Life after Death: The Story of R

Their once was a boy named R. He had two sisters, twelve loving cousins those cousins all had parents he called aunts and uncles. Over the years he had many pets, mainly dogs which he adored but always lost. He was happy all throughout adolescence – even after. He died somewhere around Eighteen, in fact he was continuously dying since Fifteen already. He didn't know it.
During R's existence he lived only for one year, he was eighteen at the time. He died at the end of that year and came back and existed for the rest of his long long life. R didn't know when he actually made the transition; he does however know when he realized it. He became self- aware midway through his nineteenth year. At first he didn't realize he'd died but merely the fact that he'd changed. R's personality resembled that of a drab clay doll whereas before it was a mosaic even he could not fully grasp.
R came back to life once reading Bukowski. He looked different, more of a slob, unhealthy in fact. He had a drinking habit that to the overly concerned seemed a problem. He wrote poems then and was always seen with a purple rectangular notebook which he kept hidden. He'd sit down somewhere and write little notes in them and when someone looked or asked about it he'd get up and leave. Along with the notebook came the soda mug or cup which was spiked with Rum. Before he settled on Rum R experimented with a lot of other drinks but become lazy and cheap and decided to stick it out with the Island's favorite. It was always tough for R though. He had to balance sobriety and whichever level of drunk he required. R couldn't read when he was too drunk and he needed to read both to stay alive and to keep progressing with his poems. They were quite bad poems but some people liked them. He did as well but only for a while then he'd grow tired of them and eventually loath them. All except one. It was written on a whim.
R lay in his bed facing his wall. It was dark and cold so he rolled into a ball with the sheets suffocating him. Back then he still had a schedule, he'd write from 10 till lunchtime and then maybe get in a few lines after lunch. R had just finished off a set of poems he thought was worthwhile although many of them still needed work, he wouldn't send it out anyway so he was happy. R knew that those poems were more fodder than art, those were the ones that laid the ground work for his raison d'être. On his bed, in a cocoon facing the wall, room is dark and R lay there speaking to himself. "What do you want R ? as an Artist, as person, W-H-A-T ?" Aloud he recited what would later turn into his greatest poem. Instant inspiration, something he'd been looking for since putting pen to paper two years before. R always had to coax it out, inspiration always made R work for it but that night it all just jumped into his lap. R was happy that night. The next day he wrote it all down, added more words and changed some lines, R was happy that day. As time went by R kept on writing, read and reread old work but always loved that poem and nothing else. Some other people did as well but nothing came of it. R could not understand how everyone couldn't see how special that one poem was. It was round about this time that R's personality starting to drift towards a little bit of color in some far off horizon everyone else saw but R. Maybe he saw but feared it, who knows. He prayed for his poem, he showed it to a friend, she liked but had a few criticisms which R could not understand and would not accept "It's perfect as it is" she accepted but R knew she didn't understand and no one would so he hid it. He kept drinking his Rum and gradually became more and more of a recluse. He fantasized about drunkenly embarrassing his friends and family at parties and such and eventually did. The people talked about how R had become such a horrible drunkard. R dreamed of becoming a great and wise Bum and soon learned to speak like one. He could already drink like one and looked like one.
When R became famous and people loved his poems, even his beloved masterpiece and they did lots of interviews with him and made movies about his work and life and wrote books about him he asked a psychotic blonde to kill him.
She'd move with R to his new house, it was a grand two storied villa almost. At first she was only with him for the money and drugs, she and R used to shoot up and punch each other. He only punched her in the face once but loved to get punched in the face himself. Sometimes R would get drunk and she High and they'd play fight club. Anyway – she didn't realize it but at some point she truly came to love R but she just as him knew they R was a clay doll and so couldn't live like normal folk, so she promptly accepted. R told her to wait for one of her psychotic mood swings and not to force the issue. She shot up that night, passed out on the couch and R having worked all day trying to break away from his horrendous poems, took a hot bath. He added only a little cold water and slowly lowered himself into the tub, it was far too hot. He couldn't move around too much or he'd burn all over again. Soon R settled into his tub and floated there and almost fell asleep. He heard her throwing things around in the kitchen, some plates broke, and then in the room he could hear his drawers hit the pavement. He smelled a fire, pages burning, he hoped she'd spare his poem – he said a silent prayer that she would.

While the cold water dried up the colorless clay, and it became hard as rock then turned to dust to blow into the floorboards and set into the bricks of R's ancient villa he was already back at college. He was fresh out of High school and eager to lose himself in the experience. At first it was the same as every year before. R went to class, paid attention, understood quicker than most and sat by himself during breaks. He knew someone would attach themselves to him eventually, they always did. At 3 he left for home and for 2 and half months that was his miserable routine. R had recently been enlightened by a combination of Buddhism and beat. He even searched for others that might have been touched by the counter culture but to no avail. None of them like R – maybe a little different here or there but none of them like R. he meditated and made vows never to harm any living creature, This was about the time that you would always see R with some sort of insect bite on his arms, hands, neck and even face. He was out looking for something more and soon quit college wanting to find "it" 'You'll know what it is when you find it' he said and nobody understood poor R. it was then that R met a plump music producer, his name was Al. He had a thing for R but R played dumb and kept teasing him although they did actually like each other. R convinced him to buy an old coffee shop where they fixed a stage at the back. They clear out everything leading to the stage so it was open spaced like the comedy houses you see in the movies. They put up dark curtains and stocked the place up with cheap wine and alots of vents for their cheap weed. R even threw pillows and thick blankets on the floor and they opened up shop. People sat around smoking continuously and staggered along until they fell on a pillow and just turn their head to the stage where a young boy with feathery hair and square jaw and perfectly manicured beard read poems and prose waving his arms about. R always made them drink his rotgut, poor R didn't want any of them to die like him – so he tried to teach them all about being alive. However R didn't know anything about it. He soon realized this and blew up the whole place with himself inside. When the first waves of his people came upon the wreckage they said it looked like the end of a generation. They all went home cut their hair and lobbied for R's club to be turned into a Studio that would make celebrities.

R came back even worse one time. At first he was fixed, inspired even. He had made adult decisions – he was either to go back to school or find a job, any job he was done being picky about it. He'd come back as a Young adult, that's what he thought – both him and his parents his whole family in fact. No one was disappointed at his sudden lack of ambition. Some friends of his said that he should keep writing but R wanted to live. Even if it meant living like those one's he'd despised a long time ago. He applied and went for an interview at College. His breath was steady, his palms dry and his heart as steady as it ever was. It was more proof that he'd come back very different. R used to be the nervous type but now he displayed a calmness that surprised no not just calm more indifference. He went into an interview room with a thickly Indian girl whose name he immediately forgot. Answered her questions asked some of his own. Before he left he already knew that he would not be attending. R made a rational decision that those costs were not worth what he'd be doing there, as well as living with the debt of loans and such. He quickly moved and looked towards other institutions but took job interviews in the meantime. He eventually found a job working for the city. He was a cog in the grand machine and R accepted it quite happily.