u/Successful-Leave-297

CHAPTER ONE 

Somewhere in the deep Florida Everglades sat a man, an old man. He was frail, pale, all bones. He sat on his couch, pondering, the TV blazed on, reciting something on the news. The old man did not pay attention, his eyes glazing off into the distance, daydreaming. The house was decrepit. Old. Broken down. Black mold spread throughout the walls like a vine slithering through the cracks. Pots and pans were in the kitchen, all dry, and mildew spread everywhere. The air was filled with dust. The old man rose from his couch, bones cracking. He moaned, a quick, sharp pain filled his back. He straightened it and took a large breath. 

He crawled over to the dingy kitchen. Opened the freezer. Inside, a piece of meat, an inch thick and an inch deep. He took a knife and sliced a small paper-thin slice of this meat. He closed the plastic container, patted it, and placed the meat back in the freezer. It was something precious to him. He reached for the cupboard, saw a can of beans, and pulled it out. A pan sat on the stove, and the old man took a hard, rough cloth. Wiped the grease off the pan. Dumped the beans into the pan. He turned on his stove. He watched as the beans started to sizzle, and then he placed the small sliver of meat on top and mixed the beans.

He started to pant; he needed to sit down. He quickly found two bowls, brown and grungy. He sat down and placed the bowls across from each other. He poured some of the food into the first bowl and then his own. He stared at the empty chair for a moment. Then looked at his own bowl, and he ate, his rotten teeth exposed. He took in a bite, his eyes closed. He took in a large breath, then another, then proceeded to wolf down the plate. Like a feral animal, he then saw the other bowl in front of him and wolfed down that bowl as well, seldom chewing, not that he had many teeth left to chew with. 

He set the bowls down. He looked at his fingers, his nails all brown and almost weathered down, but he saw one finger, his pinky finger. The only thing in his body that had any life left, it was pink, pearly white, and perfect. He smiled as he looked at his pinky, gazing at it for a long moment. 

He got up from the dining room chair, bones cracking as he struggled to lift his old frail body up. He looked over to his side, a drawer, inside the drawer, papers, pens, dirt, dust, a lifetime of knick-knacks. He found his half-crushed pack of cigarettes. Scrounged around for a lighter. He lit his cigarette and took in a large drag. He walked to his door and onto his porch. 

Outside he looked at the deep auburn sunset. The kind of sunset that only exists in Key West.  He heard the cicadas buzzing. The hot, sizzling summer started to come down to a nice, comfortable cool. He took in another large puff of his cigarette. Blew it out. He sat on a small dining chair, almost broken, on his porch, he closed his eyes, took in the cool night sounds, a breeze was starting to form.

But with the wind, something else blew along with it. A thick and sweet smell. Something the old man recognized from his past. The strong, sweet smell of innocence, longing, and desire. Something the old man had not smelled in decades.  

He opened his eyes. His pupils dilated. He noticed a scene rare for these parts, youth. A bunch of college jocks were yelling on the street.  Probably drunk. His eyes widened. He focused on the noise. The men laughed boisterously. He started to notice a warm sensation run through his body. An intense emotion, not rage, not lust, something more. A feeling that the old frail could not explain, it was simply energizing to his core. But it started to increase as the jocks’ voices started to perk back up. The laughing piercing the night sky and the cicadas, the old man was enjoying.

He then saw them. Four of them. Handsome. Young. Youthful. Their smooth, hard bodies barely hidden in the crop tops they were wearing, confidently. Full, flowy hair, all of them. The old man’s stomach started to turn. He looked at his arms, old, saggy, no definition. He then turned down to look at his belly, hard with years of drink and abuse. His bones, old and brittle, the pain, running through each joint. He looked at the youthful group of jocks again. One in particular caught his eye. 

He was the quietest of them all. More introspective. Beautiful in his own way. A youthful, boyish appearance, curly hair running down his sides. Perfect. His arms, noticeably strong and muscular, but with a more natural cadence to them. His biceps moving up with his arm as he was articulating himself, curling up into a perfect ball. The man stared with a deep, intense gaze. The warm feeling in his body started to dissipate, and he started to feel a sense of calm. His stomach was now turning, pulling the old man directly towards that young jock. Like a powerful magnet pulling the old man to the group. 

