You don’t want to find me.
I don’t want you to see me this way.
You’d be best served waiting for that certain aroma. You’ll wonder first if a desperate rodent has expired somewhere. Don’t call the exterminator.
I’m sure my mind will no longer function when that time comes. I certainly hope not. Will I feel the decay? Will I experience the very space around me leaching away my final thoughts? How long will this continue?
I’m dead, yet I am. I continue. My mind drifts forward.
Any great express slides along the tracks for a long distance when the brakes engage. My murder proved to be the application of those brakes. The time I continue to linger is the seemingly endless steel track. My existence is the mighty locomotive and coaches screeching forward.
“When will this stop?” a passenger asks.
“We don’t know,” the conductor replies. “We’ve never braked before. We hoped we’d never need to slow down.”
So, don’t find me yet. Let me come to a complete stop. When you smell the burned result of my friction – life sliding to a stop over death – call the police.