Fan Fiction (unedited)

The Doctor swooned in the middle of spinning the spinny gizmo as his entire life flashed in front of him. As he fell, his companion swooped in and caught him under the arm.

“Doctor?” she demanded. “What’s wrong?”

The Doctor shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “There was… a disturbance… as if… a dozen lifetimes were simply… extinguished!”

His companion wrinkled her nose. “What’s that supposed to -?”

The Doctor interrupted her question by leaping out of her grip and furiously flipping switches and turning dials in a mad dance around the TARDIS console.

“- mean?” she finished, goggling at the Timelord’s wild scurry. Shaking her head, she mumbled, “I suppose this means another weird adventure.”

The Doctor didn’t answer. He suddenly threw the toggle and the TARDIS boomed, throwing them both off their feet and signaling another landing. Recovering quickly, the Doctor grabbed an umbrella from the stand and bolted through the door.

He ran like a madman through the fluffy white grass, easily outpacing his companion, who was already at a disadvantage in that race. His feet hardly hit the ground as he sprinted and leapt across the meadow, spotting his quarry in the distance.

It was hard to believe that the man lying in the grass was in distress. His beaten felt hat was tipped over his eyes, blocking out the green sunshine, and his long coat open to the breeze. His arms were comfortably nestled behind his head, and his ridiculously lengthy rainbow scarf was gathered beneath his neck to serve as a pillow. But the closer the Doctor got to him, the more he felt it. Something dark. Something hungry. Something voraciously gobbling at the man’s personality. And the Doctor knew that if he didn’t act fast, the man would die!

“Ah!” the Timelord said, spotting the low-hanging powerline directly over the endangered man. “I love convenience!”

He leapt, using all his strength and momentum to propel himself towards the line. The low gravity helped, but not enough to reach the entire distance. Fortunately, the Doctor thought to bring his brolly. He hooked the handle over the line, and on his descent took hold of the other end, aiming his feet right at the prone man’s chest. The instant of contact, thousands of volts shot through both, kicking the prone man into sitting bolt upright.

“What was that?” the man demanded, his hat flying off and exposing a wild mop of curly brown hair.

“Sorry,” the Doctor told the man, looking up ruefully at his umbrella, now hooked and half melted to the powerline far above. “It was the first thing I could think of.”

“Ah!” the man grunted, then he cried out in pain, clutching his head as if it was going to explode.

“Doctor!” a woman cried out from nearby.

The Doctor turned to the sound of his name and his jaw dropped. Hardly able to articulate the word, he gasped, “Romana!”

Romanadvaratralunda raced across the puffy meadow with a fierce, determined glare, her eyes burning into the Doctor as she rapidly approached. She held him in her glare until she dropped to one knee next to the man and put her arms around him. “Doctor, what did he do to you?”

“I didn’t do anything,” the Doctor told him. Then, glancing at the powerline above, he added, “Well, nothing that wasn’t necessary.”

“It’s in my mind, Romana,” the other Doctor hissed, pressing his temples as hard as he could. “Something’s eating away at me from inside!”

“And if we don’t stop it,” the Doctor interjected, “Then I won’t exist!”

Romana looked up in shock. “You?”

The Doctor offered her a crooked smile.

“But that’s forbidden by the Laws of Rassilon!” she scolded.

The Doctor hesitated, then quietly said, “Much has changed since then.”

Romana studied him warily for a moment before turning back to her Doctor. That incarnation was in such intense pain that he was effectively out of the conversation, though, so she turned back to the other.

“What do we do?” she demanded.

“Whatever it is, it’s eating his personality, his will,” the Doctor told her. “I can feel it myself, like an echo of a memory that I’ll never have. We need to drive it out of him before it’s too late.”

Romana thought for a bit, then said, “You could link your wills!”

“Too… powerful…” The earlier incarnation could barely get the words out. “Two… not… strong enough…”

The Doctor glanced back in the direction of his distant TARDIS. “I’d never make it in time to get the others.”

Romana scowled in deep concentration, then thrust herself to her feet. “Be right back!”

With that, she bolted back along the path she’d flattened in the puffy grass. As the Doctor watched her go, full of memories of similar runs with her, he heard his current companion shout, “Doctor! Where are you?”

Before the Doctor could answer, Romana reappeared carrying a strange weapon. It looked like a 1940’s serial ray gun complete with concentric discs along the barrel and chrome trim. As she approached, she checked its settings, and then she stopped a few paces away from them. The Doctor scowled suspiciously at her, then threw up his hands when she leveled the gun at him.

“Wait!” the Doctor pleaded. “Romana!”

“Relax, Doctor!” she admonished. “This isn’t what you think! It’ll put your mind in touch with your other incarnations across space and time, so you don’t have to fetch them here!”

The Doctor scowled even more suspiciously. “How long have you had that?”

She rolled her eyes. “Just something I cobbled together recently. Now, hold still!”

“Wait!” the Doctor cried. “How do you know it -!”

She pulled the trigger and a weird pulsing ray shot from the ball at the barrel’s end, enveloping both Doctors in a shimmering silver aura.

“Works?” the Doctor finished before realizing that he was somewhere else. The place was dark and seemed to extend forever in all directions. A strange gray mist clung to the ground, dampening the cuffs of his trousers. He looked down, then around, and muttered, “Well, then!”

“I’d say it worked quite well, wouldn’t you?” his younger self said as he settled his big floppy hat over his curly locks.

“Did you know about that?” the Doctor demanded, scowling at himself.

“Not a clue,” he told himself. “But then, Romana is something of a tinkerer, like me!”

“How are you feeling?” the Doctor asked himself.

“Well,” his younger self hummed sagely. “It’s still eating away at my will, but otherwise…”

“What’s is this all about?” a crotchety old Doctor demanded, hobbling into view.

“Yes,” a flamboyantly dressed Doctor said airily, striding out of the dimness. “I should like an answer to that, too!”

A tall, stout woman appeared, looking ready to take charge. “Isn’t this a fine reunion!”

“Excuse me?” a short Doctor with a bowl cut demanded, lurching into the group and pointing at the woman. “Who are you?”

“Who are any of us?” the woman demanded, then spread her hands to indicate dozens of Doctors emerging from the shadows.

The Doctor gazed in wonder. “I didn’t know there were so many!”

“Past, present, and future,” one of the new arrivals stated, her long coat seemingly in homage to the afflicted Doctor. “Every one of us is here to answer the call! That’s what family is all about!”

The brown-coated Doctor grimaced, then swayed weakly. The Doctor caught him just in time.

“He’s fading!” he told the rest of him. “If we’re going to do this, we must do it now!”

“All right, everyone,” the tall woman told the rest. “Link our minds!”

“Now!” The flamboyant one gave the cue, and dozens, scores of Doctors linked minds. The feedback was blinding.

The Doctor looked around. He was back in the meadow, and Romana was hastily tossing aside a crackling ray gun. The instant it hit the ground, it burst into a million brilliant sparks, then simply ceased to be.

Romana stared ruefully at the burnt circle of bare ground amidst the fluffy grass. “It didn’t work!”

“What?” the afflicted Doctor loudly demanded, brushing himself off with his hat. “Nonsense! It worked perfectly!”

“Doctor! You’re all right!” Romana chirped cheerfully.

“What do you mean, all right?” the Doctor grumpily returned. “I’m perfect!”

Then he hemmed a bit before adding, “Thanks to you, of course.”

She shook her head wryly, then asked, “What was it, Doctor? What happened?”

“Well,” the Doctor hedged uncertainly. “The details are fuzzy, but I believe your little invention worked.”

“It put us in touch with our other incarnations,” the Doctor added. Then, scratching his head, unsure how to put it without revealing any of the future, he added, “It might have worked a bit too well.”

Romana scowled. “The point being?”

“The point being that we defeated this little fellow,” her Doctor said, holding up something bright pinched delicately between thumb and forefinger. All three peered at it intently.

“What is it?” Romana asked breathlessly, intrigued by the thing.

The older Doctor recognized it. “It’s a Willgrim.” He scowled thoughtfully.

“I’ve never heard of them,” Romana confessed.

“They usually go by unnoticed,” the Doctor told her and his younger self. “They just take a sip of a person’s will and move on to another. And they’re usually harmless.” He peered even closer at the tiny alien. “I wonder why this one is different?”

“They only eat willpower, you say?” Romana asked.

“Yes,” the Doctor confirmed.

“Well, it’s obvious, then,” she airily replied. “It took one sip of the Doctor’s enormous ego and got drunk on it! It just couldn’t help itself!”

“And who can blame it?” her Doctor shot back indignantly. Then he smiled with enormous teeth. “No one can resist my sweet disposition!”

Romana frowned at the sparkly dot the Doctor held so gingerly. “Well, what do we do with it, now?”

“We let it go, of course,” her Doctor said. “It can’t help it if I go down so well!”

“It won’t hurt anyone else,” the older Doctor told them. “Besides, I think it’s learned its lesson about over-indulging!”

Romana made a wry face. “If you think so, Doctor.”

His younger self opened his fingers and the spark zipped away.

“Doctor?” the older Timelord’s companion called in the distance. “Where did you go?”

“I should go,” he excused himself. “I’ve polluted the timeline enough for one day.”

His younger self tipped his hat to the Doctor and Romana gave him a nod, and the Doctor rushed off to rejoin his companion. On the way, he couldn’t help glancing upward and regretting the loss of the umbrella.

Blocked

He stared at the screen for a long time, deliberately thinking of nothing, and not even its brilliant glow sparked anything good. It wasn’t writer’s block. There were plenty of ideas pouring into his mind, but all of them were dark and morbid and had no place in either his head or in the book. He wanted brighter things to write about, not the stuff that currently muddied his thoughts. And he only had the in-laws to blame for it.