Then all of a sudden, the man got up. His bones cracked, but he didn’t care. He rushed back into his house. Put on his old worn-down coat. Inside its pocket was a rusty handgun. The man looked at the gun. His heart was pounding, fast, up through his neck. His body had a rush, an intensity, almost making him dizzy. He rushed out.  

CHAPTER ONE 

Somewhere in the deep Florida Everglades sat a man, an old man. He was frail, pale, all bones. He sat on his couch, pondering, the TV blazed on, reciting something on the news. The old man did not pay attention, his eyes glazing off into the distance, daydreaming. The house was decrepit. Old. Broken down. Black mold spread throughout the walls like a vine slithering through the cracks. Pots and pans were in the kitchen, all dry, and mildew spread everywhere. The air was filled with dust. The old man rose from his couch, bones cracking. He moaned, a quick, sharp pain filled his back. He straightened it and took a large breath. 

He crawled over to the dingy kitchen. Opened the freezer. Inside, a piece of meat, an inch thick and an inch deep. He took a knife and sliced a small paper-thin slice of this meat. He closed the plastic container, patted it, and placed the meat back in the freezer. It was something precious to him. He reached for the cupboard, saw a can of beans, and pulled it out. A pan sat on the stove, and the old man took a hard, rough cloth. Wiped the grease off the pan. Dumped the beans into the pan. He turned on his stove. He watched as the beans started to sizzle, and then he placed the small sliver of meat on top and mixed the beans.

He started to pant; he needed to sit down. He quickly found two bowls, brown and grungy. He sat down and placed the bowls across from each other. He poured some of the food into the first bowl and then his own. He stared at the empty chair for a moment. Then looked at his own bowl, and he ate, his rotten teeth exposed. He took in a bite, his eyes closed. He took in a large breath, then another, then proceeded to wolf down the plate. Like a feral animal, he then saw the other bowl in front of him and wolfed down that bowl as well, seldom chewing, not that he had many teeth left to chew with. 

He set the bowls down. He looked at his fingers, his nails all brown and almost weathered down, but he saw one finger, his pinky finger. The only thing in his body that had any life left, it was pink, pearly white, and perfect. He smiled as he looked at his pinky, gazing at it for a long moment. 

He got up from the dining room chair, bones cracking as he struggled to lift his old frail body up. He looked over to his side, a drawer, inside the drawer, papers, pens, dirt, dust, a lifetime of knick-knacks. He found his half-crushed pack of cigarettes. Scrounged around for a lighter. He lit his cigarette and took in a large drag. He walked to his door and onto his porch. 

Outside he looked at the deep auburn sunset. The kind of sunset that only exists in Key West.  He heard the cicadas buzzing. The hot, sizzling summer started to come down to a nice, comfortable cool. He took in another large puff of his cigarette. Blew it out. He sat on a small dining chair, almost broken, on his porch, he closed his eyes, took in the cool night sounds, a breeze was starting to form.

But with the wind, something else blew along with it. A thick and sweet smell. Something the old man recognized from his past. The strong, sweet smell of innocence, longing, and desire. Something the old man had not smelled in decades.  

He opened his eyes. His pupils dilated. He noticed a scene rare for these parts, youth. A bunch of college jocks were yelling on the street.  Probably drunk. His eyes widened. He focused on the noise. The men laughed boisterously. He started to notice a warm sensation run through his body. An intense emotion, not rage, not lust, something more. A feeling that the old frail could not explain, it was simply energizing to his core. But it started to increase as the jocks’ voices started to perk back up. The laughing piercing the night sky and the cicadas, the old man was enjoying.

He then saw them. Four of them. Handsome. Young. Youthful. Their smooth, hard bodies barely hidden in the crop tops they were wearing, confidently. Full, flowy hair, all of them. The old man’s stomach started to turn. He looked at his arms, old, saggy, no definition. He then turned down to look at his belly, hard with years of drink and abuse. His bones, old and brittle, the pain, running through each joint. He looked at the youthful group of jocks again. One in particular caught his eye. 

He was the quietest of them all. More introspective. Beautiful in his own way. A youthful, boyish appearance, curly hair running down his sides. Perfect. His arms, noticeably strong and muscular, but with a more natural cadence to them. His biceps moving up with his arm as he was articulating himself, curling up into a perfect ball. The man stared with a deep, intense gaze. The warm feeling in his body started to dissipate, and he started to feel a sense of calm. His stomach was now turning, pulling the old man directly towards that young jock. Like a powerful magnet pulling the old man to the group. 

