I just recall that, for the life of me, I couldn't find a light switch. I mean it was dark, really dark. I sort of bumped into walls, walking as slowly as possible, hands out, just sort of feeling my way around. At one point I heard a noise, realized it was my own voice, echoing off a wall, so I started moaning, trying to gauge distances by the reflected sound. Can you picture it? Me, hands out, moaning, lost in my own house. I must have looked like an asshole.

I mean I don't remember my house being so big! I wandered around for hours. I’d find some source of light-- like the moon-- and it was such a relief to see something at all that I would just stare at it. Then I'd realized I hadn't taken a breath in a long time, and I'd sigh, really heavy. I'd try to snap myself out of it, clap my hands a few times, or knock on the walls. Then back to wandering. Out of the corner of my eye I'd see dawn just barely breaking, then I'd get confused, really tired, slow way down, and next thing I knew, the sun was setting again and I'd be looking for something. But what?

For three days this was going on, in the pitch dark. Sometimes I'd find the stairs, and try to move up them. It seemed to take every ounce of energy I had, and when I was finally upstairs, I couldn't get very far before I'd wind up at the top step again, and then, just like that, at the bottom. It was maddening. I started getting angry. And the angrier I got, the better I could see. Which was a relief, the anger would subside, and I'd be lost again. I finally figured out that if I stayed mad, I could see better.

That's when I realized I'd been dead for three days. It made sense. I could almost recall seeing that sunrise, that glimpse, three times, if only because I saw it from three different places in the house. So, great. What am I, a ghost? Wonderful. I'm a ghost, haunting my own house. If that's true, why? What's the point? And now I don't know if this anger I feel, this rage at the futility of walking around, what, eternity, doing nothing, trapped in my house, is this appropriate rage, or am I just getting used to being mad all the time?

I mean, what a stupid fucking way to die. Wake up, maybe thirsty, maybe have to take a leak, maybe some random caffeine molecule found its way eventually into my brain and took up residence. So there I am at the top of the stairs. Stairs I've ran up and down a million times. Stairs I've even, when I think about it, fallen down a few times, no big deal. Grab the bannister, or just slide on your butt, feel stupid but live. Nope, this time, I fell and something happened.

Last night I finally found my wife. I was thinking about all the shit she'd pulled in our live together. Oh, sure, loving supporting spouse, great with the kids, sacrificed so much to make us all happy, yadda yadda yadda. But some of the fights we had! her inability to see that sometimes, yes, occasionally, little Miss Perfect wasn't so perfect! And her refusal, even when she knew she was wrong, her refusal to apologize. I used to say to her, someday, your stupidity is going to kill me, and I bet you won't even say you're sorry then, will you?

I found her, sleeping in our bed. I just stared at her for a while, getting more and more angry, so angry I started to feel pain, like I hadn't even felt anything for the longest time, but staring at her, I felt a sharp pain in my neck, a gritty grindy kind of pain, and on my back, a deep throbbing burning, like the shape of two hands pressed into my back, the shape of two hot woman-sized hands. God I wish I could show her how much this hurts now. It’s pretty much the only thing I want at all.