David took off the dirt-stained blazer at the graveyard, running away from the site of his own burial.
Nothing to be done about the pants, and the white button-down wasn’t quite so white anymore. But it was the blazer that was a dead giveaway — a sign that he’d died, not-so-long-ago. He couldn’t place his reasoning, but he didn’t want to be rushed to the hospital, at least not right away.
He knew he couldn’t deal with the stares right now. He couldn’t deal with the doctors, or the press.
The press did love a good resurrection story. People got so weird when you came back to life. So reverential, but also so jealous.
Hours passed, the city seemed a blur. Eventually, he found a gas station. Sat on the curb. No one gave him a second glance, because they assumed he was homeless. Thinking about it, he realized he was homeless. Didn’t have a home, or any form of identification. Why did they have to take away your wallet before they buried you?
More time passed. The gas station’s door opened and closed, each of its movements marked by the little bell hanging from it. Constant jingling, but he didn’t seem to notice. He was too far gone. He tried to remember what it meant to live.
David got up slowly. He had to go to the hospital, right? His lungs struggled a bit, like they’d grown rusty over time. Breathing felt new again.
He sort of leaned a bit, forward momentum driving him towards the door. He opened it again, made his way to the gas station bathroom before the attendant could tell him to buy something.
He locked himself in there. Fluorescent light bearing down on him, he looked at his reflection in the mirror: much too gaunt, his formerly broad shoulders having shriveled.
He thought he’d been done crying, that day. He’d been wrong.