Empty Bed
The nurse said the patient in Bed 6 had died before my shift began.
At 3 a.m. the call button lit up and the screen displayed my name.
Fear of death or dying.
The nurse said the patient in Bed 6 had died before my shift began.
At 3 a.m. the call button lit up and the screen displayed my name.
I laughed when my coworker stuck a toe tag on me during our overnight shift at the morgue.
I stopped when I saw tomorrow’s date already printed on it.
I opened the hotel nightstand and found a notebook listing every guest who had died in the room.
My name was written at the bottom in wet ink.
The patient behind the curtain kept asking me to hold his hand because he was afraid to die alone.
When the nurse finally arrived, she pulled the curtain back to an empty bed covered in dust.
The hospital elevator opened onto a basement floor that does not appear on any directory.
Every bed in the corridor had my name clipped to it.
We recovered my partner’s empty diving suit from the wreck after three days of searching.
The suit began knocking from the inside as soon as we brought it aboard.
The rover discovered a human grave on the far side of the Moon.
The headstone carried tomorrow’s date and my full name.
I pressed my ear to the wall because I thought I heard a heartbeat from the next apartment.
My own chest went silent while I listened.
The writing assistant kept restoring a paragraph I had deleted from my story.
It was a description of exactly how I would die before sunrise.
The arrivals board listed my flight as landed while we were still two hours from our destination.
Under passenger status, every name changed to deceased.
The timestamp on the photograph says it was taken tomorrow morning.
It shows police standing around my bed.
I held the film negative up to the light and saw a dark figure beside every person I had photographed.
In the newest frame, the figure is standing behind the camera.
The thermostat keeps lowering itself to the temperature of a morgue while I sleep.
This morning it displayed BODY DETECTED instead of the room temperature.
I heard footsteps upstairs even though the police were standing beside me in the living room.
Then their radios announced that officers had found my body upstairs.
My boarding pass directed me to Gate 0 at the far end of an empty terminal.
The departure screen there listed only passengers who had died in plane crashes.
The photographer sent us a wide shot of everyone gathered around my father’s grave.
My father is standing at the edge of the frame looking furious.
A little girl got into the elevator alone and pressed the basement button.
When the doors closed, she asked why I had followed her into the grave.
The hospital hired a clown to entertain the children on the ward.
The nurses stopped smiling when he walked into the room of a child who had died the night before.
Flies began gathering on one empty spot in every family photograph hanging in the hall.
Yesterday a new photograph appeared there with me lying in that spot.