#finjay

David stared across the living room on the first floor of his Atlanta home. It wasn’t even late, but it dark out at a mere six in the evening. David hadn’t bothered with turning on any of the lights in his home. It was day time when he got back from shopping, and having put the groceries away, he had changed into an old t-shirt and sweats and gone to take a nap.

Something compelled him to walk up to the wide window, facing out to the street, and he does, pushing the curtains aside. The street wasn’t particularly busy. He lived in a residential area after all. There was a car that passes by.

He swore to himself, this wouldn’t happen again. The new meds, the new doctors, the talk therapy, they were supposed to help. So why did that driver look like him. Why was he popping up, again and again. David could’ve sworn he saw that familiar leather jacket and hair half up, half down combo at the grocery store. Or last week, he smelled that familiar cologne, notes of spice and amber that he was intimately aware of. But when David whipped his head around, he found no one there. Nothing. Just a ghost.

When that car passes by again, slower this time, and David sees him. Hair half up, half down. Leather jacket. That sideways grin of his, that glint in his eyes. He’s pulling into the driveway now, and David’s heart isn’t beating. He thinks it isn’t. It feels like it isn’t. This was a dream then, clearly. Because it’s a dream, David walks to the door and opens it when the bell rings. There he is.

There he is.

“Jay.”

“Davey!” Jay throws his arms out and wraps them around David, like greeting an old friend. They were that, at some point.

“You were dead,” David’s voice carries little emotion. It doesn’t betray him, because there’s nothing to betray. “You should’ve stayed dead.”

Jay pulls away, a quizzical look on his face. “Dave...now, is that any way to talk to your pal? Come now, we have so much to talk about…”

Jay, he prattles on, and David doesn’t pay attention. He looks at the wound on Jay’s neck. A slash, straight across his throat. It’s sickly looking, as if it didn’t heal. It shouldn’t have healed anyway, but it looked like it was trying to. Instead it was seeping pus and blood, and he could see the tendons flexing as Jay kept talking.

“...David...David! Are you even listening to me?”

“You should’ve stayed dead,” David repeats, stepping back. He flexes his hands, before grabbing Jay by the collar and dragging him inside, pulling him to the ground. Rushing, he’s on his feet suddenly, closing the door. He turns around to Jay on the floor, but he’s not moving. He’s breathing, ever so slightly, because David can see the way blood gurgles from where his throat was cut. Jay’s eyes turn to him, making contact. His mouth is slightly agape. David drops to the floor, crawling over to Jay and grabbing his face. He tilts Jay’s head back, exposing his neck, exposing the tendons that were cut through, frayed, the bloody mess that was his neck.

“You should’ve stayed dead,” David says, his fingers coming up to the other man’s throat. His fingernails dig into the gaping wound, and there’s a hitch in Jay’s shallow breathing. David kisses at Jay’s neck, licking up the mess of blood and pus and whatever else was oozing out. As if he was ripping paper, David is able to peel back the skin, revealing the flesh underneath. It’s red, and it’s constricting and relaxing as David pokes and prods at it. “You should’ve stayed away. You’re always too eager, too stupid…” He can hear Jay scratching at the floorboards under him. “You think this just happened? You think I didn’t do this?”

“What did—”