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First draft of tale IV, months late.

Here The Book of Foreshadowed Sorrows turned, sighed, and continued on almost as if it didn't want to see what was behind door number four.

Dreams in which we wake.

The alarm clock rudely blared out the same tired cry, just as it did every morning.
And as he did every morning, he sat up and put his clammy feet to the cold tiled floor.
He idly wondered how long it had been since he'd had dreams that weren't plagued, weren't full of people who were dead.

Too long.

Stretching, he went into the other room for coffee, and toast.
The news had the same old tired stories, some corrupt politician caught with his pants down and polling some interns for a raise in internal office approval ratings, train derailment, aircrash, some guy in a coma for awhile being taken off life support today.

He swirled his coffee in his mug, and rustled the newspaper in mild annoyance.
The sports page was damp and illegible, as were the comics pages.
Something on the third page caught his eye, it was an article about a car wreck, the pic looked familiar but he couldn't make out the names.
He was deeply intent on the pic when he had a searing white bolt of blinding pain lanced through his morning fog and hammer him to the floor, he was screaming, but couldn't hear his own voice.
Hands in front of his eyes lest they fly from his skull, he crawled back to his room before collapsing in the hallway in a heap.
This was the third time he'd felt this, and he was worried, but soothing blackness rolled over him and took him to the shadowlands.

"Ma'am, I cannot understand why your husband won't snap out of his coma." the young Doctor stood next to the bed, they'd just tried their last trick to wake the patient, but it failed spectacularly.
The patient had bounced, made a gargling noise, and then slipped deeper into immobility.
The only thing left was to disconnect him from the machinery, and hope he woke before death settled in.
Medically, there wasn't anything wrong with him.

The wife, young and pretty, wasn't prepared for this eventuality.
The supporters, friends, and family came, all told her she was too young for this, too pretty, too... alive.
She broke down into hysteria, and was eventually dragged from the room.
Sedated.
Silenced.

He awoke to the cold floor, pushed himself up off from it, and wretched his guts up in the bathroom after making his slow way there.
'What is wrong with me?' the thought drizzled through his headache fog and taunted him.
There was something there that he had to grasp, had to remember, but it eluded him at the edges of his consciousness.
He thought he heard someone screaming, crying.
Turning, he thought he saw a woman.
Vaguely, he felt he knew her.
The headache came back like a vengeful demon bent on horrific destruction, rending and tearing his skull to shreds.
He fell backwards, expecting to feel his head bounce off the toilet edge.
He was surprised when he felt a pillow instead.

"Shutting down respirator at 2200." the voice said.

What did that mean?
He tried to look around, but couldn't move.

"His breathing has stopped."

No, he felt quite fine, didn't he?

"Heartrate is becoming erratic."

Whose?

"That's just about it... pull the sheet to."

He opened his eyes again, the alarm was blaring the same tired cry.
Stretching, he put his feet on the cold tiled floor, and went into the kitchen for more coffee.
Vaguely, he heard weeping somewhere.
Darn television, he shut it off and went to the newspaper.
Front page story was a sad tale of a man in a coma passing away last night.
Why, that face looked like his.

The Book of Foreshadowed Sorrows has some pity, and more than enough sorrow for those who never realize they have passed on without saying goodbye.