Then all of a sudden, the man got up. His bones cracked, but he didn’t care. He rushed back into his house. Put on his old worn-down coat. Inside its pocket was a rusty handgun. The man looked at the gun. His heart was pounding, fast, up through his neck. His body had a rush, an intensity, almost making him dizzy. He rushed out.  

CHAPTER ONE 

Somewhere in the deep Florida Everglades sat a man, an old man. He was frail, pale, all bones. He sat on his couch, pondering, the TV blazed on, reciting something on the news. The old man did not pay attention, his eyes glazing off into the distance, daydreaming. The house was decrepit. Old. Broken down. Black mold spread throughout the walls like a vine slithering through the cracks. Pots and pans were in the kitchen, all dry, and mildew spread everywhere. The air was filled with dust. The old man rose from his couch, bones cracking. He moaned, a quick, sharp pain filled his back. He straightened it and took a large breath. 

He crawled over to the dingy kitchen. Opened the freezer. Inside, a piece of meat, an inch thick and an inch deep. He took a knife and sliced a small paper-thin slice of this meat. He closed the plastic container, patted it, and placed the meat back in the freezer. It was something precious to him. He reached for the cupboard, saw a can of beans, and pulled it out. A pan sat on the stove, and the old man took a hard, rough cloth. Wiped the grease off the pan. Dumped the beans into the pan. He turned on his stove. He watched as the beans started to sizzle, and then he placed the small sliver of meat on top and mixed the beans.

He started to pant; he needed to sit down. He quickly found two bowls, brown and grungy. He sat down and placed the bowls across from each other. He poured some of the food into the first bowl and then his own. He stared at the empty chair for a moment. Then looked at his own bowl, and he ate, his rotten teeth exposed. He took in a bite, his eyes closed. He took in a large breath, then another, then proceeded to wolf down the plate. Like a feral animal, he then saw the other bowl in front of him and wolfed down that bowl as well, seldom chewing, not that he had many teeth left to chew with. 

He set the bowls down. He looked at his fingers, his nails all brown and almost weathered down, but he saw one finger, his pinky finger. The only thing in his body that had any life left, it was pink, pearly white, and perfect. He smiled as he looked at his pinky, gazing at it for a long moment. 

He got up from the dining room chair, bones cracking as he struggled to lift his old frail body up. He looked over to his side, a drawer, inside the drawer, papers, pens, dirt, dust, a lifetime of knick-knacks. He found his half-crushed pack of cigarettes. Scrounged around for a lighter. He lit his cigarette and took in a large drag. He walked to his door and onto his porch. 

Outside he looked at the deep auburn sunset. The kind of sunset that only exists in Key West.  He heard the cicadas buzzing. The hot, sizzling summer started to come down to a nice, comfortable cool. He took in another large puff of his cigarette. Blew it out. He sat on a small dining chair, almost broken, on his porch, he closed his eyes, took in the cool night sounds, a breeze was starting to form.

But with the wind, something else blew along with it. A thick and sweet smell. Something the old man recognized from his past. The strong, sweet smell of innocence, longing, and desire. Something the old man had not smelled in decades.  

He opened his eyes. His pupils dilated. He noticed a scene rare for these parts, youth. A bunch of college jocks were yelling on the street.  Probably drunk. His eyes widened. He focused on the noise. The men laughed boisterously. He started to notice a warm sensation run through his body. An intense emotion, not rage, not lust, something more. A feeling that the old frail could not explain, it was simply energizing to his core. But it started to increase as the jocks’ voices started to perk back up. The laughing piercing the night sky and the cicadas, the old man was enjoying.

He then saw them. Four of them. Handsome. Young. Youthful. Their smooth, hard bodies barely hidden in the crop tops they were wearing, confidently. Full, flowy hair, all of them. The old man’s stomach started to turn. He looked at his arms, old, saggy, no definition. He then turned down to look at his belly, hard with years of drink and abuse. His bones, old and brittle, the pain, running through each joint. He looked at the youthful group of jocks again. One in particular caught his eye. 

