Marcus sat at the edge of the world on a Sunday morning having not slept all night and pulled the cork from a bottle of wine and took a deep breath.

“A million years from now this won’t matter,” he said.  “No one will be around to remember me.  No one will have seen anything I’ve ever done.  People die everyday and remain nameless.  And all these reality shows and who’s fucking who, and the faces that we see and base our own existences around won’t be here either.  Who’s going to run the world then?”

He laughed and took a swig of the wine.  It was old cheap wine–flat and bitter.  “I’ll never see the looks on these people’s faces.”

His audience was a seagull and the ocean.  No other visible signs of life were present.  No joggers, no people on horseback.  The rock he sat upon would never move.  The sun was to his back and the clouds approached from in front.  He wiped his bloodied hands off on his shirt and took another swig.

“You’ll still be here,” said Marcus to the ocean, “You’re uncontrolled.  Only things that great I can respect.  You are forever.  A shit job doesn’t compare to that . . . You know, scientists say we’ve evolved from fish that evolved from smaller organisms that lived in the ocean.”  Swig, cough.  “And creationists believe that man is currently on a down slope.”  He paused, sipped the wine again.  “Maybe, yeah, maybe one day we’ll make our way back to the water.  Kind of, evolve into some new form that inhabits the ocean.  Maybe there will be peace in that . . . Of course, the downside to that is all the soul sucking two-faced capitalist salesmen will get their hands or flippers or whatever all in it and the next thing you know there’d be shopping malls down there, a fucking chain of Starbucks.  Everyone will compete for who has the nicest pet shark, the nicest pet anything.”

The bottle was almost out.  “Exploitation is freedom, it sets the standards, it’s a food chain within a food chain.  If someone does something, the rest of the world must do it.  You gotta keep up with the times, you gotta upgrade.”

Marcus laughed again.  The seagull jumped off the rock and took flight to join its friend’s overhead and Marcus looked up to make sure they weren’t aiming to shit on him.

“Heroes come and heroes go.  The silliest clichés I have been told have always been about death and the meaning of life.  Who really has the answer?  And what makes one certain he is actually right?”  Marcus looked down to see more blood on his hand.  He shook his arm and wiped off on the rock.  “Everyone is just, fooling themselves.”  He finished the bottle and left it for the seagulls to shit in.

Marcus’ apartment was a quiet dump off the coast that should have been condemned years ago.  The manager of the building never maintained the utilities but the cheap rent kept the tenants from complaining.  The salt in the air had corroded the windowsills and rusted the hinges of the doors.  The carpets bunch up under the doors and most of the time you’ll only get cold water from the faucet.  The laundry room had become a safe haven for homeless poets and rogue cats.

Marcus walked through the gates and stubbed his cigarette out.  Inside his place the phone was ringing.  He walked past the phone and into the kitchen.  He started a half a pot of coffee and popped two slices of bread into the toaster.  The phone stopped ringing.  In the bedroom Marcus removed his shoes and pants and walked into the bathroom.

He flicked on the light and checked his complexion in the mirror.

The body was laying face up in the bathtub.  The wrists were in shreds and the left arm hung over the edge dripping blood onto the dirty linoleum.  The phone began to ring again.  The body resembled Marcus all the way down to the wardrobe and greasy hair.  Marcus gave a casual glance and then focused back on his reflection.

“You ruined your shirt,” a voice said.

“I know,” said Marcus.

“You’re wearing a dead man’s shirt.”

Marcus turned on the faucet and splashed some cold water on his face.  As the blood and water dripped on the counter top he turned his full attention toward the body that was staring right at him.

“It wasn’t that great of a shirt,” Marcus said.

“What about Mom?” the dead Marcus asked.

“She’ll be alright,” Marcus said.  “They take good care of people at that home.  Clean beds, meals, drugs, television.  She’s even allowed to smoke.  She’ll be happy.”

The corpse shook its head.  “Shellie won’t.”

Marcus turned off the water.  “Don’t you think I know that already?  Fuck, how many times have I told you?  This wasn’t about her!”

The dead Marcus smiled.  “I sure hope she doesn’t see this.  She’s been through enough, don’t you think?”

“Shut up!” Marcus shouted at himself.  “Just shut the fuck up!”  He spun around and dropped to a seated position on the floor.  His hands came up and caught his face.

“I suppose this makes sense,” the body said.  “I could have been so much more.  So many things I wanted to accomplish.  Now, it doesn’t matter.  In a million years no one will remember me or the things that I have done.  It will all be forgotten by everyone.”  It looked at Marcus.  “Even you.”

Marcus looked up from his sobbing.  “I wouldn’t.  I, mean, how could I–”

“Oh?” the body said.  “Who are you trying to fool? You’re dead! You sat up all night with those scissors in your hands.  Then you made a choice.  But here you are now–changing clothes, washing your face–what are you getting ready for?  What do you have waiting for you?”

Marcus looked at his corpse.  “The ambulance,” he said.

The phone was ringing again.  Marcus left the bathroom and walked toward the phone.  Before he could reach it the phone stopped ringing.  There was a knock at the door.

Marcus reached for the doorknob but was interrupted as the door was broken down.  A group of paramedics came running in at top speed.  They rushed in and out of the living room and bedroom, and finally arriving at the bathroom where they found Marcus laying eyes-open, fixated on the ceiling, blood still spurting from the wrists.  “That’s him?” One asked.  “You see any other bodies?” another responded.  They crowded in and got to work.  One paramedic checked his pulse from the jugular; the other dropped to the floor and opened a small carry-case full of syringes and epinephrine.  A third paramedic brought in tourniquets and oxygen.

“C’mon people!” shouted one of them.  “Get him on a gurney; we may be able to save him!”  They worked and struggled to resuscitate the suicide but their efforts were too damn late.  “Ten CC’s–quick!”  They injected and stretched and slapped around and tied off the wounds but nothing would take the dead stare from those eyes.  Marcus was gone.

Then the toast popped up.

• Short Stack