It was bad enough before, when it was just his own low self-esteem trying to drag him down, and it got worse after their visit. But it wasn’t their fault. Not really. They were unimaginative people, and it wasn’t meant as an insult. They simply didn’t understand what drove him to decide to retire early, or why after thirty years in the workforce, working sixty hours and more a week for a scant salary, he would forsake that existence to follow a life-long dream. He knew they meant well, at least in their minds. They simply believed that if you weren’t making the biggest paycheck possible every other week no matter how many hours of the day you needed to sacrifice to the god of money, then you weren’t really working, and that if you weren’t commuting daily to a workplace, you were unemployed. They were the sort who considered homelessness and poverty as choices that people make and were terrified that their daughter would become one or the other because he was causing an “untenable financial drain.” They didn’t understand that he had already built a nice cushion that would sustain them until and if he sold a book, or until his retirement kicked in, whichever came first, although he was so late in life that the latter was most probable. And they wouldn’t understand the loathing he had developed for working those ten to fifteen hours a day for poverty wages for people that were ungrateful for his dedication and yet had come to expect it of him. And they certainly wouldn’t understand the contempt he held for anything short of his immediate family if it took him away from the one thing keeping him sane.

Still, their little talk was both juvenile and condescending. The mother-in-law had already coerced her husband well before their arrival to give him the “When I was younger, I worked ten jobs” speech, and she launched into the “unsustainable” lecture, both completely forgetting the decades of dedication he’d put into their version of the work ethic and dismissing any feelings he had for the subject. And forgetting that they were speaking to a grown-up who had already done a lot of soul-searching before making his decision. But he’d been polite, had bitten his tongue, had listened to them, and then civilly told them that he would consider their advice before reminding them that any decision made was his and his alone. And it had worked to maintain any remaining goodwill between them although he could tell they didn’t appreciate his answer.

He knew what would happen after they left, and sure enough he was right. Their own daughter, a victim to their expectations since birth, fell into her usual after-visit spiral, and he had to endure days of complaints about her mother’s meddling. As usual, his wife internalized it all, considered it her fault that they didn’t trust her with her own finances, and it took everything he had to stabilize her again. In concentrating on his wife’s needs, he wrote little to nothing that was good or acceptable while he worried about her state of mind when she was at work. Luckily, her mother had refrained from the usual harassing phone calls that only served to prolong her struggle.

But this time there was an aftereffect of their visit that had nothing to do with his wife. The mother-in-law’s words had become lodged in his head and there was no one to help him deal with them, no one he could talk to about it. He already knew what would happen if he said anything to his wife or even mentioned a hint of his own discontent with her parents. It would send her into a deeper, darker spiral that would take him days to settle, so once more, he bit his tongue and kept everything to himself. It was better to deal with the demons alone. He’d done it before, and he would do it again.

But ever since that day, the dark thoughts that he’d managed to keep at bay had moved out of the shadows and into the open. They invaded his usual writing, his usual thoughts, and had twisted the book into something dark and unrecognizable. He had to delete pages of writing and hours of work to purge them from his book, and in the end, it left him empty of any ideas other than the unsavory kind.

It was mostly his mother-in-law’s fault. His father-in-law was more laid back and accepting, and the mother more controlling. She had poisoned his mind like she had her daughter’s and nurtured the nagging doubts and self-sabotage that were always present, always making him second-guess himself, telling him that nothing he did would ever be good enough for publication or for anyone to see. He’d had those same awful doubts way before her visit, and he would have them well after she was gone, and they didn’t need her help in any way. In short, he resented her for it. He didn’t need any help tearing himself down. He’d gotten quite good at it already.

But he couldn’t really blame them. They were unimaginative people that couldn’t believe anyone could live any way other than their own. Theirs was a good life. They had money and had friends with money, and still wanted to put in a couple of hours at their fun jobs every week despite their age. But they didn’t have a creative bone in their collective bodies. They didn’t understand the need to create anything other than wealth, or the need for creativity for creativity’s sake, and they wouldn’t understand his need to leave a mark on the world that lasted after he had passed. They wouldn’t understand that leaving the legacy of his children wasn’t quite enough for him, nor would they understand the decades-long sacrifice he had already made of his dreams or that now, before he died, he wanted to author that novel, even if it were already too late for him.

So, he told her that he would consider her advice, and later his wife told him to not listen to her mother and just keep doing what he was doing, but the damage was done. The negative feelings were in full bloom, and their aroma tainted everything he wrote. So, after erasing his third or fourth attempt that night, he found himself staring at a bright screen that did nothing to lighten his mood. If anything, it made things worse. With all that potential right in front of him, with the ability to make of the words anything that he imagined, knowing how he wanted to take the story but blocking himself from writing because of the maelstrom of bad feelings that his mother-in-law had stirred up, he was afraid to type anything at all lest it come out dismally and unpalatable, so he just sat on his kitchen table chair at the desk he’d bought for his wife decades ago, which she had rejected, by the way, and stared at the flashing line, trying to not think at all.

But it was useless and only encouraged the darkness, so eventually he closed the document and sighed heavily. Writing wasn’t just a dream or a calling. It was therapy, the place where he could express everything that was bothering him through his characters and their exploits. Without it, like on days when he was unable to write for one reason or another, he grew edgy, tense, touchy. He knew it, of course, but he couldn’t help it. And his wife understood it in that unsaid way that spouses have and gave him the space that he needed until a bout of writing cheered him up again. Now, he couldn’t have any much-needed therapy until he exorcised his demons, but he couldn’t exorcise his demons without writing about them.

And he couldn’t sully the book with them. He didn’t dare. But then, he realized he hadn’t written for the website in a while. It was a place where he could allow his creativity to roam freely, even though most of the stuff he posted wasn’t of the greatest quality. Mostly, the stories there were quick thoughts or half-baked ones, but they were always fun to do, and it had been a long time since he’d posted anything. It was time to correct that neglect.

He opened the browser and logged onto the site, and by the time he’d clicked the button to create added content, he knew what he wanted to write about. But it took a while to figure out where to begin, and then he started typing.

“He stared at the screen for a long time, deliberately thinking of nothing, and not even its brilliant glow sparked anything good. It wasn’t writer’s block. There were plenty of ideas pouring into his mind, but all of them were dark and morbid…”

The End

To Our Last Breath

She successfully got around the rioting crowds and the insanity and finally made it! It wasn’t easy, but she was used to slipping past angry liberals and violent protestors, and it was only a matter of time before she reached safety. That’s what she kept telling herself, and she was right, as usual. She made it, and everything was going to be all right.

No one had touched the building. No one had set it on fire or hung out in front of it, and there were no squatters around when she went inside, either. No one had taken any notice of the place, thanks to an expensive army of psychologists and engineers that made it invisible to everyone’s perception. In saner times people passed it every day without so much as a glance, and they had told her that no one could even describe the place if asked. The higher ups in the Party had paid too much for it to fail, but they couldn’t help bragging about it at their parties, and she’d been shrewd enough to listen in on the right conversations.

It was an exclusive place. Only the mega wealthy and the top ranks of the party knew about it, and you only learned about it if they liked you. And once she heard about it, she made sure she was one of those they liked. She always voted in the right way on the Floor, said things in public that helped their agenda, and used her followers to build the America they wanted, the way it was always supposed to be. And she’d been lucky enough to make a little on the side and boost her following, which she carefully invested to help her rise in the ranks. She’d shown them that she had what it took to be one of them, and they in turn had invited her in on the secret, little realizing that she already knew.

They were down there, now, waiting for her. They had to wait. Now that the world was going to hell in a handbasket, they would need go-getters like her to lead the way into a bright new future, a strong, bold future free of limp-wristed liberals and their whining about the environment and the dispensable. They were going to make a nation based on strong Christian values like the Bible intended. No more abortions! No more homosexuals! Simply good old-fashioned marriage between a man and a woman, under the One True God! No more heathens or idolators! And best of all, she was going to be one of those in charge of it all!

The bunker was seated deep beneath the building. First was an airlock, strong enough to resist a nuclear blast, then an elevator that was locked off at the bottom once everyone was inside. Then, as far as she knew, there were years and years of fresh air, food, and water for the occupants, as well as every luxury imaginable. She guessed there were some things they would have to go without, like new episodes of Chamber of Gods, and new movies, and she supposed there wouldn’t be any shopping at Tracy’s for a while, but in these times, you just had to make sacrifices.

She had sacrificed much already. It was a long, grueling series of horrible parties and abominable acts that managed to wrangle her onto The List, but she was certain it was worth it to survive the impending disaster. Keeping that in mind helped her through the more disgusting moments.

She found the airlock just where they said it was, and it looked exactly as described. The small room in the rear of the place was dark, the only lights being the dim LEDs on the control panel, and a pulsing light beneath the intercom. The airlock looked like it would survive a nuke, but the controls wouldn’t, not that she had to worry about a nuclear attack. That wasn’t going to happen. Everyone on the planet was going to suffocate before they could even consider a nuclear war.

She paused over the panel trying to remember the combination. The constant fear of discovery as she made her way to the building had crammed the sequence far back in her head somewhere and it was going to take a moment to retrieve it. Her brain wasn’t made for that kind of nonsense. She was a higher thinker and couldn’t be bothered to remember numbers. But she had to. They told her they couldn’t afford to let the code get into the wrong hands, so they made her memorize it, and then repeat it back to them, and luckily, there was nothing wrong with her short-term memory, and she was able to trick them into thinking she had it. After staring at the panel for a little while, she pulled out her insurance policy and punched in the numbers written on the little scrap of paper. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. Right?

The panel buzzed nastily and turned a bloody red before resuming its normal look, but that was all that happened. There was no ding of the elevator door, no car waiting to take her downward. The airlock remained shut and sealed. Scowling, she tapped the numbers in again, wondering if she’d made a mis-punch, but as soon as she touched the last number, the panel blazed and buzzed again before resetting itself. She tried a third time, frantic now, stabbing the numbers so hard that she could have cracked the glass, only to have it razz her again.

This time, she stabbed the intercom button. There was a tiny beep afterward, then it answered in a staticky voice.

“What?” The man on the other end was chuckling, and she wondered if he was laughing at her or at something else.

“It’s me! Representative Delphine Etiquette. This stupid panel isn’t working, so you have to let me in!”