He was the quietest of them all. More introspective. Beautiful in his own way. A youthful, boyish appearance, curly hair running down his sides. Perfect. His arms, noticeably strong and muscular, but with a more natural cadence to them. His biceps moving up with his arm as he was articulating himself, curling up into a perfect ball. The man stared with a deep, intense gaze. The warm feeling in his body started to dissipate, and he started to feel a sense of calm. His stomach was now turning, pulling the old man directly towards that young jock. Like a powerful magnet pulling the old man to the group. 

Then all of a sudden, the man got up. His bones cracked, but he didn’t care. He rushed back into his house. Put on his old worn-down coat. Inside its pocket was a rusty handgun. The man looked at the gun. His heart was pounding, fast, up through his neck. His body had a rush, an intensity, almost making him dizzy. He rushed out.

CHAPTER ONE 

Somewhere in the deep Florida Everglades sat a man, an old man. He was frail, pale, all bones. He sat on his couch, pondering, the TV blazed on, reciting something on the news. The old man did not pay attention, his eyes glazing off into the distance, daydreaming. The house was decrepit. Old. Broken down. Black mold spread throughout the walls like a vine slithering through the cracks. Pots and pans were in the kitchen, all dry, and mildew spread everywhere. The air was filled with dust. The old man rose from his couch, bones cracking. He moaned, a quick, sharp pain filled his back. He straightened it and took a large breath. 

He crawled over to the dingy kitchen. Opened the freezer. Inside, a piece of meat, an inch thick and an inch deep. He took a knife and sliced a small paper-thin slice of this meat. He closed the plastic container, patted it, and placed the meat back in the freezer. It was something precious to him. He reached for the cupboard, saw a can of beans, and pulled it out. A pan sat on the stove, and the old man took a hard, rough cloth. Wiped the grease off the pan. Dumped the beans into the pan. He turned on his stove. He watched as the beans started to sizzle, and then he placed the small sliver of meat on top and mixed the beans.

He started to pant; he needed to sit down. He quickly found two bowls, brown and grungy. He sat down and placed the bowls across from each other. He poured some of the food into the first bowl and then his own. He stared at the empty chair for a moment. Then looked at his own bowl, and he ate, his rotten teeth exposed. He took in a bite, his eyes closed. He took in a large breath, then another, then proceeded to wolf down the plate. Like a feral animal, he then saw the other bowl in front of him and wolfed down that bowl as well, seldom chewing, not that he had many teeth left to chew with. 

He set the bowls down. He looked at his fingers, his nails all brown and almost weathered down, but he saw one finger, his pinky finger. The only thing in his body that had any life left, it was pink, pearly white, and perfect. He smiled as he looked at his pinky, gazing at it for a long moment. 

He got up from the dining room chair, bones cracking as he struggled to lift his old frail body up. He looked over to his side, a drawer, inside the drawer, papers, pens, dirt, dust, a lifetime of knick-knacks. He found his half-crushed pack of cigarettes. Scrounged around for a lighter. He lit his cigarette and took in a large drag. He walked to his door and onto his porch. 

Outside he looked at the deep auburn sunset. The kind of sunset that only exists in Key West.  He heard the cicadas buzzing. The hot, sizzling summer started to come down to a nice, comfortable cool. He took in another large puff of his cigarette. Blew it out. He sat on a small dining chair, almost broken, on his porch, he closed his eyes, took in the cool night sounds, a breeze was starting to form.

But with the wind, something else blew along with it. A thick and sweet smell. Something the old man recognized from his past. The strong, sweet smell of innocence, longing, and desire. Something the old man had not smelled in decades.  

He opened his eyes. His pupils dilated. He noticed a scene rare for these parts, youth. A bunch of college jocks were yelling on the street.  Probably drunk. His eyes widened. He focused on the noise. The men laughed boisterously. He started to notice a warm sensation run through his body. An intense emotion, not rage, not lust, something more. A feeling that the old frail could not explain, it was simply energizing to his core. But it started to increase as the jocks’ voices started to perk back up. The laughing piercing the night sky and the cicadas, the old man was enjoying.

He then saw them. Four of them. Handsome. Young. Youthful. Their smooth, hard bodies barely hidden in the crop tops they were wearing, confidently. Full, flowy hair, all of them. The old man’s stomach started to turn. He looked at his arms, old, saggy, no definition. He then turned down to look at his belly, hard with years of drink and abuse. His bones, old and brittle, the pain, running through each joint. He looked at the youthful group of jocks again. One in particular caught his eye. 

