The Everyman awoke and saw the world in a complete blur. The paralysis left him in an insufficient motion, laying heavily on the single sized bed. Every breath he took was suffocating and gentle, but didn’t give him the atonement he wished. Only numbness. In his dream, he walked down an empty street cracked with uneven bumps and faded chalk outlines with distorted words he couldn’t make out. The concrete buildings and dead trees on the sidewalks lend a design of unfamiliarity but was indeed part of the Everyman’s distant images of industrial nature. The mist was dense and heavy and left the Everyman in a sense of dread that he thought no one on earth not even the dead could roam with precision, but was safe nonetheless.
He saw a humanoid figure dressed in black and white clothing standing in the road. This was the same figure he had seen many times but claimed himself never to recognize and ignore why his dreams where calling him. The Everyman continued further and the humanoid figure slowly adjusted his right hand holding an axe, dripping with thick fluids. His face was flared with wavy clear strings coming out of the humanoid’s dark face like ripples of water. The Everyman stood in silence examining the drips of blood dropping to the ground and some even floated and letting the forces of gravity magnify its beauty.
The Everyman titled his head as he followed the blood trail with his eyes and found limp bodies of broken structure on the sidewalk to his left. When the Everyman returned his eyes straight forward the humanoid figure was right next to him. The lips moved with mute words that were not identified.
This was the recurring dream the Everyman had. He wanted to forget but much to his own curiosity he couldn’t let it slip his mind. Drifting back and forth through his tough life was the only way he could move on and keep himself alive like the rest of society without breaking the connected chains.
The Everyman sat up his aching body and pushed away the blankets. He turned and placed his bare feet on the cold wooden floors. He stood up cracking his heels and shoulders to let loose the numbness all over. Above the dresser was a hanged mirror on the melted painted thin wall. He looked at himself in the mirror and could only see himself in entrapment. This mirror signified his liveliness and personality while questioning if he was really engulfed in the strange realm he was in.
He reached for his beige sweater to put on, and his socks on the floor, and walked out of the guest room. He wasn’t sure if his wife, or in his case, soon-to-be ex-wife, would already be awake, or that she packed her belongings in a suitcase and walked out quietly in the night to a nearby hotel and figure out what she will do with her life next. Taking the Cadillac would just disturb the Everyman from his sleep and not talking about the living arrangements in the house.
The Everyman walked across the hall to the master bedroom and silently opened the door and glanced at his wife unconscious on the bed. The Everyman noticed her right arm was splotched over, and as he walked closely he saw dry saliva on her chin and shoulder blade and was pale. Dead.
As much hatred the Everyman had for her during the last year of marriage, he couldn’t help but drinking in all emotion he never had growing up. Much like his deceased father who forgot about him when he was drafted to fight overseas he was riddled as to why his existence led solely towards abrasive behavior and show the slightest bit of sheer glee, and kindness. It wasn't constant, but occasional, and his shy outlook only lead his wife to sighs, and disgust. Even she was disgusted with herself. Frustration and sexual tension kept him under torture with sweetness but lost his heydays when he met her. The moment was when he touched her wrist with a soft scratch as she played the piano next to him, and then time flashes and he's doing the same action as she slowly dies from the torturous disease, and her relationship with her husband. Just plain, redundant happiness.
And so, with the image of seeing his wife decaying on the bed, the Everyman's eyes shift in soft horror, then immediately follows her right arm on the night stand, and finds a needle, and piece of paper. He walks over and while nothing specific is mentioned about her words to him, or the required medication instructions and warnings, another name is shown, followed by designer logo to a local counseling center.
For a moment, the Everyman, after applying how he is, in fact, sadden by his wife's overdose, there is another part of him that ignites contempt. He will need answers and the piece of paper, and the insulin. He needed answers.