I wonder if there is a calcium carbonate planet where the animals settle their stomachs with humans. I am fine with my consumption of antacids. I consume them. Little bits of fragrance, irrigating the crevices of my bowels, calming the fire that burns within. Ha, holy damn, that sounds so stupid. "Hey, what character is this chapter about?" What. "You know, who-centric is this." It's me centric, who are you talking to. Who is this. "It's me, dumbass." I looked around the room in a daze. What, this is happening now. I'm looking around the room in a daze. I only slept four hours last night. I don't remember how long ago last night was. "Go to bed. I'll talk to you later." I have no idea what is going on anymore. I can't. I can't sleep. "Ever since you found it." Ever since I found it. I've been trying over and over to talk to you. "I know you have." But you won't answer. "I can't." I wish I could talk to you. I just wish I could talk to you again. "But you can't. It won't work." I know. I don't know why it won't work. I don't understand! Tell me!! "I can't tell you." WHY NOT!? "Because this is just you imagining me here. This isn't really me."

I've always been the type of guy who turns to the end of the book before he finishes the first chapter. That way, at least I know what's coming. "You can't say that!!" Why not? "Not without some kind of a plan!" What kind of a plan? "People are going to go read the end now; you put the idea in their heads!" Maybe the idea was already in there, in their heads. Maybe they did it already, and now I've caught them. "Go to bed, asshole." Fine, maybe I will. "Good." Good. It's creepy trying to talk to dead people who aren't answering anyway. "Fine." Fine.

The sweaty pillow fled across the bedroom, and the wordslinger followed.

Early, as the rosy-fingered dawn appeared, I woke in a daze. I was dreading work later that day. I fell back asleep, and woke up fifteen minutes before work. The dawn may be rosy fingered, but 7:45 am is just a finger.

Brian came into my office. He didn't say anything. He just looked at me.

"Hey. What's up."

"Uh, nothing."

"Oh. ...Did you need something, or ..."

"Yeah."

This was a typical conversation with him.

"Well, what is it already?"

"Why is there a purse in your front seat?"

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I halted my typing. I looked at him, wide eyed. Looking up from my work was rare enough, but this was on a whole new level. There was an uncomfortable pause, a pause longer than many acquaintanceships, a pause filled with regret, ire, obsessive compulsion. He knew. He knew. Kick him off the cliff. Bury him in the forest. No one can ever know. Lines of potential conversations streamed through my head, repeating over and over, subtly changing, shifting, until I knew how to guide him to where I wanted. I could scarcely imagine what would happen if I told him the truth. Any one of a million things that were rumbling in my belly. He would think I was crazy, or lying, or making fun of his ... preferences. It had gone on too long. I had to say something. All of my plans were terrible. I simply told him the truth.

"Close the door."

"What?" He closed it anyway, and sat down.

"I found it in the locker room."

"And?"

"You're not going to believe this." I said, with an air of dismissal and hopelessness.

"So? Tell me anyway."

I paused again, and kept typing.

"Come on."

"I think ... I think it can talk to the dead."

"Oh, shut up. What's it really for?" I knew why he was asking. He was worried that somehow it would make things worse for him.

"I'm serious." And I pulled a folder out of my desk that was full of slips of notebook paper.

He pulled one out.

"'Shelley doesn't want to talk to you'? I don't get it."

"Not the Shelley in the other room. A different one."

"She's dead?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. What happened?"

"... I killed her."

I was wandering around the third grocery store of the night, when a stockboy asked me if I needed some help. "Oh. No, no. Just looking."

I was in the cookie aisle. He left, and came back with a cardboard box. "You sure you don't need any help?"

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"You look like you need some help." I looked at him, and gave him an expression that said I did. Then I saw his nametag. Brian. Brian, the stockboy. I decided to tell him.

"Well. I'm trying to find Hydrox cookies."

"Hydrox cookies? I don't think they even make those anymore."

"I heard they brought them back again, another anniversary. They did that once before, but it was a long time ago."

"Oh. Well, I don't think we have any. But we've got like, six kinds of Oreos."

I winced, and looked at the floor. "They're ... they're not the same. They're just not."

"Oh." He turned, and started opening the box. Maybe this once the universe would give me a win. Just once. Just a little one. Maybe he had some in there. He reached down, and pulled out red, white, and blue filled Oreos. "Sorry. Good luck, though."

"Yeah. You too."

He gave me a puzzled look as I walked out of the aisle.

"You didn't literally kill her. ... Right?"

"No, I didn't literally kill her. But it's my fault she died."

"I doubt that." I didn't answer. "So, you've been trying to talk to her?"

"Yeah."

"But she's not answering?"

"I keep getting messages from someone else instead. I'd show you, but I don't think I should right now."

"Who is it? Who's sending you messages instead of her?"

I stopped typing, and leaned back in my chair.

"Well. He says ... he says his name is Brian."

"Oh. ... You know, a lot of people are named Brian. It's pretty common."

I didn't know how to tell him.

"This one keeps saying ... "

"What?"

"He says he used to work with me, and it's my fault he's dead."