He was the quietest of them all. More introspective. Beautiful in his own way. A youthful, boyish appearance, curly hair running down his sides. Perfect. His arms, noticeably strong and muscular, but with a more natural cadence to them. His biceps moving up with his arm as he was articulating himself, curling up into a perfect ball. The man stared with a deep, intense gaze. The warm feeling in his body started to dissipate, and he started to feel a sense of calm. His stomach was now turning, pulling the old man directly towards that young jock. Like a powerful magnet pulling the old man to the group. 

Then all of a sudden, the man got up. His bones cracked, but he didn’t care. He rushed back into his house. Put on his old worn-down coat. Inside its pocket was a rusty handgun. The man looked at the gun. His heart was pounding, fast, up through his neck. His body had a rush, an intensity, almost making him dizzy. He rushed out.  

CHAPTER ONE 

Somewhere in the deep Florida Everglades sat a man, an old man. He was frail, pale, all bones. He sat on his couch, pondering, the TV blazed on, reciting something on the news. The old man did not pay attention, his eyes glazing off into the distance, daydreaming. The house was decrepit. Old. Broken down. Black mold spread throughout the walls like a vine slithering through the cracks. Pots and pans were in the kitchen, all dry, and mildew spread everywhere. The air was filled with dust. The old man rose from his couch, bones cracking. He moaned, a quick, sharp pain filled his back. He straightened it and took a large breath. 

He crawled over to the dingy kitchen. Opened the freezer. Inside, a piece of meat, an inch thick and an inch deep. He took a knife and sliced a small paper-thin slice of this meat. He closed the plastic container, patted it, and placed the meat back in the freezer. It was something precious to him. He reached for the cupboard, saw a can of beans, and pulled it out. A pan sat on the stove, and the old man took a hard, rough cloth. Wiped the grease off the pan. Dumped the beans into the pan. He turned on his stove. He watched as the beans started to sizzle, and then he placed the small sliver of meat on top and mixed the beans.

He started to pant; he needed to sit down. He quickly found two bowls, brown and grungy. He sat down and placed the bowls across from each other. He poured some of the food into the first bowl and then his own. He stared at the empty chair for a moment. Then looked at his own bowl, and he ate, his rotten teeth exposed. He took in a bite, his eyes closed. He took in a large breath, then another, then proceeded to wolf down the plate. Like a feral animal, he then saw the other bowl in front of him and wolfed down that bowl as well, seldom chewing, not that he had many teeth left to chew with. 

He set the bowls down. He looked at his fingers, his nails all brown and almost weathered down, but he saw one finger, his pinky finger. The only thing in his body that had any life left, it was pink, pearly white, and perfect. He smiled as he looked at his pinky, gazing at it for a long moment. 

He got up from the dining room chair, bones cracking as he struggled to lift his old frail body up. He looked over to his side, a drawer, inside the drawer, papers, pens, dirt, dust, a lifetime of knick-knacks. He found his half-crushed pack of cigarettes. Scrounged around for a lighter. He lit his cigarette and took in a large drag. He walked to his door and onto his porch. 

Outside he looked at the deep auburn sunset. The kind of sunset that only exists in Key West.  He heard the cicadas buzzing. The hot, sizzling summer started to come down to a nice, comfortable cool. He took in another large puff of his cigarette. Blew it out. He sat on a small dining chair, almost broken, on his porch, he closed his eyes, took in the cool night sounds, a breeze was starting to form.

But with the wind, something else blew along with it. A thick and sweet smell. Something the old man recognized from his past. The strong, sweet smell of innocence, longing, and desire. Something the old man had not smelled in decades.  

He opened his eyes. His pupils dilated. He noticed a scene rare for these parts, youth. A bunch of college jocks were yelling on the street.  Probably drunk. His eyes widened. He focused on the noise. The men laughed boisterously. He started to notice a warm sensation run through his body. An intense emotion, not rage, not lust, something more. A feeling that the old frail could not explain, it was simply energizing to his core. But it started to increase as the jocks’ voices started to perk back up. The laughing piercing the night sky and the cicadas, the old man was enjoying.

