In a dazzling display of ingenuity (and possibly even compassion, though this is certainly debatable), I have manufactured what I believe to be an appropriate substitution to the disposal of Mr. Finley: I have meticulously covered his entire body with various articles of clothing. Although many things elude me lately, the self-awareness of my physical limitations is, thankfully, not one of those things. Considering that he is a man of notable girth, this rickety corpse that I have the privilege of inhabiting obviously lacked the capacity to budge him even the slightest; therefore, this struck me as a reasonable alternative. Realistically, what else could I do? Drag him outside and bury him? Even if I had the theoretical brawn to do so, I am certainly not aware of any shovel lying about, nor do I intend to look for one. Besides, I've no desire to engage in superstitious ritual. I suppose he shall continue to just lie there under the laundry, nose scrunched up against the coarse carpet, motionless.
I guess part of me had hoped that he would reanimate. It seems that's what I'm calling it at this particular moment: reanimation. Part of me had truly hoped that he would start gurgling and groaning, then shudder and moan (as they do); gesticulating about as he slowly rose to his feet, regaining his equilibrium, learning again how to control his extremities. Maybe after that, after this whole scene of awkward rediscovery, we'd sit down and play video games and share a bag of cheese puffs and it would be wonderful. Alas, it would appear that my optimism was misplaced.
I'm alone. I think it's beginning to settle in. Why do I write? Why do I bother dragging these rotting appendages across this keyboard? Why do I insist on beating at the keyboard with such infantile motor control? Why did the discovery of this laptop prompt me to participate in this ongoing dialogue with myself? Who is this for?
I think I know...
It must have been fate. The laptop positioned conspicuously within an oval of sunlight on the coffee table, undisturbed, its silver surface redirecting the sunlight almost purposely into my remaining retina; it may as well have been placed on a pedestal inscribed with "Xander's Destiny". It's so obvious now that I am nearly ashamed to have overlooked it. See, this is all just some premeditated, celestial ruse to garner my attention, enlightening me to the literary journey I've been destined to embark on since that fateful day, the day of my birth. The password? 'Password123'. No joke. Battery? 97%. The evidence is palpable.