Regrets? I’ve Had A Few
He placed his glass down on the table and exhaled slowly and deliberately through his nose. He slid the map across the table towards the figure sat opposite him.
“There,” he sighed, “these are all the places that you’ll find pieces of me.” He pointed to some dots in the USA, some scattered across Europe, a cluster in the British Isles. “This is everywhere I’ve had an encounter that’s resulted in me leaving a part of myself behind. I know what you’re thinking: it’s amazing that there’s any of me left. I think that sometimes too. I revisit these places, these parts of me, too often. I should have just left them behind. Or maybe I should have left none of me behind. Maybe I was too vulnerable, too open.”
He paused, almost taking another mouthful of his drink but instead looking at the glass in disgust and putting it down again.
“This one,” he pointed at a dot somewhere in the middle of England, “was stupid. Too much vodka. That wasn’t even an encounter with someone else, unless you count my own, personal, little demon.”
“Oh, I do,” came a deep voice from somewhere in the vicinity of the figure opposite him. Not necessarily from the figure’s head or any discernable mouth, just… over there. It made him uncomfortable to think about it for too long.
“Yes, I suppose that makes sense,” he sighed, again. “I don’t… I don’t know why this all matters. I mean, why now?”
“Because it’s you,” the figure replied, “and you are coming to an end, and I do so hate loose ends.”
“What… what happens to them?” he stammered. “These loose ends, these pieces of me that are left? Where do they go?”
“They’re collected together, filed away, a few live on as memories,” the figure replied. “Probably less than you’d like. These pieces, these fragments of you, they mean more to you than the others involved.”
“Really? Regrets, now?” the figure asked, as he pulled out what looked very much like a scythe, or perhaps the form of a scythe. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”