A Dead-End Vignette

A writer recalls the road to salvation

He sits and stares at the screen, his fingers idle, his focus far away. The cursor blinks.

This is his home; these are his people. He thinks how they resurrected him by believing in him.

He had been lost when he had awakened, isolated. But he found that these people understood him, wrote stories about him, obsessed over him!

How do I capture the intricate connection of Writing.Com to my new life—my death?

He tilts his head, a faint smile coming to his corroded lips, and his rotted hand begins to type.

"Once upon a time, I wasn't dead..."