“Representative…who?” There was a slight pause, which peeved her. How dare he? ‘Representative who?‘ Everyone knew who she was! Anyone with a phone and a Chirper account knew who she was! People living on the bottom of the ocean knew who she was! He had to be some ignorant moron, some little person that the Party kept around to do their grunt work, and who had just enough cranial capacity to punch a button or two! It was the only explanation! But before she could let him have it, he said, “Oh! Is that you, Della?”

“Of course, it’s me!” She refrained from adding, “You idiot!” She didn’t know who she was talking to, now, but it might be someone that she couldn’t afford to insult. And if it was some idiot, then they would pay for the affront after she got inside. “Let me in!”

“Where were you?” the man demanded. “We looked all over for you!”

She doubted that. None of them dared wait for her at the airlock, so she doubted they risked going out amongst those rabid commie liberals. No, they stayed in the relative safety of the airlock room and as soon as the rest of them were there, they hustled down to the bunker. They didn’t have to put up with the things she had to. They weren’t as brave as she was.

“I’m here now!” she snapped, trying her best to control her temper. But the sounds of rioting and the angry shouting were getting louder, and she could feel the crowds getting closer. Time was running out. Fast. “Let me in!”

“Oh…Della…” The man sounded nervous. Suddenly she wanted to vomit, and she wasn’t sure why. Then, he said, “I can’t!”

“What?” she demanded. Then, desperately, she snapped, “Just send the car up! Let me in!”

“I can’t, Della,” he told her, and he didn’t sound sorry. “It’s already locked down!”

“What?” she desperately demanded. She pounded helplessly on the control panel, but it just razzed her again, so she shouted into the intercom, “Let me in!”

“I can’t!” he replied, and he didn’t sound as frantic as she was. “Once it’s down, it stays down! I thought you knew that! Besides, we thought you were going somewhere else!”

“Somewhere else?” she yelled. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Where else was I supposed to go?”

“Well, we didn’t know!” the man defensively replied. “We thought you maybe got a better offer somewhere else!”

Somewhere else? She wouldn’t dignify that with a reply. How many people did he think owned their own environmentally sealed shelter stocked with rations and luxuries to last for years, or at least until the earth was livable again? Who had the money? Well, at least who had the money that she had access to? Although the idea was flattering that she could fit in anywhere, she couldn’t believe the man was stupid enough to think there was anywhere else to go.

“Send the elevator up!” she loudly demanded, pounding frantically on the control panel.

“Can’t!” the man replied, his voice telling her he was losing all interest in the conversation. “Besides, what if this is a trick? What if there’s an ugly mob up there waiting to get access?”

“What?” She couldn’t believe it. Still, she glanced around into the empty darkness and shouted into the intercom, “I’m the only one here! Now let me in!”

“Look, Della, I can’t do that,” he wearily replied. “That’s not the way it works! You see -!”

“I don’t care about that!” She yelled at the top of her lungs. “I’m on the list! I’m supposed to be down there! Now send up the elevator!”

The man didn’t reply, not for a long time and she panicked. What if he’d just cut the intercom? He obviously didn’t care if she lived or died. Desperate, she shouted, “Hey! Hey, down there! Did you hear me? Let me in!”

“I heard you,” the man replied. His voice was quiet and unemotional. “And so, did Mr. Dumphy. And he told me to thank you for all you did for him over the years. Without you, he wouldn’t be where he is today.”

“Mr. Dumphy?” He was down there, too? Of course, he was! Where else would he be? He was the man! He oversaw the Party! Heck, he was the Party! After the disaster, he was going to shape the future of the nation, remake everything in his own glorious image. Now, she had to get down there! He would need her in that brave new world, and if she was able to garner some of his power and influence for herself, then all the better.

“Then, he knows how helpful I can be to him,” she told the man. “He might need my help!” Then she had a flash of inspiration and she asked, “Is he there right now? Is he next to you?”

The man didn’t reply right away, and once more, she worried that he had simply cut off communication. That was the last thing she wanted. Without it, she couldn’t convince Mr. Dumphy to send up the elevator. She couldn’t convince him to save her life! But then the man came back and said, “Mr. Dumphy appreciates your contribution and wishes you good luck in future endeavors.”

Then, there was a tiny beep, and the ready light went out. At the same time, the control panel went dark, and no amount of pounding would turn it on again. She knew because she slammed her fists against it for a long time trying to change its mind.

Exhausted, panic overwhelming her, she sank to the floor beneath the control panel and began to cry. She couldn’t stop it, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She was screwed, but unlike the other times when the tears flowed, there was no one around to comfort her, and no one to manipulate with them. She was alone, and like the angry little people outside, she was going to suffocate to death as the last wisps of breathable air disappeared just like the trees.

She didn’t know which was worse, the betrayal at the hands of her own people or dying like a commoner on the threshold of safety and comfort. As she wept, anger mingling with her tears, she vowed revenge. Who did they think they were screwing with? She was Representative Delphine Charlotte Etiquette, for god’s sake! How dare they treat her like that? She had over a million followers on Chirper! How dare they?

“Not invited to the party?”

The strange voice scared the life out of her. Scrambling to her feet, she desperately glanced around for the source and found a man leaning in the doorway to the room. She pressed herself against the elevator doors, wishing they would pop open and let her escape the scary man. But then, a tiny hope kindled in her. What if he was on the list, too, and he was simply arriving late, like she had? And what if he could somehow get her inside, where she belonged?

“Who are you?” she asked suspiciously. Something about the way he slouched against the doorframe told her he wasn’t who she thought he was. Or rather, who she hoped he was. “What are you doing here?”

He moved his arm, and she flinched, but he wasn’t pointing a gun at her or throwing something at her, or even yelling. All he did was point at the elevator and say, “They kick you out, then?”

“No!” She was offended that he would even think that! Didn’t he know who she was? Then, she wondered if that might be a good thing. Deciding to feel him out, she explained, “I was late, like you. I don’t suppose you know another way inside?”

He looked at her steadily, as if studying her, then he shrugged. “There is no other way in.” Gesturing at the elevator, he added, “That’s it.”

“No!” she protested, then turned and pounded on the doors. “No! There must be another way in! There must be!”

“Don’t waste your breath,” he advised, but she ignored him and continued her assault. He wasn’t going to tell her what to do! She dug her nails in between the doors and tried to pry them apart, but it bent her nails painfully and she had to stop. It wasn’t doing any good, anyway. The doors remained tightly shut.

She slammed her fists against them and sagged hopelessly, gasping for air. She’d never felt so winded before, and she was big on cardio. Her lungs rasped like she had hay fever, and while she gasped for breath, the man remarked, “Feeling a little under the weather?”

“Shut up!” She growled at him before she realized that she was alone with him and that anything could happen. She had to remain civil, at least until she could figure out who and what he was and how she could manipulate the situation. “Sorry. It’s just so annoying, you know?”

“The air, or your friends?” he asked. She didn’t dignify the question with an answer, but she couldn’t help gasping and wheezing, and she didn’t want to think about why. After a moment he said, “I know you, don’t I?”

She tensed. His reaction would depend upon whether he was one of the Party, or not. But instead of telling him who she was, she waited for him to stumble onto it. It was usually better that way. It gave her the chance to figure out the enemy, to find the advantage in the situation and either attack first or play the victim, depending on whichever was best for her.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, and she tensed, readying herself. “You’re Delphine Charlotte Etiquette, aren’t you?”

He sounded neither hateful nor enthusiastic, so she couldn’t figure him out yet. Some people just held themselves in check until they suddenly exploded, and others ended up fawning all over her, and both ways could get annoying. But she really hated it when they forgot her title.

“Representative Delphine Charlotte Etiquette!”

“Sorry, your highness,” he quipped, joking. “I meant no offense!”

For some reason, the joke annoyed her more than the terrible things those commie liberals yelled in her face. But she wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction. Pulling herself upright with all her dignity, she turned and faced him proudly. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“I’m supposed to be working,” he told her, his voice grinning. “But the riots put a stop to that. Put a stop to everything, for that matter. And since there didn’t seem to be any point in working while the world crashed down around me, I decided to take a little walk, and heard some shouting. So, I came in to have a look, see if I could help.”

“Really,” she sarcastically replied, amazed at how stupid the man sounded. She wouldn’t have guessed it, though, just looking at him. He seemed normal. But she could still use stupid. Stupid was easily manipulated. “What’s your name?”

“Ah!” It sounded like he was taken off-guard. “Well, you can call me Bob”

“That’s it? Just Bob?” This might be easier than she thought.

“Just Bob,” he happily confirmed. “I like to keep it simple.”

She nodded. “What are you doing here, Bob?”

“Like I said, I came to see what all the shouting was about,” he said. “Sounded like someone was in trouble.”

She decided to take a risk. “I am in trouble, Bob.” she decided to include him in her troubles. That always worked on men like him. “We both are! My friends locked us out, and now we have nowhere to go. Unless you know of any safe places to stay?”

“Safe from the death of all the trees?” the man asked. “Safe from slow suffocation? I don’t think there’s anywhere like that left.”

She wanted to cry again but somehow managed to pull herself together. There had to be somewhere left that was safe, somewhere where there was enough air to last a long time. Somewhere where she would be safe from all those infidels that wanted to tear her to pieces.

“There has to be somewhere,” she insisted, trying to jog his memory. If he knew of a safe place, then she would make him take her there. If not, then she could at least use him for protection. Either way, he had a use. “Anywhere at all.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, and there was an edge to his tone now. “Not now. Not after everything you did to make this happen.”

Her heart leapt into overdrive. He was one of them! One of those godless liberals! And he knew who she was and what she did. But it wasn’t all her fault! There were others to blame, others that were more to blame than her! She was only doing her job! She was only doing what she knew was best for everyone!

“I did nothing wrong,” she protested with conviction.

He leaned against the doorframe again, and she finally noticed that he blocked the only way out of there other than the sealed elevator. She would have to get him away from it if she had a chance to escape. Then, all those hours of cardio would once more be put to the test, but first, she had to lure him out of the doorway. But then, she reconsidered. Where would she escape to? The riots in the streets? The murderous hordes of liberals more than willing to tear her to pieces just for who she was and what she stood for? She was safer in the room, away from all of that, at least until she could figure some things out.