He then saw them. Four of them. Handsome. Young. Youthful. Their smooth, hard bodies barely hidden in the crop tops they were wearing, confidently. Full, flowy hair, all of them. The old man’s stomach started to turn. He looked at his arms, old, saggy, no definition. He then turned down to look at his belly, hard with years of drink and abuse. His bones, old and brittle, the pain, running through each joint. He looked at the youthful group of jocks again. One in particular caught his eye. 

He was the quietest of them all. More introspective. Beautiful in his own way. A youthful, boyish appearance, curly hair running down his sides. Perfect. His arms, noticeably strong and muscular, but with a more natural cadence to them. His biceps moving up with his arm as he was articulating himself, curling up into a perfect ball. The man stared with a deep, intense gaze. The warm feeling in his body started to dissipate, and he started to feel a sense of calm. His stomach was now turning, pulling the old man directly towards that young jock. Like a powerful magnet pulling the old man to the group. 

Then all of a sudden, the man got up. His bones cracked, but he didn’t care. He rushed back into his house. Put on his old worn-down coat. Inside its pocket was a rusty handgun. The man looked at the gun. His heart was pounding, fast, up through his neck. His body had a rush, an intensity, almost making him dizzy. He rushed out.  

Post Title: THE VIEWING - Feature - 75 Pages

Body:

Title: THE VIEWING

Format: Feature

Page Length: 75 (sharing first 10)

Genres: Queer cosmic horror, road movie, descent-into-madness

Logline: A man drives I-95 from New York to Miami to see his dead best friend's body one last time. Across the highway's emptiness, the love he buried with one drunk night three years ago consumes him from inside the car.

Link: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sxXpvrIhOuCOHUN5ENz7fElyODczODQX/view?usp=sharing

I woke up on the side of a highway. I don't know how I got here, but in my pocket, a message says help me.

Cars are whisking by. One after another.

The third one. It wakes me. I get up. Gasp for air.

I cough.

Something sticky in the back of my throat.

I ponder.

What the fuck am I doing here? I look at my surroundings. Black, dark. The only light illuminating from the cars whisking by. I check my phone. In my pocket.

I search.

No phone, but a note. I open it up. Red stains all over it. I look at it. It says: Motel room 19. 3 am. Go there. Follow the road up and you'll see.

What the fuck?

I peek over to the middle of the road. Far off in the distance, I see a small light illuminating. "Okay," I whisper.

I start to walk. Walk toward the light.

My head is foggy.

A headache pounding following the rhythm of my heartbeat. Did I get drunk? I can't remember. I just keep following the road. I check my phone. It's cracked. No battery.

The fucking red sign you get when your phone is dead. Fuck. I keep walking.

Walking.

Walking some more.

Silence. The kind you can only hear on a cold desert night.

My phone buzzes. It makes me jump. What the fuck? Is the phone supposed to be dead?

Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing. Bing.

I frantically pick up the phone. I wipe left. The messages pop up.

They are images. Images of the highway that I am walking on. I scroll through the images. The light looks the same.

Then. A message. Keep walking dear, almost there.

I frantically turn around. Check my surroundings. Empty. Dark.

Emptiness.

I feel my heart. It's pounding.

I take a breath.

Another.

Exhale.

I continue on my journey. The light illuminates further as I walk toward the motel. I try to call out to cars, but they are silent, journeying to their destination without pause.

Why am I drawn to it?

There is something pulling me towards it. I could just ask someone to take me home. But I don't.

My body physically can't. It just wants to walk to the light.

Why? I can't explain it.

I'm here. Finally. The motel is dark. The world is asleep except for me. But a light. One light. Second floor.

Is that where I am supposed to go?

I open the gate. The motel. Typical, two floors with a pool in the middle. Like every SoCal apartment complex. Middle class. Nothing spectacular.

I walk toward the middle of the complex. I see a pool, it's dark. A floating flamingo bouncing around in the middle.

I hear the ripples and sounds of the water, other than that, complete silence.

Not silence. The silence you feel in a city. Cars whisking by. Ambulances wailing. That type of silence. The silence that any city dweller recognizes as silence.

I start walking up the stairs. My heart starts to beat.

Faster. Faster.

A gut feeling. I am reaching somewhere I will regret.

Why do I still keep going? I can't fucking stop.

