Lee P. Thomsen sighed and he thumbed over his marker barcode. His marker bar code. The place and sign that, for the second time, signified his death. It really was an unfortunate life he led, faking his own death twice; but nevertheless, it was his life. And he knew that he had a purpose. He had to find a cure for this disease.
It was officially the anniversary of his first "death," and Lee was piss drunk. He stumbled out of the rickety bar and out into the road. Lee knew exactly where his feet were leading him, but he refused to acknowledge it.
Lee Thomsen was back at the markers, tripping over the old railroad tracks in an effort to find his marker. Eventually he came upon it. It took his bloodshot, glazed over eyes a few minutes to focus, and what he saw sobered him immediately. Instead of reading 1996, his marker read 2013, yet the same date. Lee scurried away from his marker, immensely confused. How could this be? Was he going to die today? When? Where? How? Or, shuddering as he thought this, was he already dead?
It was officially the anniversary of his first "death," and Lee was piss drunk. He stumbled out of the rickety bar and out into the road. Lee knew exactly where his feet were leading him, but he refused to acknowledge it.
Lee Thomsen was back at the markers, tripping over the old railroad tracks in an effort to find his marker. Eventually he came upon it. It took his bloodshot, glazed over eyes a few minutes to focus, and what he saw sobered him immediately. Instead of reading 1996, his marker read 2013, yet the same date. Lee scurried away from his marker, immensely confused. How could this be? Was he going to die today? When? Where? How? Or, shuddering as he thought this, was he already dead?