“Name one thing you did right,” he challenged her.

That raised her hackles. How dare he question her honor like that? It was true that she hardly paid any attention to the names or the contents of the bills she voted on, but she voted according to the Party’s agenda, and they only had the best interests of the American people in mind. Granted, the only American people that counted were the wealthy donors, but what was good for the goose was good for the gander, right?

The man patiently waited, like he had all the time in the world. But she didn’t know what to say. It wasn’t fair! In all her years in the House, no one had ever treated her so poorly. Well, the fake news networks had, but no one watched them anymore. Real Americans watched ORN and Vole News, where they knew how to treat an elected official.

“The Save Our Skies Act!” she blurted, suddenly remembering it but only because it had such a weird name. She would have called it something better, like the Etiquette Initiative, or something. “That was a great piece of legislation!”

“The bill that completely de-regulated carbon emissions for factories and made sure the EPA was no longer allowed to enforce restrictions, past or present, on offenders?” the man asked.

She didn’t like his tone, or the insinuation, but she remembered the talking point. It had worked then to shut them up, and it would work now. “That bill lowered prices at the store and brought back American jobs!”

“That bill only allowed factories to pour as much filth into the environment as they wanted to,” the man replied. “They pocketed the money they saved and put it into stock buy-backs and increased dividends for their investors. And it didn’t lower any prices in the stores. In fact, it didn’t even bring back any jobs. Instead, industry cut the staff monitoring their pollution and put thousands of people out of a job through down-sizing.”

“That bill helped people!” she insisted. She’d heard that chestnut before, but they didn’t have any proof to back it up.

“Rich people,” he smugly replied. “And your bill helped widen the gap between the very rich and the very poor and helped eliminate the middle class. It threw thousands out on the street when they could no longer afford housing and raised the child mortality rate from hunger and environmental poisoning.”

Now she was sure that he was one of them! He thought he had all the answers! Well, she wasn’t going to lose to him! If he wanted a fight, then he was getting one!

“It lowered prices for the little people!” That would get him. His type always whined about the little people. And what else was there? Oh, yes! “And fought inflation, which is more than your president did!”

“How can you believe that?” he asked, sounding hurt. “What is the cost of breathing? Of drinking clean water? Of being able to find land that wasn’t poisoned so you could grow crops or raise livestock? Your bill did more than pollute the air. It ruined the soil and made the water undrinkable.”

Maybe it was the air, or maybe he was getting all emotional, like liberals do, but he choked on his own words. Maybe, she thought, the lefty lies were finally getting to him, and maybe he finally saw the light. There was no way that she was responsible for anything bad happening to the Earth. It was the factories’ fault, not hers. She was just trying to help her donors get what they paid for, that’s all. The rest was their responsibility!

He kicked away from the doorframe and spread his arms wide. “Well, I guess you can see the cost, can’t you? Did you think this happened for no reason at all? Or that your legislation had nothing to do with it?”

“It didn’t!” she shot back. “Leading experts said -!”

“Said that this was a natural progression of the Earth,” he interrupted, sounding as if he was reciting by rote. “Said that there was nothing to fear, that the Earth would naturally absorb excess carbon and that it would take hundreds of years before the world became unlivable. Plenty of time to fix it, they said. Nothing we needed to worry about. Nothing to be concerned with!”

He gestured again. “Do you call this nothing to be concerned with?”

She really hated him. “It’s a phase -!”

“That the world needs to get through,” he finished for her. “Give it a few years for the Earth to get used to it. Then everything will be all right!” He took a step towards her and asked, “How long can you hold your breath?”

She really, really hated him, and she was so peeved that she couldn’t speak. Not that he would listen anyway. All he would do was interrupt her again. Typical liberal attitude!

“Anyway,” he said, getting control of himself again, “There’s nothing we can do about it now. The damage is done, and so is humanity.”

Suddenly, she panicked and slammed her fists against the elevator doors. And when that didn’t work, she darted for the intercom and stabbed repeatedly at the button, desperately muttering, “Come on! Come on! Answer the phone!”

“Do you really think it’s better down there?” he asked, and he was deliberately keeping his voice calm just to spite her. “They have -what?- three, four years of food and water down there, and maybe a few more years of air before it runs out? And then what? They emerge into a world purified of all toxins to start a new conservative world of their own, free of all outside influences?” He softly scoffed. “How long do you think it’ll really take before the damage is repaired on its own? Decades? Millenia? Never? And what happens when the people down there finally come up and see that the world is still a mess? What do you think they’re going to do without any provisions from below or any means to find them above?” He stepped towards her again. “Do you really think any of them have the slightest chance of surviving?”

She really, really, really hated him, and wouldn’t dignify his remarks with an answer. She was sure Mr. Dumphy had thought it all out and planned for every contingency. It was how he did business, not the legitimate ones that everyone razzed him about, but the other, extra-lawful stuff that everyone did if they wanted to stay on top. He’d gone decades without getting caught, and that was only because of those busy bodies in the liberal media and all those whistleblowers and leftist judges. So, he had to have seen this coming and had to have planned for it. But she wasn’t going to live long enough to find out, and suddenly, she wanted to cry again.

He didn’t come to comfort her, like weak men always did, and for a second she wished that he had. Instead, he maintained his distance, and said, “We’re probably better off dying quick.”

Sobbing, she sank to the floor, her back against the control housing. She didn’t know why, but words just poured out of her along with her tears. “I don’t want to die! Not like this! Not like this!”

This time, he sat next to her and put his arm over her shoulders. Without knowing why, she put her head against his neck, tears searing in her eyes. She hoped they burned his skin the same way.

“At least you won’t die alone,” he gently told her. “I’m right here.”

And they just sat there. He didn’t attack her. He didn’t call her names. He wasn’t angry at her, although he had every right to be. All he did was sit and hold her gently, without saying a word. And she couldn’t help thinking that it might be her fault, at least partly, for the way things turned out. She could have voted against the bill, gone against the Party, been the maverick that her idol claimed to be. But she’d toed the line, and reaped the rewards, at the cost of the world. But if she had gone the other way, had voted against the bill, it wouldn’t have done any good, anyway. The vote was assured with or without her, so she might as well have reaped the benefits of following orders. And now, it was all gone. Everything she had ever done was meaningless, and someone she didn’t like and who didn’t even like her was giving her comfort in their final days. Staying with her until their final breath.

“You know, this doesn’t change anything,” she told him in a quivering voice. “I still don’t like you.”

“I know,” he replied, giving her a friendly squeeze. They sat in silence for a while, then he said, “If we’re still breathing when the shouting is over, do you want to find something to eat? I’m starving.”

She settled into his shoulder. Typical liberal. Always thinking with their stomach!

Prodigy

They said I was a child prodigy. At age three, I could mix any chemicals together and get a specific result. Whatever I wanted, I could make. If I wanted green, I could make it. If I wanted bubbly, I could make that, too. If I wanted bang, it wasn’t outside of my reach. And, I could make them all out of any chemicals I found, but the especially fun ones were under the sink. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for me.

I don’t remember much about the fire. Luckily, I was found outside the house when the firetrucks arrived. They told me years later that I was mesmerized by the flames, in shock thay said. And, they got me to safety just before the explosion that sent debris flying like bullets and shockwaves that shattered neighboring windows. The arson investigation found no cause for the fire, but it did note that the gas was turned off prior to combustion, and the build-up of heated fumes caused the explosion. I just remember how pretty the flames looked, dancing like crazy cartoons, and the explosion that sounded like fireworks. Oh, and that my mom and dad wouldn’t let me have ice cream for dinner, which made me pretty mad.

My foster parents were nice. They kept trying to cheer me up by making me watch cartoons and stuff, but I don’t think I was too interested in them anymore. They were flat compared to the flames. They didn’t have any smell and heat. They were boring. The fosters were boring. But there was one thing I liked. There was this show the dad watched, after my bedtime. I would sneak out of bed to watch it in secret. The one thing I really remember about it was the main character’s favorite line: If you can’t laugh, then what’s the point of life? He said it at the end of every show, and it was the only thing that made sense out of the whole thing.

Grade school was tough. No one believed that I was way above the rest of my class and that I was bored with finger paints and number wheels. I wanted something interesting, but they thought I was just being naughty, and they sent me to the Principal’s office a lot. That’s when I discovered that the janitor’s closet was on the way, and one day when I was sent to see Mr. Zimmerman again, I made a little detour. It was just a harmless smoke bomb, but it got me suspended from school for a while and in real trouble with the fosters. They grounded me, took away everything that made my life worthwhile. You can’t blame me for being mad about it.

The autopsies revealed that the fosters had suffocated in their sleep, and they blamed radon for it. It was a miracle, they said, that I wasn’t harmed. A few nights later, the principal’s car was vandalized. They didn’t know what kind of acid was used, but it ate right through the door and one tire. He was targetted, they said, because there were no further incidents like it in town, but they never figured out who had done it or why or how.

I read on my own after that. Since no one was going to put me in a challenging class, I would challenge myself. I read the whole school library by the time I graduated to middle school, and then I tackled that one. A middle school library is like a mix of a real one and one in a grade school. You see a lot of the same picture books and simple readers mixed with the young adult stuff. I ignored everything I had already consumed and devoured the new, and by the end of the first semester I had read everything there, and nothing was satisfying.

I noticed, though, that the kids around me were grouping up and pairing off, and I recognized the concept of friendship, so I decided to explore it a little. I observed a particular kid that was also friendless, getting a handle on his quirks and his habits before I approached him. It was easy to convince him I had the same interests and tastes as he did, and before the day was over I was his best friend. And for the rest of that semester, he was mine.

Classes were easy for me. I could have gotten straight A’s if I had wanted, but I no longer cared if anyone knew how smart I was. I had other projects to challenge me, and getting moved up several grades would only take time away from them. Besides, I had quite the experiment going, already.

In the second year of our friendship, I decided to see just how much I could make my friend do for me. I learned that a single word was all it took to manipulate someone, if it was used just right. I didn’t use childish manipulations, idiotic words like “chicken” or phrases like, “I dare you!” Those were too far beneath me, and they offered no challenge. No, I used ordinary words, twisted just right and put in just the right order to get the results I wanted. And it didn’t just work on my friend. There was a bully at school that tormented us, and he had a girlfriend. All I had to do was mention the word “pregnant” and they broke up, and then the word “aides” drove the boy close to suicide. That was a good day.

