Fog Man

     Imagine living in a fog. Except, it's not a visual fog, it's a physical one. Almost like a heavy cloth blanket has been draped over you and you have to go about your life with that extra weight. It doesn't really get in your way exactly, but it certainly changes things. It's almost like being doped, or in a dream. Things don't seem quite real, the importance of important things are missed completely. As you can imagine, this can cause… problems.
     Stanley was a man living in a fog. He wasn't quite sure how he'd landed there, but he sure knew this wasn't how he'd always been. His long limbs swooshed through the soup that was his surroundings. Of course nobody else could see or feel the soup. Hell, even Stanley couldn't see it. But he could feel it as he moved, like the drag of fresh water against his body when he'd swum in the lake as a kid.
     He first started realizing that things were going south for him when he noticed his pet goldfish – of course someone named Stanley has a pet goldfish – floating upside down in his fish bowl. Stanley bent his knees, and they cracked like dry wood as he knelt down to peer at the clearly dead fish. How long had it been dead? When had he last fed the fish, anyway? He couldn't quite remember.
     Taking the fishbowl in his two large, pale hands, Stanley stared dumbly as the stirring of the water made the little dead fish crumble apart. Well then. Apparently the goldfish had been dead quite a while indeed. Stanley frowned at the little bits of goldfish as they drifted down to sit on the blue fake rocks in the bottom of the bowl. Something had to be done about this fog.
     So, like any sane human being trying to clear his head, Stanley headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup o' Joe. Except the coffee tin was empty. He frowned into its dusty depths, shaking the last little speckles out onto his age-yellowed counter. A quick check of the cupboards and fridge showed there was barely any food left in the house. When had he last done the groceries? He couldn't quite remember.
     A small cloud of dust puffed out as his skinny ass slid onto one of his kitchen chairs. Stanley stared down at the table top, only now noticing that it was littered with dead flies and a blanket of thick dust. He frowned, again, also not able to remember when he'd last cleaned up around the place. Glancing around, Stanley realized that most of the house was in a total mess. When did this happen? How had he not noticed?
     There were vague memories of a sun-filled kitchen, clean surfaces, the smell of baking cookies. He could almost taste those moist, tender chocolate chip cookies if he just thought hard enough- THUMP!
     What was that? Stanley cocked his head, looking up at the ceiling. Strange sounds were coming from upstairs. His knees cracked once more as he stood and made his way to the second floor. It seemed to take an eternity to climb up those dusty stairs, through the thick soup of his surroundings, and Stanley was panting when he got to the top. Following the sounds, he wondered what he could be hearing.
     He cautiously made his way down the upstairs hall, to the back bedroom. The door was open, but the curtains were closed and the room was a dark gloom. Trying the light switch to no avail - wondering if he had been paying his electricity bills on time - Stanley steeled himself and slid into the room toward the windows.
     Taking hold of the curtains, he jerked them open with force, flooding the room with stark white light. He turned to look, and froze. There, hanging from a noose tied to the ceiling fan, was Stanley. His corpse was grey, his tongue puffed up and sticking out between his ashen lips, his eyes shrivelled up in his sockets. A hidden breeze had been stirring his body, making it thump against a nearby dresser, causing the sound he'd heard.
     Stanley's mouth opened in a silent scream and he backpedalled toward the open window, not believing his eyes. Before he realized what was happening, Stanley suddenly felt the window frame against the back of his hips and he fell back into the open air, arms flailing.

     "Hey. Hey, buddy. Wake up."
     Stanley groaned, his eyelids fluttering open.
     "That's it buddy. Come on. We gotta get going man."
     "Wha?" he mumbled, slowly sitting up and looking around.
     He was sprawled across his unkempt lawn, below his bedroom window. Suddenly remembering what he'd seen before his fall, he croaked and scrambled to his feet but a hand grabbed his elbow to steady him.
     "Easy buddy, it's cool now."
     Stanley turned to the voice, and his eyes flew open in surprise.
     "Haha, yeah, I know buddy, bit of a shock huh?" the Grim Reaper said, shaking his black-hooded head.
     "You're the- But I'm- What's going on?!" Stanley squeaked, trying not to faint.
     "It's cool, dude, no sweat." The Reaper said, sliding his robed around arm Stanley's shoulders, "Just took you a bit longer than most to realize you were dead is all."
     Stanley stared in horror at the giant scythe the Reaper held in his other hand.
     "Oh this thing? No sweat, this is only for the ones that run man, hah." A sound that resembled more like growling but was obviously the Reaper's laugh oozed out from the darkness of the large hood.
     The hooded figure waved the scythe in the air and a glowing door appeared. Knocking on it with the wooden end, the door solidified. The Reaper gestured to Stanley.
     "Go ahead dude. Don't worry, those Christians are all full of shit, suicides don't go to Hell." and he growl-laughed again.
     Shaking, Stanley stepped forward and grasped the handle. It was warm to the touch as he turned it and pulled open the door. A green field opened in front of him, and Stanley turned to look at the Reaper.
     "Go on buddy. Before anybody in charge decides you should be going somewhere less pleasant."
     The Reaper reached forward with a bony hand and shoved him through the door. It slammed shut behind him, dissipating into the air like fog along with the hooded figure.