The Macabre Readings of Rupert Redd

Rupert Redd read, a lot. He did not read biographies, auto or otherwise. He did not read Crime, Fantasy, Romance, or Horror, Adventure, Science Fiction or any other fiction for that matter. He did not read Heat or Esquire. He had no fancy for the flirtatious magazines from the toppest of shelves. Rupert Redd rather read obituaries. Only obituaries. 

Now there was nothing perverse about his perusing. He took no pleasure in people’s pain. The satisfaction he sourced from scanning the columns of those recently deceased, came in only one way; they made him feel grateful to be alive, filling his fluttering heart with an eagerness to exist.

That was up until one day, a Tuesday, when Rupert Redd was reading the latest edition, and a familiar name sprang out from the page. Below Percy Peril and above Sandra Scaling was the name not expected. Rupert Redd it read. “But that cannot be,” Rupert Redd said, “for Rupert Redd is me.”

The usual feeling of elation and life was absent from Rupert in this rarely found moment, as Rupert Redd read his own obituary. 

‘Rupert Redd, passed in peace on Sunday, 19th April 2020, the age of 81. It is said, he liked to read.’

Rupert Redd, although apparently dead, looked to his watch. Today was the 21st. How could it be that Rupert Redd was dead, for a whole two days, no less, and only discover it by reading the local paper. Should you not know, he pondered. Hoping for a mistake Rupert ran to the bathroom, to stare into the mirror. Staring and staring there was nothing staring back, no reflection no reaction, just a mirror. 

Rupert Redd it seemed was indeed, dead. 

End