It turned out, though, that my friend really wasn’t my friend. He started getting snippy with me, and then he told me he didn’t want to be friends anymore. I guess he was growing up. That was fine, though, because I had what I needed. If I wanted another friend, I could easily get one. People were like chemicals to me, now. They did whatever I wanted them to do.

We studied anatomy in high school and biology, and there I had an epiphony. It was during the autopsy of a frog that I realized that, like frogs, people were the same alive or dead. Corpses had the same insides and outsides as the living, they just didn’t think anymore. And then, I realized that eventually, we all stop thinking and just lay there and decay, and for a second I think my heart flickered. But it all made sense. We were all on a path to death, and after we died, nothing we ever did would matter anymore. Nothing we ever learned would matter. Nothing we ever discovered or accomplished would matter to us. And if that didn’t matter, then people didn’t matter. It was all a complete waste of time, especially school. So I decided to leave.

I couldn’t just walk out, though. There were authorities that would frown on it. They would eventually catch me and make me go to school, even if they had to lock me in one until I was eighteen. No, I couldn’t just walk out. Besides, I had something much more dramatic in mind.

They never found the real cause of the explosion in the chemistry lab. The investigation showed that it was due to my negligence. I had mixed the wrong chemicals together and somehow created a blast that disintegrated me, except for a few charred remains. It was, I have to say, one of my finest moments, and it wouldn’t have been possible except for all of the preparation. It was fairly easy to create a serial killer to get the parts I needed, and the chemicals did what I told them. The hardest part was sneaking out unseen during the blast, but the long hours of training myself to be a magician paid off, and it proved that I didn’t need school to continue my education.

But I had another challenge to face. I would have to support myself somehow. The thought of an ordinary job left a foul taste in my mouth. I was better than that. I deserved better than that. Plus, I would need a place to stay where no one knew me, or questioned that someone of my age was running around during school hours. After a short brain-storming session, I decided on a part of town they called “the wrong side of the tracks.” And let me tell you, that was an education in itself. I saw humanity for what it really was, when you removed the fear of punishment. Animals. Greedy animals looking out for themselves, willing to do whatever it took to get what they wanted. Animals I could tame and harness for my own purposes. Things that were already well on their way to oblivion. It was yet another challenge, and I was ready to face it.

Those years weren’t easy, though. I manipulated my way into becoming a numbers runner for the local gang, and worked my way up, living off my earnings while I pursued my education. It felt like I had two lives to live or two full-time jobs, but somehow I got through on little sleep and sometimes, just as little to eat. I grew strong, though, and tall, and I worked my way up in the organization by making others fall. A few of them tried to get revenge, but for some reason, they never survived the attempt. Something always happened to stop them, but nothing that could get traced to me.

Then, one day, the cappo gave me a new name and a new mission. There was a new wave of custumed hero out there, scaring his boys and putting them behind bars. That wasn’t good for business, so the cappo had an idea. If the cops could have their masked man, then he could, too. But his guy would have a red metal bucket over his head, and a pistol in each hand. At least, that’s what it looked like to me. And, his guy would rob and kill mercilessly, and the best part was, if the guy got himself killed or caught, then they could just get someone else to put on the bucket. As long as the guy was out there scaring people, the cappo didn’t care who it was.

It was a suicide job, and that’s why the cappo gave it to me. He didn’t like me. He couldn’t just kill me, because I had too many of his men on my side, already, but he didn’t like the direction I was headed, and I didn’t dissuade him. I never said out loud that I wanted his position, and I never confided that in anyone, either. My rise was just a matter of coincidence, that’s all. I can’t help it if the cappo thought otherwise. But it looked like my rise was about to end. I couldn’t refuse the bucket without getting him angry with me, so I became his scarecrow. It was my first mistake, ever.

When he showed up to stop us, I knew I was looking at my exact opposite. He was dark and mysterious, hiding himself behind a black hood and cape, but I saw right away that he was a broken man. He was fast, agile, and something else I wasn’t: a terrific fighter. I couldn’t help it. I abandoned my men and ran.

They said it was a playing card company, but what playing card company had huge vats of acid hanging around in it? I learned long ago that it was just a front for the gang’s drug operation. The acid used to “bleach the paper” was the same stuff they used in the street drug, Harlequin, but it was so cleverly disguised that OSHA kept completely missing the connection. I knew it was there. I knew about it for a long time, and I’d completely explored it inside and out, so I figured I could shake my pursuer inside. That was the second mistake I had ever made.

He was relentless. He spoke to me as we were running, telling me that I wasn’t going to harm any more people. I have no idea where he had the breath to speak, let alone yell, but he did, and that’s when I realized that there was a mistake negative one: I didn’t know the cappo had already sent the bucket out on a few jobs without me.

My head was spinning and I had no idea why. Maybe it was the acid fumes, I don’t know. Somehow, I ended up on the catwalk, which is the worst place to be if one is trying to escape pursuit. There was only one way to go and no other exit, and the thing was on chains so if I moved too fast, it swayed dangerously underneath me. I was forced to slow down, and I knew that he was going to get me, so I turned and drew my guns.

I could tell they were unloaded by their weight. I couldn’t understand how I missed that, then I remembered that the cappo himself had shoved them into my pockets, then patted me on the back like he was my dad. Mistake number three: I should have checked them right away.

My head was swimming too much to think of another plan, so I stuck with pointing the guns and bluffing my way out. But he wasn’t having any of that. One second he was standing there, all dramatic with his black cape draped over his arm in front of him, looking like Dracula, the next the cape swept back and two bats darted at me. There was a metallic clang and my pistols flew out of my hands. I panicked, and that was my fouth mistake.

I tried to catch the pistols before they were completely lost. I think that’s what they call desperation. Anyway, the catwalk didn’t like it and swung itself way over to the side and dumped me off. As I fell, I turned in an attempt to grab the catwalk, and I saw his hand reaching for me. I saw his eyes wide with that look that they get when they realize what they’ve done and are desperate to fix it, and they can’t. I saw a man desperate to keep everyone alive, even me, and willing to go to great lengths to do it. In a way, we were opposite sides to the same coin. We both knew where humanity was headed, but he was trying to prolong their suffering and I wasn’t.

I don’t remember the splash or the burning. I remember the betrayal. The chemicals that had served my whim for these many years, that had obeyed my orders, that had cheered me up when I was down and avenged me when I was offended, that had protected me from the worst that the cappo had at his command, those chemicals had decided to rebel. No, the burning didn’t hurt, the bleaching of my skin or the twisting of my hair, or the spasm that had seized my face from contact with concentrated toxins that were the base of Harlequin, none of that hurt worse than the betrayal. For a second, I wondered if that’s what my middle school friend felt, and then I had to laugh. Because if you can’t laugh, then what’s the point of life?

Getting in Touch with My Evil Self (Part 1)

The phone rang, and one glance at the caller ID told me it was her, again. I watched the phone for a little while as it rang patiently, then just before the service picked up, I took a breath and answered.

“Hello?” I queried, pretending to not know who was on the line. It was her voice that answered, though. It always was.

“Hey,” she said, that tentative tone in her voice again, as if I didn’t already know who it was. “It’s me. Got a minute?”

I tried to not sound as tired as I felt. There was something lately about the sound of her voice that drained the life out of me, and I really didn’t want to play counselor right now, but if I didn’t there was no telling what she might do. The least of evils was a depression cycle that would exhaust everything I had to drag her out of it, and the worst was something I didn’t want to contemplate. Listening, as deadly as it was to my soul, was the best option.

“What happened?” I asked, probably a bit sharper than I wanted to sound, but I don’t think she noticed. She never noticed when it was all about her.

She launched into the latest epic saga of who had done her wrong this time, and to be honest, the story was so much like all the others that I used generic responses and just barely listened. She didn’t notice, either, as long as I said the right thing at the right time, when I could wedge a word in edgewise. And, when I judged that the time was as right as it could ever be, I had to hit her, gently, with an unwanted truth.

“You know,” I said as tactfully as I could, “This isn’t exactly what your therapist meant by a ‘trial seperation’.”

She didn’t pause for a moment, which is typical when she was on a roll, and whined, “I know! But I missed you, and -“

I had to stop her there before it went too far. “I know,” I told her, “But what did you really miss, me or the sounding board?”

There was silence on the line, and I knew I went too far, but I was tired and I didn’t really think about what I was saying. This was on her therapist’s shoulders, not mine. And besides, she was in a place that could give her the support she needed. But where was my support?

“You know you need to give this a chance, don’t you?” I asked to fill the silence. “The doctor said it would be good for you to deal with your problems without me.”

There was a pregnant pause before she quietly said, “Yeah.”

“I mean,” I said, meaning to salvage the situation, “You wouldn’t want me ‘enabling’ you, or anything…right?”

Okay, that was pretty bitter, but I didn’t think she would catch on to it, not when she was trying to figure out how to turn the conversation back to herself. I could feel her brain working hard on it.

“I don’t want to make you more ‘co-dependent’, or anything,” I added to explain myself, but that, too, came out sharper than I wanted it to. “Right?”

There was another long pause before she uncertainly muttered, “No.”

I didn’t have anything else to say, so I waited for her, and after a long time, she murmured, “I should go. I love you.”

It was hard to reply to something that was said more out of habit than any real feelings, but I had to, even though I wondered if I meant it, either. “Love you, too.”

“Okay,” she muttered. She didn’t sound good, but at least she was in a place where she could be cared for, if she needed it. “Bye.”

“Bye,” I told her. When I hung up, it was an actual relief. And as worried sick as I was about the bad spiral that was going to come from that conversation, I still noticed that not once did she ask me how I was.

I was still riding pretty low on that conversation when I took myself out for some dinner. Maybe it was guilt about how badly I treated her, or worry about what she was going to do to herself because of me, but I wasn’t feeling good, at all. That’s probably why I decided to punish myself by going to Sloppy Joe’s.