The light is bright. Too bright. Do lamps illuminate that much? I think as I creep closer to the door.

I keep inching toward the door. The light is too bright. The light is warm. As I inch closer to the light, it feels like I am being bathed in sunlight. It feels.

I don't know.

Familiar.

I reach the door. I knock. "Hello?"

The door unlocks. I hear it, and it opens.

I pause. The light is so bright.

"Okay," I say to myself.

I walk in. The light engulfs me.

The light disappears. I see myself on the bed.

I inch towards myself. I know that sounds weird. But it's not me. I notice its hands. There are four fingers. I notice its face. The eyes are too far apart.

I fucking know my eyes. But at first glance, it looks like me.

I notice it. It's sitting on the bed, consuming a beer, its belly protruding. Something I would never do.

It's smiling and enjoying itself on the bed, so comfortable, so free.

I ask it, "Who are you?"

It doesn't pay attention. It just enjoys itself and the TV in front of it.

"Who the fuck are you?" I yell.

It turns and looks directly at me. Piercing my soul and making my stomach drop to the point I feel like puking.

"I am just here. Waiting for you." It smiles and exposes its dark, voided mouth with rotten teeth.

"Why are you waiting for me? Did you write this note?" I pull it out.

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Why do you look like me?"

"I am you."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said."

It drinks a beer, looking at me.

"Man, I don't get it."

"You do."

It gestures toward the bed and pats it.

"Come sit."

My body gives out. It walks. It walks toward the bed, even though I don't want to.

It pats the bed and gives its dark smile.

"Come on, sit."

"I am going to show you something that will thrill you."

My heart jumps up to my throat. My body is convulsing. I can't form a sentence.

"What, erm, what do you mean?"

"Let me show you. Come sit." It pats the bed and motions me to sit down. I do.

Why, I don't know. But I do.

I sit. He looks at me. He smiles. The dark death of breath spilling through his teeth to my face. I try to stay calm. Stay normal. Even though my stomach is saying something else.

He hands me a beer. Fuck. I don't drink, but right now I'll take it.

"Drink, drink."

I open the beer. The crisp air pops as I pull the tab.

I drink.

"Yummy, right?"

"Cheers."

He pulls my hand towards his. The beers smash together. Clink. Some beer spills out of the can.

As I pull back, I notice something. I only have four fingers. What?

Like him. The ring finger. Gone. A scar that is clumped where it used to be.

What is going on?

"Let's go slowly. First, watch."

"Watch fucking what!" I say.

He takes out the remote and presses a button on the screen. I see it. A birthday party. People smiling. Then I see something. Myself. It's a birthday party I forgot. My 19th birthday. The day I got accepted to law school, which made the day all the more festive. The day before everything started to turn to shit.

"I remember that day. How do you have this video?"

It looks at me. It taps its head. It smiles.

"Want to see more?"

"I don't know if I do."

"You do."

My stomach starts hurting. I know what's coming. My mouth fills with saliva, building and building. I cannot hold it in. I run to the bathroom and vomit in the toilet bowl. I see blood.

I stare at it. The bright red but dark color.

I touch my stomach.

The saliva ramps up again. I puke. All a rich red.

I wipe my mouth. And gargle under the sink water.

I go back and see it looking at me. It has blood running from its mouth.

"Sit, sit."

I feel uncomfortable.

"Watch, watch."

Another scene. Another video. I see myself. I look at the grotesque creature in front of me. It starts to play the video. It's me moving to a new house, all happy, full of new memories. I watch it with tears welling up in my eyes. I forgot the feeling I had to restart, to start anew. I keep watching.

Watching.

The video then cuts to me and Sam fighting. We are screaming. The end of a relationship. I just wanted him to be honest with his feelings. But he gave me attitude. I was mad. I wanted revenge. I wanted his blood. But I loved him too much to hurt him, so I wanted to take him down.

I did.

I called the cops on him that night. Made sure they knew he was drunk. It was a felony, right?

Did I do him dirty? Yes. But he deserved it. He crushed my soul. Made me feel like nothing. As if I didn't feel anything anymore.

The creature looks at me, smiling, his belly leaking pus and fluids. He laughs.

"More."

Another home video, from a time that has already passed. But this time it's something different.

He shows the speedometer. Going fast. Faster. A first-person view of someone who is driving fast. The person in the video grabs a bottle next to him and swigs it.

