he wakes up with ash on his tongue. the scorch marks on the ceiling reveal more than his memory does. he never remembers the burning but the peeling paint in his one-bedroom never forgets.
the hallway mirror tells him more. the scab from last week's tumble in the church parking lot is gone. his freckles are gone. no facial hair. baby smooth but for his head.
the real answer comes from the thermostat. the heat is off. it must have gone off while he was in bed and the winter chill invaded the house. he can't be sure, he doesn't remember anything after dinner last night.
but the scorched ceiling and the peeling paint and the fresh skin tell the story that his brain can't conjure from memory.
he died last night, and when he dies, he burns.
this isn't the first time it's happened. once, he woke up to the kitchen linoleum bubbling beneath him, blood already drying. he must have hit his head. once in his car. that was expensive, and the deer through the windshield didn't help. two other times just like this, in his bed, too cold to sustain life for very long.
he needs to remember to pay his gas bill.
