(Tried writing differently than my normal style. Came out decently enough, but even though it's successful for what it was meant to be ~disjointed and disconcerting~ I don't think I'll write another like it if I can help it.)
As I walk through the empty night, shadows plague my every turn. Everything turned in the last few days. The papers showed my picture as the Most Wanted Man in America. I stop and pull my hood in tighter. Can’t show my face anywhere, can’t be identified. Have to act inconspicuous, but the tight hoodie is a calculated risk. Have to wear it. The makeup approach came out less than spectacular. Barely escaped that last hotel before they saw my skin from underneath its veneer. Have to be free. Can’t hide. Can’t die. Can’t be caught.
I’ve been framed, I know it. Even then, I didn’t remember killing all those people, but as I pass a store, the TV is replaying the video of the slaughter for the upteenth time. There’s my face. My body. My gun. The darkest expression I could ever muster, looking slightly constipated and happy about it. There are my victims, lying in all of that blood. There’s the look of disgust that I wore the last time I had to contend with death. Memories of the dog flood in, lying there in its blood and shit. Blood I could always handle. Nice almost; rich, metallic, warm, thick. Feces stinks, but it’s manageable. But that horrific perfume of death, blood and voided bowels. Death never hit me that hard, the pain of others being the only trauma I received. But that foul mortal smell. I shudder, and keep walking.
I think back over That Day.
Started normal. Woke up, grabbed breakfast, sat there wasting the light. Surfing the mind numbing drug of internet junk food. Once in a while, pulled myself together to read something meaningful, but it never lasted for long. Stumbled upon the news at some point. Read about the grand opening. New Egyptian museum. Whole mess of rich people with names that sheeple care about attending. Don’t care, not sheeple. Bored. Went to bed.
I wake up hours later to the sounds of blaring sirens. Head hurts. Hands sticky. Smell blood. Bloody nose in my sleep?
BANG!
Door flies into my room with a thundering crack. Stomping footsteps. Untangle myself from the sheets. Squad of blurry figures, black sticks that I get a bad vibe from. Reach for my glasses, get yelled at to stay still. Put my hands up slowly. Feel sick. Throw up on the bed without moving. Why? Full of confusion. Head still hurts. Shoved to the ground. Carpet scratches my face. Always hated that carpet. Really, all carpet. Horrible stuff really. Smells like puke. Oh, right. Extra metallic puke. Red? Oh, shit. Pass out.
Come to, strapped to a chair. Ask what’s going on. Feel strange. Like a head cold, without the sinus trouble. Hard to think. Blurry shadow walks up. Puts glasses on my face. Can finally make out the uniform. Head throbs, wasn’t just the lack of optical focus. Uniform asks me why I did it. I ask, “did what?” His face contorts. Swears under his breath. Asks more questions. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Door opens. Pretty Uniform brings in a tv. Turns on a security cam video. Nice place. Good architecture. Gold filigree everywhere. People wandering around aimlessly. Nice clothes. Pretty dresses. I walk in. Black and red, favorite suit. Bring out the gun.
I know what’s coming, and I look away as the screaming begins. They turn it off. Ask if I want to change my story. I know what they’re talking about now. I don’t change my story; I have no idea what’s going on. They lay it out. I’m on the tape. Survivors recognize me. Blood evidence shows that I was there. Blood evidence on my arms when they found me. Ask if I was drugged. No drugs found in my system. Surrender myself willingly for psychiatric evaluation. Waive lawyer rights. Evidence overwhelming, still don’t understand. Still feel sick. Still feel wrong.
Sit in the cell for nights, hearing the demands of the death penalty outside the station. Head doesn’t stop pounding. Murderer. Psychopath. Mad Dog. Should be put down. I agree. Still don’t understand. Must have done it. Can’t have done it. Search my memories, remember my dreams from the nap. Lucid dream, nothing violent, no sign of sleepwalking. Always remember my dreams. Go into hybrid-sleep when waking up, pull them into the waking world. Is this a nightmare? Pinch self. Hurts. Pain might be a lie. No way to know.
Doctors white lab Coat walks in. Asks questions. Analyzing me. Patronizing. Know what’s going on. Not a child. Don’t like it. Coat writes “obviously agitated.” Wonder why, fucker. Acknowledges head pain and sick, askew feeling. Ask for blood tests. Coat smiles, says he’ll do what he can. Lying. Leaves, door closes. Alone again. Must be isolation ward. Or Uniforms that don’t make arrest quotas. Keep trying to think. Focus. Remember. Fail. Go back to sleep.
Wake up unrestrained on bed. Door unlocked. Clothed with hoodie. Blood on the floor. Want to stay. Want to lock myself back up. Afraid. Close eyes and curl into a ball. Want to cry. Never cry. Haven’t cried in years. Feel empty. Always feel empty. Feel wrong and empty. Fall asleep curled up.
Wake up in the dark. Sounds of life bustling around. Want to stay curled up. Want it all to go away. Want to go away. Head hurts. Why? Don’t understand. Just start doing. Auto-pilot.
