I suppose it's time. He thought to himself while lying flat on the floor. Face down. My time to die. It had to come sooner or later. Now is as good time as any. He noticed the speckles of dirt on the wallpaper and a dried up leaf about three inches away from his nose.
This is the last thing I will see. I wonder if I will remember this in my next life? Maybe if I focus real hard and memorize every tiny little detail. Then he remembered another one of those moments. A scene from a film. He didn't like that. He wanted to remember an actual moment from his own life not a Hollywood manufactured memory. Because he knew he had done that several times.
I will remember this. Now it was all gone, except for that scene and the now. It was so little. There must have been people, dogs even. It all slipped away. Faded into nothing. The brain had lost its functionality. He rested his eyes on the leaf again. There was beauty. The last feeling.
Then he died.
Hours. Darkness. Light. Days. Weeks floated by. His body was intact, almost mummyfied by the lack of interaction. The stillness of the air in the apartment expected no turmoil. This was the soil in which he was buried. So many similar fates. The worms of course, they came. They had been waiting. Anticipating the time of his passing. The moment of feast.
After six and a half weeks had passed the mailman got suspicious. There was no apparent smell. He had felt it before so he knew, but M. Oppenheimer was not an old person that one could expect to die of natural causes. Like the woman three blocks away, Eva. She started smelling right away. Terribly too. He had seen Oppenheimer two or three times during the past year. Very quiet person. Tall. He didn't seem to have a vivid social life exactly and never really travelled much either. The mail was always collected and allthough it was mostly bills he must have paid them because he never got any threatening reminders. Until now.
( to be continued)