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He woke to the sound of buzzing, a buzzing that wasn’t loud enough to be his phone vibrating on the nightstand, but louder than the pesky bugs that hang around the light-pole outside the apartment window. He was positive he hadn’t drank enough the night before for the buzzing to be originated in his own mind, however he had drank enough to know that there was no way he was getting out of bed to see where the vibration was coming from.

He tossed, turned and rolled around and eventually woke to the sun pouring in through his broken blinds. He wished he hadn’t drank last night. Saturday nights are great for a distraction, but Sunday mornings are the worst for a headache.

He knew this life was coming to an end. Not in a morbid way, but in a permanent way nonetheless. He could no longer live here, like this. His choices were being taken away, he no longer had a voice to create change. His path had begun and must follow it.

He began packing.

He didn’t have much to move, which was good considering he only had his jeep to take him and his things. He threw his clothes in a bag, folded up his bed sheets and pillows and created a new sleeping space where his rear seats folded down. He’d be driving for awhile and he knew back seat camping is better than the flea infested motels he couldn’t afford anyway. He gathered his shoes, his toiletries, and his handful of dishes, and looked around the blank space he was leaving behind.

He drove for days. He stopped only for a meal or two, which he split apart and after over the course of each day, bought gas every couple of hours, and plugged his phone in to charge at each rest stop. He had no problem keeping it alive considering he didn’t have anyone to call.

He reached the state border and stopped before he entered. He knew what lay before him. He didn’t have a choice, he’d never have another choice again, he put his foot back on his gas pedal and continued on.

He arrived at the cemetery plot just before dawn. The grass was just beginning to grow through the dirt, the most recent flowers were wilted and brown. He laid his body down over the plot and slept peacefully until the sun was straight above him.

Eighteen weeks earlier it was supposed to be his own body there, but ‘luckily’, as everyone had said, there was an accident and his new heart came early, delivered straight to his deathbed. He was thankful, but scared. He knew he didn’t deserve it, he wished he could have given it back, he’d failed his entire adult life, he was going to be expected to change.

But when he woke up from his surgery, with another man’s heart in beating in his chest, he learned the news. The accident, the heart, the life he had ahead of his truly wasn’t his. It was his fathers.

He’d never known his father, but he knew his face from the old photographs his mother hid in her drawers. He knew the stories of the man who used to be, and he saw the look in his mothers face when she feared he was becoming just like him. It was then, that he decided to make the trip west. He found the apartment his parents lived in when he was born and stayed there. He found the family that belonged to the heart in his chest, and recognized their facial features as his own. He knew his father hadn’t done well for himself, and he knew he had hurt everyone he’d ever known.

But in this journey he learned the truth. He wasn’t a failure, he was the victim of previous failure. He could still succeed.

He knew he had to change, be better. He not only had his own second chance, but he could give his new heart a second chance too. He didn’t have a choice anymore. He had expectations now. Expectations of a better future.

This piece is a work of fiction. A short drama. Literary Boredom.
Never stop moving forward.
I consider this practice..? I haven’t written any fiction in a long, long time. My point here was to do something fast and see how it came out. I’ll reread it later and see how I feel about it.