Mortal Possessions

Ken Smith was carrying a box of junk down stairs when he lost his footing and fell. It happened so fast that his mind had no time to comprehend what was going on. Tumbling over himself, he came crashing down on the hardwood floor at the bottom. He landed on his back, arms splayed out at his sides, surrounded by all the knickknacks that had been ejected from the box.

Oddly enough, he felt no pain. Come to think of it, he felt nothing at all. Had he been forty years younger, say in his late-teens or early twenties,  he wouldn't have found this particularly unusual. But having no pain after falling down the stairs at age sixty five was cause for concern.   

He attempted to move, checking for signs of paralysis, and was relieved to find that he still had full motion. Springing up—something he hadn't done in many, many years—he dusted himself off. Just a tumble, he thought. He had yet to suspect the worst.

That's when he happened to notice that there were  two men standing in his foyer, watching him. They were both well dressed. One wore a suit as black as raven feathers. The other wore the polar opposite, clad in all white.  

"Look-y there, he slipped his mortal collar," the Man in Black said to the Man in White.

"I think the phrase you're looking for is, 'shuffled off this mortal coil'," said the Man in White.

"Isn't that what I said?"

"No, not even close."    

"What did I say then?"

"I don't know. Something about a collar, I believe."

"Close enough," replied the Man in Black.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house? How'd you get in here?" Ken interrupted their little chat. Perhaps he had knocked a screw loose when he fell. Perhaps these two were figments of his imagination.

The Man in Black approached, navigating around countless cardboard boxes that cluttered the foyer. The whole house was a mess. It was easy to see that Ken had a problem. He had spent the last ten years hoarding everything he could get his hands on.

The room was littered with junk. Popcorn tins overflowing with yellowed dog-eared baseball cards. Cardboard boxes full of yesterday's newspapers. Children's toys from different eras. A cracked pineapple shaped lamp sat a bit crooked on a wooden teachers desk, tucked away in the corner.

Ken took in everything he could about the intruders, boiling them down to their essence. Being able to recall core details about the intruders would make it easier for him to identify them later. It was a mental snapshot for whenever he could notify the police and get them sketched up.

The Man in Black was rough around the edges. A tangled mess of shaggy black hair framed his narrow face and fell just shy of his shoulders. His stubble was long enough to cast a shadow, but not long enough to distract from his most prominent feature. His squint-y eyes were as dark as coal and as black as the darkest night.

His compatriot stood out in stark contrast to his gothic attire. He had a boyish face—soft eyes, rounded cheekbones and an upper lip that was hardly there. His hay colored hair was smoothed to one side. But it was his attire that drew the most attention. His clothes were so bright that they were practically self-luminescent.

"Wait," Ken said. He suddenly recognized them, but could not place where or when they had crossed paths. "I think I know who you are. But that would mean that I'm...I'm..." He stumbled over his words.

Looking down only reaffirmed what he already knew. His dead body was lying sprawled out at his feet.  'I should have changed my shirt,' he thought. Had he known he was going to die, he would have given more thought to his wardrobe and wouldn't have been found dead in (quite literally) a pink and green Hawaiian shirt,  khaki shorts, and a pair of neon flip flops.