Walk out of alley. Clothes are different. Clean with a bit of mess. Grease stain here. Torn seam there. Not brand new then. Good, less noticeable. See an open window. Lights off inside, no sounds. Girls room. Grab makeup kit. Search a few drawers, grab a necklace and some cash hidden under the drawer. Predictable. Disappear into the night.
Days pass, and my head starts to clear. Nationwide mansearch is in progress. Remember That Day clearly. I woke up in the middle of that nap to shift positions. Saw the time on the clock. Could be lying to myself? Can’t prove it anyway. Already two states away. Amazing what a little stealth can pull off. Steal small things to survive, never leave traces. Pawn a few things of worth, good at disguising my voice. Been practicing for years, no real reason. Don’t know why I’m bothering. Might as well end it. Make a public spectacle of it, relieve all their fears. Decide to do it. Walk out in open daylight, middle of town square. Hundreds of witnesses. Pull the knife up to my neck. Head hurts. Feel wrong. Pass out.
Wake up, see state sign. Five states away. Car overturned in front of me. News is on the radio. Hundreds slaughtered. No direct witnesses, security camera confirms that I was there. Don’t understand. How could I? Horror at hurting people aside, the physical capability seems beyond me. Especially with the small knife. The knife. It’s there. It’s stuck in the solid plastic of the steering column. All the way to the hilt. Some of the hilt is pushed in too. Bloody. Stumble back. Afraid. Walk into the forest. Find a creek. Wash up. No blood on me. New clothes. Body unwashed. Confused. Don’t understand. Head hurts. Have to stay away. Danger to others. Can’t stop myself, have to hide. Follow creek into mountain. Find a cave. Build a camp. Feel sick, catch some fish. Fish feel right. I eat them raw. Tastes horrible. Build a fire, cook them. Much better.
Fire should last some hours. Feel so tired. Head hurts. Feel wrong. Lie down to sleep. Wake up. Smell of blood. Head stings. Backpack in my hands. Not mine. Don’t look around for its owner. Already know. Can’t hide, won’t let me. Can’t die, won’t let me. Can’t be caught, won’t let me. Have to live with them, only way to keep them safe. To keep me safe. Begin walking. Fresh clothes. Hair different. Beard cut. Hard to recognize. Road sign, points to town. Small town, minimal collateral damage if it happens again. Head starts to clear. Doing the right thing. Doing the only thing.
Brings us to yesterday.
Head hurts. Feel wrong. Different than before. Not confused. Open eyes. I stand by the mirror. I watch myself from the bed. I turn around. My eyes lock onto mine. Skull burns. I’m thinking clearly. I feel so deeply, deeply afraid of myself that stands before me. I speak, and my voice sounds wrong.
“Hello. It’s been fun being you, but I’m done now. Nothing personal you realize, just needed a pawn. Framed him nicely.”
I blink. Head stops hurting. More terrified than before, as I begin to deform. A great inhuman head forms, shadowy and incoherent. The body follows, becoming both human and canid at the same time. Squared ears, too sharp of an angle to feel natural. Whole body ebbs and flows like blobs of ink, popping into and out of existence. Elongated face, too long and sharp. Hurts to look at. Dark eyes, void of recognizable feature. Body is sloped and lithe, looks like a greyhound. Looks like a mans body at the same time. Head hurts. Can’t focus. Confused. Two tails, split like a snakes tongue. Wags, doesn’t exist. Stays still. Exists. Close eyes. Open them. Wish I hadn’t.
He stands there. I still lie on the bed. Head hurts too much to move. Try to move arm. Leg moves instead.
“Ah yes,” he intones, words reverberating off of each other. “Borrowing your form must have been unpleasant for you. It’s all yours now. You’re free now, doesn’t that make you happy?”
I try to respond, but my arm moves instead, and fingers twitch randomly at painful angles.
“Mortals are so unappreciative. You helped me greatly. Just one more step now. And it comes with a gift. Don’t humans always desire to live? To be free?”
I can’t understand. His words hurt in creative ways I never thought possible. My ears feel as if they have been pulled through a mirror, hearing everything in backwards glass. My eyes hear the vibration of the words.
He begins to form once again, it hurts just as much, but in a different way. A great eagles head forms in its stead, liquid golden light flowing off of it and disappearing into the void around him. He waves his hand at my arm, while it also stands still at his side. My arm burns, and on reflex I reach for it. My leg twists at my attempt, several pops and a cracking sound responding to its new arrangement. Fire sears into my flesh, golden flames that touch darker black. An eagle mask upon the creatures true face appears on my arm. I know it’s true name, stitched into the fabric of my reality. “Sutekh” rings in my soul, but the name that screams when I speak it is “Horus!”
“My work is complete. Be well mortal, and speak ill of me wherever you will go. You cannot be contained. Cannot be killed. Cannot be hidden. Speak your truths, and forever bear my lies, and through us, my enemy be the purveyor of unspeakable evils.”
My eyes listen in terror, as the great being opens the door, and quietly fades away. I slowly move my arm, and it moves in response. I don the makeup, and begin to walk to the next town. I have to find somewhere to be. Can’t hide. Can’t be harmed. Can’t be stopped. Have to be free to tell the lying truth.
“My actions were not my own, Horus is to blame.”
No comments:
Post a Comment