John stared absently at the scabs on the backs of his knuckles, and wondered how they had gotten there.  There was some residual pain, as if they had been previously injured, but he couldn’t recall how, if when, that would have happened.  It was as if he was peering through a thick fog, and his memory was the shadow hidden beneath its damp embrace.

His house was empty, his wife and daughter having long since gone to her parents. For what reason, he also couldn’t remember, only that he had only spoken to them once, since.  She had been angry with him, accusing him of being hurtful during their last conversation, but like the mystery of his hands, this, too, was something he couldn’t remember doing.

He should be angry.  Shouldn’t he?  It felt as if there was something he should be remembering, something that felt more important than the two things most recently on his mind.

He looked around as if in a daze, seeing his surroundings for what felt like the first time today.  He was at the dining room table, upon which were the remains of his last several meals.  He didn’t remember eating recently, but the evidence couldn’t be denied.  Not by him, nor by the several dozen flies that flew from plate to plate, tasting his decaying leftovers.

The room smelled, ripe from the lack of cleanliness, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust.  If he had been hungry before, that feeling was long since gone.  He made a mental note to clean before his family got home as he turned and walked into the living room.  The thought was forgotten before he’d finished passing through the door.

His living room was in no better shape.  Apparently, he had taken a few meals in here as well.  Three plates, each with the remains of forgotten meals upon them, sat upon the coffee table, along with an empty pizza box.  But was that there before?  Hadn’t he had friends over?

He couldn’t remember.

It also didn’t matter right now.  He would have to clean that up later, he thought as he lay down on his couch.  He wrinkled his nose as he noticed another funky smell in the air, but before he could identify it, he had been overcome with sleep.

– – – – – – – – – –

Hours later, (or was it minutes?), he shot up off of the couch, shrieking.   His skin was clammy, and his hair stood out wildly on the right side of his head, but none of these things he would notice until the fear had run its course, nearly two minutes later.

As the dreams faded from memory, they took with them the feelings they had inspired, leaving him to wonder what it was that had frightened him.  He looked around as if in shock, struggling to regain his bearings as he finally realized he was awake.  The room was darker, and the light behind the curtains fell closer to the wall than it did when he lay down, suggesting it was now late in the afternoon.

“…tho gooooood!”

The familiar, nasally voice, of someone he knew screamed at him from the shadows, and he screamed as well.  He screamed as he fell to the floor.  He screamed as he curled into a fetal position.  He screamed, and he screamed, and he screamed, until he could hear the laughter no longer.