Comatose

The cold air flowed in through the open door of Biblio Phile. Mr. Murton, an old man dusty from age and tomes of days past, peeked over the stack of New Arrivals to see who was letting in "that infernal draft". To his surprise, opposite the top of the stack, stood a young gentleman. Now, you and your ilk have no idea who this person is. None of you have a clue or a guess or a thought or an inkling. But I, yes, I know this man, and Mr. Murton did too.

"Hey, Max! What the devil are you doing here? How's college treating you?" Mr. Murton spoke in a slow voice of sticky molasses, letting the words slop off of his tongue. Well, you get that type of speech only after a Monday of reading Chaucer.

"Ah, is that Mr. Murton? How are you still alive??" Max threw his arm around the shoulders of the old man, patting his back in a delicate manner. To Max, there was nothing different about the store. The shelves seemed to be in order, only a couple of obvious careless placings by customers. The Classics aisle was still strong as ever, boasting all the books one would ever need to read. Murton was conquering the Solzhenitsyn section at the moment*.

"Ah, well, you know what they say. A reader lives a thousand lives and dies but one!" Always full of wisdom.

"I'm... looking for a specific book."

"What's it called?" For a moment, Max was silent and looked at the floor with disdain. "Well, out with it!"

"I need to find my old Lord of the Flies." Murton's face contorted in some foreign expression that I can only describe as nostalgia.

"Really? After all this time? I'm not sure we even still have it." Creaking away from the back of his chair, the old man stretched to reach the ebony cane next to the cash register. Max lent an affectionate glance to the copy of Remembrance of Things Past lying next to his foot. What a great stepstool that book was.

The small specks of fuzzy light that clouded the store felt like fireworks at a welcome home party to Max. The rows of shelves were gigantic punch bowls of knowledge and wonder that were yet to be spooned into cups. If only he'd been around more. If only he'd read at all.

"Right this way!" Mr. Murton stood next to the Island Adventure aisle, scanning the sections for the name GOLDING sticking out from the spine.

"Where are you, my pretty... no, Ballantyne, not you, no no no... Ah, there you are!!" With a sigh of fulfillment, he retrieved it. The pages were crisp and clean-cut, seeming the same as when Max had given the book away so long ago.

"Ah, yes, I remember when I got you..." Mr. Murton's voice trailed off the side of a cliff, leaving the world stranded behind. The adventures of Ralph and Piggy and Simon... his heartstrings felt a little twang when reminiscing over the old memories.

"Max? Where'd you go?" The world around seemed quiet. No sounds echoed through the door, no drafts. Where had that boy gone off to?

***

As Mr. Murton closed up for the night, the sign on the door waved a solemn goodnight. No customers had come today besides that Max, who'd left as soon as he came.

"Night, Moe!" The tabby cat on the corner of Rosemont Road squeaked a reply as it wandered its ways through the streets. That cat was never claimed, no signs of any kind put up around the city. Moe was better off that way, though. He didn't like the warm of the house.

Where was I? Oh yes, Mr. Murton. Our old dodger waved to the incoming cars as he hobbled across the street, throwing wide open the door to his car. An old 1960s Bentley, he could never bear to part with it. He appreciated the car in a way more true and pure than any other thing. It was his own. His way of saying "I might be old, but I can still be free". However, Murton's cane told otherwise.

***

"Max, can you hear me? Max, it's Georgia. Please come back." The strands of wire that hung to the old man's heart were a maze that Georgia Murton made no attempt to make sense of. She hung by her partner's side without caring for a medical solution. Emotions would solve everything, she believed, and so it shall be.

***

When our kooky senior reached the edge of his street, he felt a sharp pain underneath his arm. The jutting edge of a cover was sticking into his flabby underarm, and he reached out to retrieve it.

"Lord of the Flies. Well, I'll be..."

***

Ralph was sitting in the corner of the platform, looking across the triangle of logs to his friends. Jack was sitting in a corner with his choir, laughing about something with Maurice. Simon, well, Simon was simply there, there was no two ways about it.

"Max?" A face looked up at him through the din of childish humor and games. Ralph laughed for a second, trying to catch on to whatever joke he might've missed. In another life, Ralph would've ignored it. This, however, is not that strand of life.

"Max, it's Georgia. Please, if you can hear me, please come back for your wife."

***

Moe was a solitary cat, never caring for the company of others. People bothered him, made him antsy to get away. There was never a way around them, though. Humans were just always there.

The train station was brimming with life at the late hour of night. Voices and intercom mixed into a slushie of sound that seeped through Moe's feline earlobes. He hissed for a second, hoping that the sounds would go away. Well, that's humans for you. Never caring.

***

Georgia Murton was a stout, loyal woman. She stood by her husband in all of his antics, all of his eccentric quirks. There was never an instance where she thought of unfaithful acts. Betraying her husband was simply not in the scope of possibility. We are called here today to commemorate her horrible, painful journey, and to respect the battle she waged on life. May we all grow to be as resilient as she was and to love another as she did Max. She can be with her husband again. Thank you.

*Thanks Zilla heehee