EXERCISE

George Harrison, the former Beatle, awoke when the sun streamed in his bedroom window, and he immediately had the feeling that he was forgetting something.  He sat up in bed and stroked his beard.  The room looked different; rearranged slightly, maybe.  The bed was the same, the dresser.  His guitar was in the same stand, fretted for Gently Sleeps; he remembered playing that the last time he played.  There was a new chair, that was what it was; a large green chair, cushioned, sitting outside the bathroom door.  "When did that arrive?" he wondered to himself.

He was trying to remember now where he had been the night before.  Sometimes this happened when he slept off a long stretch on the road, he would have periods of disorientation.  They had gotten so severe the last time that he had finally visited the doctor and that was when they had discovered the tumor.  Ironically, the tumor had nothing to do with the disorientation, the doctor had told him.  It didn't present that way.  The fatigue was tumor-related yes but not the weird feeling he had even in this moment of not remembering how he had gotten home the night before and where he had last been.  

And someone was coming.

It wasn't someone in the house, not like that.  He was fairly certain he was alone which was strange itself.  He was never alone anymore.  Well, honestly, he had never been alone.  Not really.  Not at anytime he could remember in his life.  Except for now.  But someone was coming.  Someone from the outside was approaching the house.  The footsteps were echoing unreasonably loud in the room.  There was no way he should be able to hear this noise, was he dreaming, still asleep?  It was then that he remembered that he had died.  He was sitting up in bed now, full of energy, his body full and muscular as it had been, the headaches gone.  He stood and crossed to the window to look down on the front garden.  There was nothing there but the sound of boots walking on stone persisted.

The garden was bathed in unnatural sunshine--it was too bright and too yellow, and it lacked the haze that would typically accompany sunrises over the dew-damp on the flowers and grass.  The light had an utter clarity, and the air was still, neither hot nor cold, just standing firm.  Only the water in the pond moved; a single wave moving deliberately, too slow even.

And someone was coming.