Untitled Short Story

It's a curious thing, dying.

I would describe the sensation but would you really want me to spoil it for you? I always spoil things for people—just ask my son. Little tyke, the first time I held him in my arms, the slimy and ugly thing, I knew he would be my pride and joy.

But if you asked him about me he would probably tell you how I spoiled the night he invited his boyfriend home for dinner; I slammed the mash potatoes against the wall. I meant to hit him, but the son of a bitch ducked. My son may be a damn fag but he is a swift fag.

It doesn't matter anymore.

You know, it really is curious, dying. I would describe the sensation but it would be rather rude of me since you don't even know who I am.

Who am I? I am evil, the spawn of the devil himself! At least that is what my wife always said. Sweet thing; Jocelyn is her name. A devout Christian and great cook; she put three bullets right through me. I didn't even get a chance to divorce the bitch, she wouldn't allow it because God frowns upon it. That's right, life loves irony so much it had the woman who sucked the joy out of my life for fifteen years kill me dead, really, really dead. Joke is on her, though, because now I am free.

Dying begins after you are dead. I did not feel myself hit the carpet because I was dead before I ever did.

Right before she shot me I turned my head toward the window. It was a lucky thing too, because the last image I saw was the sight of the UPS truck coming down the street toward my driveway. They finally came, those bastards. Right on time but too damn late; I would never enjoy the golf club I ordered from EBAY. It was my damn Christmas present to myself.

Anyway, back to dying; my eyeballs must have been pushed all the way up to my brain, but I didn't need them any more, so I guess I shouldn't complain. It felt as if my entire body was being pressed into itself from every direction. I was being squeezed into nothing. It's odd because I can somehow see clearer now. Maybe now I can discover the secrets of life or at least discover how to find a way to come back and beat the crap out of Jocelyn; two bullets would've done it, but she really wanted to make sure. She bloodied up the damn body I spent years working on. Now I will be pale and unattractive for my funeral. I just know it; I have lost so much blood. On the bright side, I may not even have a funeral; Jocelyn will probably chop up my body and feed it to the dog.

That's what I would've done. Tyson would eat anything as long as there is some barbecue sauce on it. Damn, I miss that dog. He's the only thing that kept me sane all these years. When I woke up in the morning next to that ugly thing beside me, I would get off my bed to find Tyson snuggled up on the floor over my slippers, keeping them warm. It's like he knew what I liked. He would even fetch them for me when I arrived from work, as soon as he would hear the car pull up to the drive way. I would walk in and find Tyson waiting for me with my damn slippers in his mouth.

I should have married the damn dog. Maybe then I would have been happy. But if I should choose any resting place, I could not think of a better place than the stomach of my best friend. Enjoy your meal, you bastard.