The place smelled heavily of vastly abused cooking grease and that barbecue sauce that gives their sandwiches their name. It always surprises me how crowded the place usually is. It must be the cheap prices that draws them in, because it certainly isn’t the healthy nature of the food, or rather, the lack thereof. And it isn’t the ambiance, because the cafeteria at work has more class than Sloppy Joe’s, but then, the owners are probably keeping the prices low by not investing in decorations. Or sanitation.

Anyway, the place was packed again, and again, no one was in a good mood. The people in line were mostly in their own world, studying their phones with that don’t-bother-me attitude or studying the menu board with an intensity that drowned out the world around them. I’m one of the latter, but I still noticed that the people behind the counter were too busy to have any feelings at all, but I imagined they would have plenty of time for venting later on.

And then, there was that one person that either thought everyone else wanted to listen to their crappy music, too, or who didn’t care one whit that we didn’t. She was two people ahead of me, a wide, wide woman with her mask down on her second chin and the attitude that no one could tell her what to do. I tried to ignore her, and concentrated hard on the menu, but those lyrics were getting more and more obscene by the second.

“Could you turn that down, please?” the woman ahead of her asked. I thought she was being perfectly reasonable. But foul-music lady didn’t see it that way.

“Mind your business!” she told the polite woman, who flinched away from the spittle that flew out with the words.

The polite woman flushed a little, her brown skin getting slightly darker. But she remained polite. “Could you please turn that down? I don’t appreciate the lyrics.”

The wide woman flushed, too, her pallid skin pinking and the freckles that dotted her entire being growing browner. “Then, don’t listen!”

Polite woman flushed even more, and I could tell she was just barely holding it together. “I can’t help listening! Why don’t you use earphones?”

“I could ask your people that!” Freckles snapped. “They all the time blasting that jungle music around, and I got to listen to it, so you can do the same!”

“Those words are offensive!” the not-so-polite-now young woman snapped back, pointing at Freckles’ phone. “They’re talking about lynching people!”

“And I got to listen to n##### this, and n##### that all the time, too!” Freckles raved. “You don’t hear me complain!”

“I don’t like it, either!” the young man right in front of me told Freckles. “I have a lot of friends that wouldn’t appreciate that garbage, either!”

“Garbage?” Freckles foamed at the mouth. “What do you call that gangsta crap?”

“Hey!” the young man snapped. “At least that isn’t the racist crap you’re listening to!”

“Just please turn it down,” the polite woman said, sounding tired of the conversation already.

“Well, just you wait!” Freckles’s eyes blazed with insane vigor as she ignored the polite woman and fixed those crazed eyes on the young man. “We’ll see what side you’re on when the war comes -!”

I sidled forward. I didn’t mean to, but at that point, I just didn’t have any effs left to give. “Excuse me,” I gently said, reaching across the young man and plucking Freckles’ phone from her shaking fist. It was suprisingly easy, just as easy, too, when I smashed it against the counter, ending the foul stuff that Freckles called “music”. For good measure, I threw what remained of the phone to the floor and stomped the snot out of it.

“Oh,” I told the wide woman’s astonished face, “And the war was cancelled. So you’ll have to learn to live like a decent human being, or go live under a rock somewhere for the rest of your life. Got it?”

She glared, and I knew it was coming, but she got in a shot at my jaw, anyway, bowling the young man aside when she did. There wasn’t really that much force behind it, so it didn’t really hurt that much. Obviously, not as much as she thought, judging by her expression when I didn’t go down with the punch. And, since I felt justified in doing it, I decked her with a quick jab of my own.

She was sitting up, more or less, on her fat behind, rubbing her face and blubbering something about the police, but I didn’t care. A weird calm had settled around my shoulders like a comfy blanket, and I knew that nothing bad could happen to me. So, I stood over her and told her, “Now, you can either act like a civilized human being, apologize to everyone that you’ve offended, and wait patiently and quietly in line for your turn, or you can leave. The choice is yours.”

“My phone!” she squalled, and before she could throw out any more accusations and threats, I picked up the pieces that still clung to each other and held it out to her, but she gave me a nasty glare and rolled, struggling, to her feet. No one offered her any help.

“I’m calling the police!” she threatened at the top of her lungs.

“Here’s your phone, then,” I said, still offering her what was left of it.

She actually growled at me like an animal, as if that was supposed to be intimidating, and I couldn’t help it. I laughed. She didn’t like that one bit, but she obviously knew she couldn’t get to me, so with another threat to call the cops, she stormed, limping slightly, out of the restaurant.

I heard cheering, but it wasn’t for me. It was for Freckles’ departure. I turned to the stunned kid behind the counter and apologized for the mess, then handed him the broken phone, asking him if he could throw it away for me. He just nodded, his face never losing that wide-eyed expression.

I didn’t stay at Sloppy Joe’s. Somehow, I’d lost my appetite. Maybe it was the smell. And besides, I was beginning to shake all over and I didn’t know what that was all about, so I figured the best place for me to be was home. Anyway, I made some cereal and watched some TV, and only when I was going to bed did it occur to me that the situation could have been worse, and Freckles could have had a gun. She seemed like she was the type, although I don’t know where in her overly stressed spandex she could possibly have hidden a weapon. But it was over and done with, and upon reflection, I felt pretty good inside.

I wondered, as I lay there waiting to drift off, if that kid ever recovered from the shock. And that’s when the phone rang.

I stood at the end of her bed trying not to glare. Her forearms were both bandaged up pretty well, hiding the deep wounds beneath. She’d given it a pretty good try, they told me, and it was only lucky that they were watching her closely. She was under sedation, because the injuries were still pretty painful, even with what they could do for her. And it was late and she needed the rest. So did I, but I don’t think that mattered any.

“You still here?” a woman asked from behind me, and I turned to face one of the nurses. Her voice wasn’t familiar, so she probably wasn’t the one who called.

I didn’t know how to reply, so I just turned back to the bed. It was hard to believe anyone who looked that peaceful would do anything like that, but then I reminded myself that I’d lived with this for years, now. Even so, constantly expecting to be in this situation never really prepared me for the reality.

“She’s going to be okay, you know,” the nurse said in what I’m sure she thought was a reassuring manner. “You can go home and get some rest.”

I didn’t reply. How could I, when I was the one that put her in that bed in the first place? How could I leave, either?

“She’s in good hands,” the nurse murmured in my ear as she passed me on her way to check vitals. Her voice felt gooey and gross, and made me stiffen in disgust, but I put up with it, because it was all I deserved.

“You know,” the nurse told me as she bent over to take a pulse, “We have a pretty good cafeteria. It’s open twenty-four hours. There isn’t any hot food, yet, but there is a pretty decent cup of coffee and some donuts.” She rose and looked me square in the eye, and with a smile beneath her mask, she added, “You should check it out.”

Her eyes told me that it wasn’t just a restaurant referral. She wanted me out of the room. I didn’t have the energy to argue, so I left, telling myself that she was in better hands than mine.

I heard the yelling well before I got there. And the yeller made it very clear what he was angry about. And, by the time I got to the cafeteria, someone was still trying to reason with him.

“Sir, you need to wear a mask,” the attendent insisted, his hands lifted in a calming manner. “You can’t be in here unless -“

“You can’t make me wear one of those things!” the man loudly protested, his face as red as his trucker hat. “I ain’t no sheep! Those things carry disease! I’m not goin’ ta breathe in my own germs! I got rights! This is Ameruka!”

“Sir,” the attendent, bless his heart, was now trying to sound firm. “If you don’t put on a mask -“

“You’ll what, Snowflake?” the man demanded, hunkering into an agressive posture. He squared off with the attendent, and the latter slowly backed off uneasily. The red-hat man sneered.

“That’s what I thought!” Red-hat man growled at the attendent. “You snowflakes all think you can push us around, but you can’t! I done my research! I know it’s all a scam to take away our freedom!”

“So, you want the freedom to die, is that it?” I asked him. It probably wasnt the smartest thing to say, but I really didn’t care. I had had enough for one night.

Red-hat whirled on me and snapped, “Whud you say?”

“You want to die, don’t you?” I said. Then, before he could say anything, I added, “Well, feel free! But don’t do it here. You don’t have the freedom to take anyone else with you. So, either wear the god damn mask, or get out. It’s that simple.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!” the man frothed.

“And you can’t come in here spreading disease,” I told him. “This is a hospital, but you’re going to turn it into a morgue. You here visiting someone?”

“Huh?” Red-hat grunted, probably confused by the sudden shift in topic.

“Are you here visiting someone?” I asked slower, so he could follow the words easier. “Or do you just enjoy making an ass of yourself in hospital cafeterias?”

“What’s it to you, snowflake?” Red snapped, making that menacing John Wayne move to show how tough he was.

“Well,” I told him, not at all afraid for some reason. “Imagine that someone came in here with bubonic plague and breathed all over your loved one. How would that make you feel?”

Red snarled, and balled his fists, but he didn’t say anything.

“We’re in the middle of a pandemic,” I told him. “You might not, but your loved one is going to die if anyone came in here with the disease and spread it all over the place. Wearing a mask is the easiest way to prevent that, or are you too stupid to realize that?”

He looked like he was going to hit me, and really, I wished he would. It would have served me right. I would have deserved it. In fact, I sweetened the pot for him.

“You want to talk about snowflakes?” I told him. “What about all those people who refuse to use their brain for a second and take some god damn common sense steps to at least protect themselves and their family from a deadly disease, not to mention everyone else that they come in contact with? All you do is watch those fake news channels and eat up the lies with a spoon, until your brain is so full of crap you have to turn yourself upside down to poop. If you used your brain for once, you would realize those channels are only doing it for the ratings, and they don’t care if you live or die as long as they make a profit. So, what is it going to be, Snowflake? You want to put on a mask, or are you going to leave?”

He was about to take a swing at me when security burst in and tackled him to the floor. Damn it! But as security was escorting Red out, the attendent offered me free dinner, so at least that was something. Not what I deserved, but something.

You Shall Not Pass!

