What’s forgotten

Short story.

He twisted the knob on his bedside speakers. Thump, thump, thump, thump. The slap of the guitar strings rang clearer. White lips, pale face. The words started to bleed in with the rain.

Yet, he couldn’t shake the distant feeling of familiarity. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he couldn’t run.

He twisted the knob again. Slap, slap, slap, slap. The steel strings punched through his skull.

1, 2, 3, 4.

The same beat of the scars strapped across his back.

1, 2, 3, 4.

The same count as the lights turning off one by one, forever.

1, 2, 3, 4.

The same pounding of the raw flesh, unprepared for hardship, torn to shreds by asphalt.

1, 2, 3, 4.

Prostrated atop the plush clouds of Amazon Basics and “a perfect night’s sleep,” he counted the dreams that had been extinguished on the way to his place of rest.

It was the only thing that could drown out the rain.

I am happy. I, am happy. I can’t remember a time when I was not happy. When was it that it left me, the beat that coursed through my veins? Was it last year? Or was that Tuesday. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it must’ve been Tuesday.

What do they call it, when you can’t quite remember?

Ah. That’s right. They call that, happiness.