Misforgotten by Nicole Terry       A small, yet comfortable country home in the middle of an ocean of grass. The sun rose slowly behind the house, climbing up the back wall. It peeked in the large bay windows there and stroked a warm hand over Donald Petrucci’s sleeping body.                       He awoke to the smiling face of the sun, and ran a hand through his curly, black hair. He jumped out of bed, anxious to begin the day. He showered and dressed quickly, and by the time his wristwatch beeped the morning hour of seven, he was seat belted in the front seat of his Volkswagen and on his way to work.             He stopped at the store to buy some cigarettes. Inside, a little boy cringed against his mother, his big eyes wide with fear, as he walked by. The mother stared openly at him as if he was a walking pickle. Donald paid no mind.             At the checkout counter, the cashier backed away from him, and begged him to take the cigarettes and just go. Donald laid his money on the counter, then walked out, baffled.             Donald arrived at work at approximately 7:45am. As he sat at his desk, the unmistakable feeling that he had forgotten something vital ceased him. His glasses perhaps?  An object frequently forgotten at home. No, they were in his jacket pocket. He guessed he was so used to forgetting something that on the rare occasion he didn’t, he still felt as if he did. But, dammit, the feeling was strong. He supposed it would come to him eventually.             Other employees began to filter in around 8:00. Donald said good morning to them all, but their eyes widened and they smiled politely, and then scurried away with frightened backward glances. Donald pretended not to notice, but by first lunch, he was beginning to get irritated. He wanted to shout at his co-workers, “What the hell are you looking at?” But never did. He just wasn’t that kind of person. So, he sat at his desk, hiding behind his computer, brooding.             He went out for Lunch at a deli down the street from work, as he usually did. The little man that ran the deli, usually delighted to see his frequent customer, today crossed himself, called Donald a demon, and ran through the door marked KITCHEN. Donald watched in silence; saddened, he left.             He returned to work, his head low, but he had to go back out to his car again because he’d forgotten his keys in the ignition. He tried to ignore the stares from his co-workers and concentrate on his work, but he was suddenly tired. His bones ached, and his muscles spasmed and threatened to turn to jelly.             He walked into his manager’s office to tell him he was leaving early. He never had a chance to say so: his boss clutched his chest, and waved him out.             At home, wounded by the angry beeps and frightened stares from people through their car windows, he trudged up the stairs to lie down. His body felt heavy and his head hurt terribly. Every footstep was like a garbage truck dropping a heavy load of metal.                       He hurried, as best as his fatigued body could, into the bathroom to the medicine cabinet for some aspirin. He turned on the light and noticed his reflection in the mirror. He was hideous: his skin blue, eyes without color, and a hole the size of a half-dollar in his forehead. He could see the shower curtain behind him through the hole. He finally understood why everyone looked at him so strangely all day: he was dead. Had died last night by his own hand, but had forgotten to die. He remembers now, and death is instantaneous. © Copyright 2008 Nicole Terry ALL RIGHTS RESERVED [back to Short Stories] [more Writings]