". Now was certainly a crisis, if not an emergency, right? The velvety purr of doomed logic whispered in his ears. He probably wouldn't even feel anything. It happens instantly, just like walking through a door. Then it's on to see what else is out there. What if it's nothing? Well, Johnny thought to himself, that'll be just fine too. He loaded two chambers, on the off chance that the first misfired. He didn't want to give himself a moment to think while reloading. This was a committed plan of action, no second-guessing himself now.
And then there was nothing. Nothing until he found himself here. Not only did the bullet shatter the back of his skull, it also erased his recollection of the event. It was beyond Johnny to understand how a physical slug from a gun could affect his current form; whatever it was. He never was as sharp as those who pretended to understand such things. He always suspected they were making shit up just to sound more important anyway. Not that any of that mattered now; he was finding out first hand.
Johnny turned his attention outward from his attempts at recollection and tried to process his surroundings. In the background was a constant murmur of sound. Voices? If so it was unintelligible. It was all so muffled, similar to what you might hear through the wall of an apartment complex. Looking around, he could tell he was still in his bedroom, but everything seemed oddly wavy, like he was peering through old glass. Objects were familiar, yet slightly unfamiliar at the same time. He started to move through the room, trying to understand what he was experiencing.
This was nothing like the afterlife Johnny was expecting. He'd been to church in his youth, and occasionally during his marriage. He was expecting to at least meet God and then be judged to heaven or hell; Johnny had tried to live well but he had no pretenses that he was any sort of saint. But to be left behind, no corporeal form to house his spirit, was nothing he was in any way prepared for. At least with his memory shattered he was spared the pain that had brought him to this point. Ignorance is bliss, right?
Not-Johnny, as he thought of himself with a grim sort of humor, exited the room. He was truly a ghost, there was no debate any longer. His second revelation of the afterlife; ghosts were real and he was one. Johnny moved through the house that he and his wife had shared. Most things he recognized; occasionally there were new items he didn't recall. A picture on the wall here, a new coffee table there, and although their presence confused him, he didn't dwell on it. Best to file away such questions for later. Right now he wanted to see...dammit what WAS her name???
The house was empty. Johnny was alone here, unless you counted the constant sound of voices that were always in the background. Moving from room to room, he searched for any signs of life. The house appeared to still be occupied by Johnny and his wife judging by the possessions, but other than that it was as still as a tomb. Fitting. He would settle somewhere and wait. Someone had to come back at some point. The living room used to be home to his favorite recliner. Not that his formless energy needed a chair, but if he was going to settle anywhere it would be there.
And it was still in the same corner. Johnny moved toward it, and it seemed to beckon him. Settling down into the seat was like coming home. It was comforting but not in any physical sense of the word. The old tattered recliner felt like it was a part of him. He recalled hearing how favorite chairs seemed to be haunted by previous owners and now Johnny could understand. After spending countless hours with his butt parked right there, some of his energy must have imparted itself into this unknowing collection of wood and leather. The worn recliner felt like a warm blanket, and Johnny again lost track of time.
