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  • Iain had never really “grown up” according to his mother (who lived two states away but constantly showed up at his condo's door, ready to mooch a meal off of her only son); he lived in a state of perpetual bachelorhood. He never had a girlfriend long enough to have her over more than twice, he had friends that didn't mind the mess, and most of all, he never got out of bed before noon. It helped that he had a graveyard shift job while he took online college courses. Still, staying up late into the night was usual. As was lumbering out of bed, dragging his feet down the cold tile in the hallway and into the kitchen in order to start making the coffee he desperately needed in order to fully awaken. While the coffee brewed he would grab his phone, check his messages while either leaning against the counter or sitting on one of the bar stools. After the coffee was finished and he'd poured himself a cup, he yawned, and trundled into the living room down the hall.

    All of this was normal. What he didn't expect was some dead guy sitting on his couch and scalding coffee across his feet. He winced, eyes not leaving the corpse splayed across his couch. Then, as the coffee cup rolled to rest against the side of his socked feet, he finally looked down. It wasn't broken, that was good. He snapped out of it and wrestled his soaked and now coffee-stained socks off of his overly sensitive skin. He snatched up the cup and sighed at the mess, even as he walked carefully towards the bathroom. Fuck did his feet hurt. He'd deal with the dead guy later.

    After pushing the socks around in some lukewarm water, Iain looked to his feet. Red, but no blisters. That meant he was fine. He swished out the mug and decided that cleaning up the coffee on the floor was a good idea. After that, he would call Lisa, to see what she said about the... situation. He slipped into the kitchen, being careful about his feet (that ached if he thought about them too much). He gathered paper towels and took a deep breath, vaguely wondering if he should wear a mask and gloves while being in the same room as a corpse. He decided he wouldn't touch it, just clean up the coffee and be done with it.

    He went back out there, but stopped right inside the threshold of the living room, eying the man's corpse that was splayed out on his couch like he was just sitting there, taking a nap with his head tipped back. Like he was going to wake up at any moment, except his skin was white as a sheet, purple lines of burst capillaries spider-webbed across portions of his skin on his face. Iain had to remind himself that zombies weren't a real thing. Even so, he inched his way over to the coffee spill and pondered calling the cops instead of Lisa. That would be the normal-person thing to do. He would make his decision as soon as he was finished cleaning up the coffee. Then again, maybe he shouldn't clean it up. He didn't take his eyes off the corpse. Just in case.

    He dropped to one knee, ready to fight or flee at the drop of a pin. He almost blindly swiped at the coffee on the hardwood floor, dabbing at the throw rug that had a bit of liquid soaked into it. It was cold already. He withdrew, backing away from the couch and the dead person on it. He backed all the way into the kitchen, not taking his eyes off the doorway. Just in case. He picked up his phone, fingers tapping to look at the contacts, his thumb hovering over Lisa's name. And then he didn't press it. He wanted to, desperately, but he didn't.

    He dialed 911 and held the phone up to his ear. He didn't know what was going on or why this corpse was in his apartment, but he was going to make un-happen. The entire time he spoke with a disbelieving operator, he didn't move, standing stalk-still. She decided to send the troops out to him, even though she wasn't certain he was doing anything more than pulling her leg. She stayed on the phone with him, asking him all sorts of questions about his mental state. He answered them, most of his thinking going toward how he was going to answer the door without taking his eyes off the dead person on his couch. And how to get rid of the couch afterward. He was leaning toward dragging the thing outside and burning it.

    Knocks on the door sounded throughout the apartment, which was silent excepting for the refrigerator noises and Iain answering the 911 operator occasionally. “Iain McCloughd? It's the Orlando PD. Can you open the door for us?”

    He hung up with the emergency operator and called out to the police on the other side of his door as he stepped around to keep an eye on the corpse. “Alright, I'm going to open the door.”

    When he opened it he spared a glance to the duo that were standing with their weight on one foot, one of the hands up near their belts, like they were ready to grab for something. He let the door open wide and saw them look toward what he was keeping his eye on. One of the two swore under his breath and the other waved him to stand outside of his apartment. After that it was a riot of all sorts of people getting called in and filing into his apartment, and a flurry of questions barraged at him nonstop. His own questions went unanswered, and as he kept asking them, the police only seemed to get more suspicious of him. Then he was dragged down to the station. They wanted to make sure he didn't know anything about this corpse that mysteriously turned up in the living room of his apartment. He didn't blame them, but he also wanted to make his feet stop stinging and maybe take a shower. Get rid of that couch. Call his friends and tell them how crazy everything had been. And how crazy was that? Who actually had that happen to them? A strange dead person turning up in their apartment randomly. Instead, he was stuck in an interrogation room, sitting alone and staring at the one-way mirror window.
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