So, I could've died right. Funny how things work out though. Just after I fell into the water another person flew into the water near me. Rory didn't just walk in, I heard she was hit by a car. Needless to say, the driver who hit Rory called the police and EMTs were there in no time. Had Rory not been hit, they never would've found me. Of course I wasn't really paying attention when Rory fell in the river. I don't think I would've ended up in the river if I had been paying attention.
I think some people would call this fate. A beautiful coincidence that Rory was able to die her violent death so that I, Munny Pang, great steward of society, friend to many, admired by the entire community for his success and cleanliness, could live. What a touching sacrifice. Fate or not, I'm still living and Rory is dead. It's honestly a bit of a shame if I'm honest. I didn't know Rory well. But she was living. I overheard people in the Victorian examining pictures she sent of herself visiting all sorts of beautiful places. Apparently her last trip had been to Colorado. Wow. For a guy who hasn't left the Victorian in years Colorado seems like Timbuktu. She also had friends. Her dog was named Peter. She got to know this guy named Baker, apparently not a terrible guy. She had a life to live, a friend and a dog. And I had Trithian and the Golden Time Piece of Gul-Thrada. And don't forget about Darth Maul. And the nameless love of my life for whom I hosted a hallucinated funeral march on the back of a train. Fate or not, Rory's dead. And I'm still here.
A nurse knocks on my door, whistling a major third like a door at a gas station. I nod, in my best effort to let her know she can come in using as little effort as possible. "Money," she says, mispronouncing my name again. "You have a visitor." I'm surprised Trithian took the time to show up. I nod again, satisfied in the optimization of my apathy. "Can he come in?" she asks. I nod.
But it's not Trithian. It's a real human. A tallish blonde guy walks in. His face is sculpted and angular. "Sorry, do I know you?" I ask.
He laughs. "Haha, good one Munny! Glad to see you still have a sense of humor."
I look at him confused. "Ok, very funny Munny. It's me Elliot, Elliot Varane!" To my surprise I actually do know him. Before getting "serious" about writing we were friends.
"Why're you here?" I thought I should ask him the logical question, seeing as we hadn't talked in more than a year.
Elliot musters up a smile. "Well, I was really saddened to hear about your accident. So, I prepared this bag of treats to hopefully cheer you up."
I let out a long frustrated sigh. Not that I'm not happy about the food, that's nice, but I'm not in the mood for talking. We sit for a minute in silence.
"Well, you don't really seem in the mood for talking," observes Elliot. "I should probably get going. But we should keep in touch. After you get out of the hospital we can go fishing maybe? Whatever floats your boat."
"Maybe," I say to give him some form of social consolation.
"Alright see you later!" he says as he walks out the door. As he leaves I reach over for the gift basket. He apparently included some garlic breadsticks. It actually smells quite good.
I take a breadstick out. It'd cooled down to room temperature unfortunately. Probably undercooked, like those breakfast sandwiches at the gas station. But I decide I'll give it a shot. I take a bite. I close my eyes. I smile. This garlic bread is real. And it's beautiful.