Within 72hrs of picking up his comfortable life in California, and moving to Glenndale, Illinois, Cole Parker had died. He reflected on this thought sitting upon the tallest steeple at the Glenndale Orthodox church, overlooking the small town.
“The move won’t kill you,” his mother had said. She was wrong. Dead wrong.
To be fair, it wasn’t the move. He wasn’t quite sure what ‘it’ had been, only that he was dead now; the kind of dead that, up until recently, he thought existed only in Hollywood Horror movies. A kind of undead.
He sighed, and wondered if he’d see a door at some point, or if, because he didn’t believe in god, this was his hell – purgatory, living in this piece of shit backwoods town for the rest of his – eternity.
A small white bird with black fringed feathers landed next to him, and looked at him quizzically. Cole drummed his fingers on the old worn roof tiles and contemplated his existence. He felt the cynic in him speak up, which oddly enough, shared a voice with his mother: “You were bored in California. You were bored here. Now you’re just dead and bored.”