The steering wheel starts to oscillate back and forth. He can't control it. He slams the brakes.

SCREECH!

The car rotates and falls to the ground. The person breaks out of the window. Falls toward the pavement.

CRACK. Bones break.

As it does, my back cracks. I fall on the floor. The creature laughs. A wet growling laugh that makes my skin crawl.

"Keep watching," the creature says.

I look down, but the creature's hands reach me. He pulls my face to the screen. Slams it on the monitor.

"Watch."

I watch. I see the car turn on the middle of the highway. A car slams into it.

A woman falls to the pavement. Bone snap. Her head hits the floor.

I recoil. I want to puke again. The camera inches closer to the woman. Somewhere in the mess of blood and bones, a labored breath. Choking. Almost crying. She tries to gulp a breath of air.

Her hand. The wedding ring catches the light.

I notice the bated breaths and see her convulse trying to reach her car, brains spilling out of her head, then she just drops. All humanity is gone. We notice it. We all do. When the soul is gone we can see it. Just a shell is left.

I reach in my pocket. I don't know why.

The ring. Her ring. I have been carrying it the whole walk.

My stomach hurts. Like it wants to explode. The pressure builds and rises to my head. My eyes start to water. Tears streaming down.

"What the fuck are you showing me?"

"You."

The memories start piling up. The car crash. The bar. The shots. The instant gratification. The beautiful man sitting in the corner who would not talk to me.

The shot.

More and more merry conversations I won't remember.

Another shot.

I finally get the courage to talk to the handsome man with bulging biceps.

A shot.

Me flirting with the man. All is foggy.

A shot.

Me putting my mouth to his face and him rejecting me.

Two shots.

Tears are falling from my eyes as I tell the bartender my sob story.

A shot.

Saying goodbye to all of the people at the bar. Hugging, kissing, the smell of smoke and dirty sweat.

The car. I see the car. Foggy. A man comes up to me. Tells me I can stay over at his place next door. He's hot. I should say yes. But my body doesn't want to.

I tell him no. No worries. I'm good. I'm not drunk. The words every drunk says.

The car. I walk toward it. I get in. Sit.

I take a breath. I'm not drunk. I am only ten minutes away. All is good. I look at the rideshare app on my phone. I see.

33 dollars.

No fucking way I'm paying that. I close the phone. I start the engine.

Back at the hotel. I puke. I fall to the floor.

"Why so sad?"

"You consume. I consume."

"Where am I?"

"You with me. Again and again and again and again and again."

He smiles. His rotten teeth protruding.

"You me again and again."

"You'll always be me."

"Forever."

He hands me a beer. "Drink!"

I acquiesce and drink it. I don't know what else to say. My stomach is starting to burn. I need to puke again. I find my way to the bathroom quickly. I vomit. More rich, velvety red coming out. I look up to the mirror. I see myself.

My brain is protruding. I'm missing a finger. My eyes are white. The iris without color. A balding head. My stomach protruding.

I clean up my mouth. And go back to the main room. It is gone.

A note on the bed. It says Drive.

I look in the mirror. I now look like that monster. The creature I despised. It's me now.

The clock on the wall. 3:00 AM.

I reach in my pocket. The wedding ring is still there. And a phone. Not mine. A new one. One drafted message, ready to send.

Help me.

I leave the motel room. I walk down the stairs.

The pool is empty. The flamingo is gone.

Time to find another lost soul. Someone in purgatory. Not good, not bad, just human. But not anymore.

I sit. I sit in the car so someone else could know.

I didn't mean to drink. I didn't mean to drive.

I have been punished to oblivion.

I am sorry. I regret my poor decisions.

If you happen to find this post. Just know I was human once.

Time to go.

I drive. I drive into oblivion.

Post Title: THE VIEWING - Feature - 75 Pages

Body:

Title: THE VIEWING

Format: Feature

Page Length: 75 (sharing first 10)

Genres: Queer cosmic horror, road movie, descent-into-madness

Logline: A man drives I-95 from New York to Miami to see his dead best friend's body one last time. Across the highway's emptiness, the love he buried with one drunk night three years ago consumes him from inside the car.

Link: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sxXpvrIhOuCOHUN5ENz7fElyODczODQX/view?usp=sharing