It was a cute little thing, I have to admit. Standing there upright like a little man, its forelimbs spread out in an attempt to block my passage. Its right paw clutched a little straight stick like a staff, and its bushy tail swept over its hind legs like a cloak. And, was that a little pointed hat on its head? The way it looked at me told me it meant business, but I couldn’t help chuckling. It was so darn cute!

You could have bowled me over with a feather when its tiny mouth opened and in a slight lisp, it squeaked, “You shall not pass!”

Okay, so I stared dumbfounded for a while before my brain finally kicked into gear, and shortly afterward, my mouth. And, yes, I stuttered when I jabbered out, “You can talk?”

“Of course, I can!” the squirrel snapped at me, irritated. “And, you shall not pass!”

The last thing on my mind at the moment was catching my bus, despite how important that was. I stared for a while longer, but the squirrel’s expression never faltered. It seemed determined to keep me from getting any farther, though I couldn’t see how it could back up its threat.

“Why?” I finally asked, figuring that my meaning was clear. It scowled, then chittered back, “Your kind has no place here!”

“My…kind?” I repeated. “You mean…people?”

The squirrel squared its jaw and fixed me with a hard glare. “Begone from here, lest I call mighty forces down upon you!”

This was all sounding vaguely familiar, but it was also getting a little irritating. And, I suddenly remembered why I was on that particular sidewalk that day. “Look here, Gandolf -!”

“Dangolf!” the squirrel irritably corrected me. “Dangolf the Gray Squirrel! And I won’t give you a third warning!”

“Oh, really?” I scoffed. “And, what are you going to do? Crack the sidewalk beneath me?”

The squirrel didn’t say anything back. Instead, it raised its little walking stick and slammed the butt of it against the cement, and suddenly I felt the hairs rising on my neck. Then, there was a biting shock on my left arm, and when I looked to see what had caused it, the same nip attacked my right arm! Then, I noticed how dim it had gotten, and I looked up. Hovering just over my head was a dark, roiling storm cloud about as big around as an umbrella and just as far above me, then there was a flash like an old-time camera, and a tiny, jagged bolt of lightning leapt from the cloud and stabbed me in the right shoulder. And that sucker hurt!

“Hey!” I snapped at the little rodent, just before another bolt zapped me on the cheek. “Stop it!”

“Cut it out!” I shrieked as another streak burned me in the bum. I swear that little creep was laughing to itself the entire time.

“Begone, lout!” the squirrel ordered. “Begone lest I grow angry with you!”

“Now, look here, Dandruff-!” I barked, as another bolt sizzled dangerously close to my nether regions.

“Dangolf!” the squirrel corrected me, sending a handful of jagged spears to various sensitive places around my torso. Yes, I danced in pain, but who wouldn’t in my shoes? And, of course, I’d had enough!

“Look here!” I yelled in my most commanding voice, hoping that my size and sheer weight would influence the little goober somehow. “I need to catch the bus!”

“You’ll not hunt here!” the squirrel vehemantly replied. “Now, go! Or I shall bring greater forces down upon you!”

I’d like to say I was used to the zaps at that point, but that was not the case. Each one hurt as much as the last, and I didn’t know what to do! I had an important appointment, and the only way I had of getting there was the bus, and this little squirrel was keeping me from reaching it.

“What do you want?” I cried out, a lot more desperately than I wanted to sound. “What can I do to make you let me by?”

The zapping ceased, and I stared at the squirrel, who stared back at me. I didn’t like the look in its eyes. They were shrewd and calculating, and I knew right away I was in trouble of a different sort.

“You could offer a token of your good will,” the squirrel told me.

Since I had no idea what that meant, I asked, with all the sophistication of modern civilization, “Huh?”

“A small token of your sincerety,” it replied. “A mere gift, as it were.”

“A…gift?” I couldn’t have heard right. “You want me to give you…a gift?”

“That’s what I said, lout!” the squirrel snapped. “Are your ears too big to hear?”

“What kind of gift would I have -?”

Luckily, the squirrel saved me from having to piece it together myself. “You have peanut butter.”

Well, that was weird. Yes, I had packed myself a peanut butter sandwich for later, knowing that I wouldn’t get any lunch. But, how did it know -?

“I can smell it on you,” the squirrel continued, pointing to my pants. “That pocket.”

Yeah, it was right. I pulled the sandwich out, still in its zippered plastic, and showed it to the squirrel. How that little pest knew it was there, I’ll never know. So much for “sealing in the freshness”, I guess.

“That’s the stuff!” The squirrel smacked its lips at the sight.

“Okay, here!” I said, quickly tossing the sandwich to the ground at its feet. “Can I go, now?”

The squirrel considered the offering for a moment, but I could tell it had already made up its mind to accept it. Then, it lowered its stick, the cloud faded away, and it said, in satisfaction, “It is acceptable.”

I wasted no time getting past that little pest and hurried for the transfer station, hoping the delay wasn’t fatal. The squirrel didn’t try to stop me or call me back, and I hastened away from it as fast as I could. But, I couldn’t help overhearing, only a second later, its high-pitched, squeaky voice raised again in challenge.

“You shall not pass!” it squeaked.

I couldn’t help it. I turned around, and saw that it was molesting yet another person on the sidewalk. But that person, a woman in business attire, must have encountered the rodent before, because she was already holding out a small bag of nuts as an offering. That made me stop and watch the drama unfold as the squirrel considered the bag carefully before nodding its furry little head. The woman set the offering at its feet, then rushed on her way, headed right for me.

Okay, I couldn’t help intercepting her. “Excuse me,” I said, and when I had her attention, I asked, “Did you have to deal with that squirrel before?”

“You mean Dangolf?” she asked, and when I nodded, she said, “He’s here every Wednesday. Has a regular racket going.”

I had to absorb that incredible fact before I asked, “And, the magic?”

She shrugged, letting me know she couldn’t explain it, either, so I remarked, “But, it can talk.”

“Of course, he can,” the woman replied impatiently. “How else is he going to get what he wants?”

Paranoid

“I’m not paranoid!” Neil snapped, annoyed at the man walking next to him. “I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t care! Does that sound paranoid to you?”

His companion kept his opinion to himself and kept going. He was the epitomy of long-suffering patience, his once square jaw gone rounded and his temples gray. He looked like he might be the other’s psychiatrist, and that wasn’t far from the truth. But he was the other’s sounding board.

Neil glared at his friend. He didn’t appreciate the silence.

“I’m not delusional, either!” he fiercely insisted.

“Didn’t say anything,” the man delicately pointed out.

Neil grunted sharply, but couldn’t bring himself to reply. He didn’t have to. Barry knew what he was doing and how much it bothered him. That’s why he did it.

“How long have we known each other?” his companion asked in a slow, thoughtful manner.

Neil eyed him suspiciously. The man was up to something; he could smell it. Warily, he admitted, “Since kindergarten.”

“And in all that time,” Barry deliberately pronounced, as if speaking to a child, “Have I ever once called you ‘paranoid’? Or ‘delusional’?”

Neil eyed the other again, his mind racing for the real meaning behind his friend’s question. But he couldn’t see any trickery involved. Still, he warily replied, “No.” Then, he saw his opening and snapped, “But you were thinking it!”

“That’ll be hard to prove,” Barry replied with a chuckle.

They continued in silence for a moment as Neil picked apart the answer and digested its meaning. Barry didn’t once glance at him, but kept his attention focused on the path ahead. Above, leaves rustled in the wind and from unseen quarters birds chirped merrily. From everywhere, the mating call of treefrogs buzzed in their ears. A distant smell of a barbecue mingled with the scent of fresh-mown grass and tree moss to remind them both that they were only a shout away from civilization, despite what lies the trees told them. The weather was clement, and as long as it lasted, so would their outing. But it didn’t distract Neil from his problems, like Barry had planned.

It was, Neil had to admit, a nice outing, despite the judgemental nature of his companion. But what did his life-long friend know, anyway? Barry didn’t have to put up with the things he had lately. And when Neil got home afterwards, it would likely start up all over again

“I’m not paranoid,” Neil insisted, studying his companion’s face for his reaction. “I know what I saw!”

“I know,” Barry simply replied.

“You don’t believe me,” Neil accused, squinting at the other.

“I never said that,” his friend very diplomatically replied.

“No,” Neil accused. “But you were thinking it!”

“You already said that,” his sounding board reminded him.

Neil exploded. “So, you just came over here to pick me apart, is that it?”

Barry stopped short, but Neil was ready for it and positioned himself so he could search his friend’s eyes for any deception. There was no way he could keep his feelings secret for long. Barry rolled his eyes and looked away, but Neil craned his neck to keep Barry’s face in sight, and his friend was left with no choice except to face him.

“Neil,” the second addressed his friend carefully, “I know it’s been rough lately…”

“…Since my delusions?” Neil bitterly finished for him. “Is that what you were going to say?”

Just as bitterly, Barry snapped, “Okay, Neil! Have it your way! Yes! Since your ‘delusions’!”

“I know what I saw!” Neil protested, more than ready to defend himself whichever way he had to. “I know what I felt!”

Barry was about to say something fierce, but bit back the words. He glared furiously at his friend for a split second, then swallowed his fury and let his shoulders sag. He looked too tired to continue the conversation.

“I know you do,” the man breathed wearily. He paused, as if trying to grapple with a very hard decision, then he added, half-hearted, “Look, if you need to get out of the house for a while, maybe I could talk to Agnes, see if she -“

“She won’t want me in her house,” Neil spat. “And, you know it! She thinks I belong in a home!”

“Don’t put words in her mouth,” the second man mildly admonished.

“She’s my sister!” Neil fiercely reminded the other. “I don’t need to!”

“I’ll talk to her,” Barry promised.

“Talk til you’re blue!” Neil grumbled. “That girl’s too stubborn!”

The second man couldn’t help a little chuckle. “Maybe if you referred to her as a grown-up instead of a little girl…”

“She is what she is!” Neil snapped. He froze when he saw the long-suffering expression on his friend’s face, then turned away. After a moment, he mumbled, “Sorry. Sometimes I forget -“

“It’s okay,” the other told him with a smirk. “It’s only been twenty years.”

