Another restless night was ahead of me.

The arid landscape of the Hollywoodland valleys boiled my skin, and made even my soul perspire. My pocket-watch clicked on without a single worry to the surrounding circumstances that carried its fate. I flipped it open with a gentle process, the sweat from my fingers threatening to betray me like the many women in my life prior, one hanging in the balance even now. Its dull and blank face read 10:02AM. I brought the device to my ear to hear the small mechanics moving better, but I already knew it wasn’t broken and the time it held could only be the truth.

I rose from the couch with groan, both in part from my aging body and the couch itself that rocked back and forth. How many times had I fallen asleep there, and would continue to do so? I pushed the thought from my head and replaced it with another dollop of grease for my hair and ran my fingers through it.

The day outside was humid, and busy with people bustling around for the lunch rush. Nobody around could have guessed the terror that would soon enter and quickly depart from their life.

I strolled through the park, remarking on how calm and gentle everything seemed to be. A tear brought to my eye halted my steps so far as to force me to sit on one of the benches. How did I get here again? How would I manage to–

The inner conversation I was carrying was cut short. I carried it on so loudly I didn’t hear the shrieks and pandemonium announcing the arrival of my final destination. Before I knew it, it was on top of me, crunching and grinding; which I later understood wasn’t the car, but my body, or what would later remain of it.

“Look at the fountains!” I heard over the destruction. It could have only come from the car.

As it drove away, it wasn’t the fact that a police issued vehicle had ran me down in the park, or that many of the surrounding people continued on as if nothing had happened, leaving me to bleed out. It was still focused on my own misfortune. The problems that seemed so small in comparison now.

If only I could have found her, and asked her why she didn’t return home last night. No matter the answer, I would have been able to forgive and learn from it. That is what a husband should be able to do. Would you do the same for me? My dying thoughts were of Beatrice, and if she would cry; would the company she had kept be a welcoming shoulder for her to cry on? I guess I would never know.

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