Neil stared straight ahead for a bit, then said, “I don’t need to leave the house.”

“Neil -” his friend began, but Neil finished the thought for him.

“Yeah, I know,” he said with a tired sigh. “‘If the house is causing you stress, just leave! Sell it!’ I wish I could, Barry. I wish I could.”

“Why don’t you?” the other asked, concerned.

“It won’t sell,” Neil told him, feeling the memory of the realtor’s words pressing down on his shoulders. “Word’s gotten around, and it’s a pariah!”

“What if you lowered the price?” Barry suggested, making Neil scoff.

“It’s not the price,” Neil bitterly told him. “It’s the reputation! Three owners suffering strokes, and one a heart attack. It’s got a reputation,” he repeated in a mutter. He thought a bit and added, “You know, everyone thinks it’s cursed.”

“Why’d you buy it, then?” Barry demanded. Neil could hear the reprimand in his voice, and chose to ignore it. This time.

“How else do you think I got it so cheap?” Neil told him. “I’m not going to let some fairy tale keep me from a bargain!”

Barry shook his head silently, and Neil could feel the judgement oozing from him. That was something he couldn’t let slip past, but even as he gathered his bile for a counter-attack, Barry clapped a hand on his shoulder. It was brief, and the man soon let his hand fall back to his side, but for a moment, it felt like old times again. Neil couldn’t bring himself to utter any of the words burning his tongue.

“Even if you have to lose some money from it,” Barry sympathetically replied, “Get rid of it! There’s no use in holding onto something -“

“- that’s causing me grief,” Neil again finished for him. His anger was all but burned out. “I know! I know!”

“Well?” Barry probed.

Neil paused a while before he softly muttered, “I’ll think about it.”

It was Barry’s turn to be cynical. “No, you won’t.”

“No,” Neil admitted wryly. “I won’t.”

That night, every light shone in the house, just the way Neil wanted it. He supposed his light bill was going to be pretty high, but that was fine with him. He wasn’t exactly hurting for money, anyway. Some lawsuits were like that. Besides, it was worth it.

Every door was closed. Bathroom, bedroom, closet, even cabinets, wherever there was a door, he made sure it was closed. It was inconvenient, going through the entire house like that, but anything was better than the alternative. Any of them that he could lock, he did, and carried the key with him everywhere, just in case. It was the only way to make sure. Things had been too weird lately.

Brushing his teeth earlier, he’d had the feeling that someone was behind the bathroom door, but when he looked, he was alone. Same thing happened in the bedroom as he was changing into his pajamas. Torn between keeping both doors open and shutting himself in a confined space, he chose to keep his escape routes unobstructed, just in case. If it came to it, that allowed him a straight shot from either room to where he kept his bat. No one was going to mess with him that night.

He made his rounds for the fourth time before going to bed. So far, nothing was amiss. Maybe he would get through a third night without any weirdness. In the living room, he tugged at the door to the knick-knack cabinet, the only cabinet in the entire house that locked, and found it securely shut, then proceeded to the bathroom. It was locked, too. As he headed for the bedroom, he made sure he had the right keys, in case he needed to make a night deposit.

He turned towards the master bedroom and froze. The door was ajar.

He didn’t hesitate. There was no question as to whether or not he’d checked it already; he wasn’t that senile, yet. He knew he’d closed it. He slowly backed for the hall closet, his eyes glued to the bedroom. There was no guarantee the bat would be effective against whatever he found, but he was tired of the game. He wanted it over, one way or another.

He reached back to take the knob and felt nothing except air. Swiveling, he found the closet door ajar, too. He studied the dark crack for malicious intent before he leapt forward and threw the door open, letting the hall light flood into the closet. The shelves were exactly the same as when he’d checked earlier that night. He quickly grabbed the bat and slammed the door shut as fast as he could.

Backing away, he held the closet door in his gaze for a second before glancing at the bedroom door. Whatever was inside must have heard the racket. He gripped the bat harder and slowly crept towards his bedroom.

Something creaked behind him, and he jumped around, the bat held ready. The closet door was once more ajar.

He gripped the bat even harder as he cursed the unfairness of it all. It was bad enough feeling someone hiding behind the bathroom door, or constantly shutting doors that he had not opened, but when they caught him between forces, that was the last straw. Holding the bat ready, he kicked the closet door open and swung. The sound of the wood banging against the shelving vibrated all the way up his arm, and almost sent the weapon spinning from his hands.

In pain, he took turns flexing the stiffness from his fingers as he kept an eye darting between the bedroom door and the closet, keeping the bat firmly in one hand at all times. From behind him came another squeaky creak, and he whirled towards the cabinet in the living room, its door slowly yawning. The same cabinet door that he had tested mere seconds ago.

Another door clicked behind him, and he whipped around, already recognizing the sound of the office door well before he saw it pop ajar. Across the hall, the guestroom door followed suit with its tiny squeal of protest. Then, a loud crash sounded from the kitchen, and he recognized the clamor of cabinet doors thrown wide, the oven door dropping down, the refrigerator springing open, the microwave banging. All around him rose a fearsome, atonal clatter as more and more doors, big and small, succumbed to a force determined to have its way and to thwart Neil’s will. The auditory assault brought home quite clearly just how many doors his house contained.

Neil cringed in the abrupt silence as the last of them slammed open and an eerie calm settled throughout the house. Was it getting colder? Neil couldn’t tell if the AC was now malfunctioning, or if his blood had just turned to ice. His feet were freezing, and so were his hands. He peered everywhere at once, looking for his unseen tormentors, grateful for his own foresight in keeping every light in the house blazing. He would find whoever or whatever it was, and he would put a stop to the nonsense once and for all.

The creak behind him sounded different from all the others. It wasn’t from a door, or anything that had a door. It was more like a concentrated settling of weight on the floor boards, like a sneaky foot step. Neil whirled around, and it was the last thing he remembered doing.

Barry looked over the outside of the house, his face grim. He wouldn’t let Agnes see the expression, though. There was no sense in making her feel any worse.

“I knew he should have moved to a home,” she said tightly.

Barry knew it was just her worry talking. He put a supportive arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled closer to him.

“We couldn’t have known,” he told her. “Strokes are funny that way.”

“He shouldn’t have been alone,” she muttered into his chest.

“No,” Barry told her, giving her a gentle squeeze. “But he won’t be anymore.”

He glanced at the For Sale sign planted at the edge of the yard. Agnes’ power of attorney had allowed her to put the house on the market. At least that way, it would no longer be a bother to her brother. He just hoped he would be able to explain the decision if Neil ever woke up.

From the window, it watched them on the lawn and licked what passed for its lips with what passed for a tongue. Soon, it told itself, others would come. Soon, it would feast again. Soon.

How Many Words?

How many words is five thousand, anyway? What does that even look like? How many pages? How many paragraphs? How many sentences? What does five thousand words look like?

They said it had to be five thousand words long. That’s why I wonder. Five thousand. What does five thousand of anything look like?

What’s five thousand people look like? A section at a football stadium? The capacity of a crowded theater? A march for peace that gluts the streets and forces traffic to detour? A division of an army, marching to battle? What does it look like when five thousand people gather in one spot and just look at you, all at once? Is it as terrifying as I think it is?

What does five thousand animals look like? A herd of panicked gazelle loping across the plains? A massive pack of starving wolves on the hunt from deep in the forest? A swirling swarm of biting gnats that blocks the way no matter which way you turn? A gigantic hive of hornets six feet long and two wide? A great gathering of flocks on a pond, a plethora of wading birds, ducks, loons and other water fowl enjoying a noisy rest from their migration southward?

What does five thousand ships look like? A merchant fleet carrying goods around the world? An armada of warships on patrol? An invading force of space fighters newly birthed from an alien mother-ship, bent on conquest? The lifepods from a doomed starliner floating in the void, beeping with their own individual signal markers, hoping that someone will hear them and come get them?

How many words is five thousand? I have no idea. And, if I don’t know that, then maybe I’m not cut out for this writing class. I don’t know. An “easy A” isn’t sounding so easy, anymore.

What if?

The misshapen slug of steel lay untouched on the table, a terrifying monster more likely to kill me then anyone I pointed it at. I hated it, hated what it meant about me, what it meant about the world, but mostly about what it meant about me. Was I that scared? That terrified? What the hell was wrong with me? What the hell happened to this country?

Did it start when the “Excusable Homicide” law went national? We all called it the “Pro-Murder Law”. All you had to do was yell out that your life was in danger, and you were justified in shooting anyone. It didn’t matter if the other guy was even doing anything wrong, as long as you felt “threatened”. And, it didn’t matter that most of the victims of this law had dark skin, and the perpetrators, light. It didn’t matter that the murder rate sky-rocketed, or that people violently protested. It didn’t matter because it was legal, and that was enough.

It’s scary out there, now. The ones who toted their side-arms into the grocery store before the law was signed into effect had presaged it all. No one dared leave their homes without protection. As far as I knew, everyone was scared. I stared at the steel lump that my own fear had forced me to buy. After Benny and June, I could no longer take the risk of being without one. Now, I can’t risk picking it up.

Where had it started? I don’t know. All I remember was the Party coming into power. They had dropped their old moniker like a hot potato as soon as they seized the reins. And, why not? They didn’t have any more competition. If they didn’t like an election result, all they had to do was say it was fraudulent, and it was nullified, and then, they could appoint anyone they wanted. It was a real coincidence that they never appointed someone from the other party; at first, they said there were no good opposition candidates, and then, they stopped making excuses. They didn’t have to, anymore. From then on, the way was clear for them to do whatever they wanted. And, they did.

It’s weird that none of the news stations call them out anymore, either. None of them seem to care, now. But they did at first. Almost every station cried against them, against the laws they pushed through, against the judges they appointed, against the policies they eschewed. They called the laws “unconstitutional”, the policies “immoral”. They fought with the power of journalism and in some cases, sarcasm and satire. They don’t do that anymore. The programming changed or disappeared due to “low ratings”, the newscasters changed, attitudes changed. And the criticisms stopped. The State could do no wrong. They were in power “by a mandate from the people.” What remained of the opposition party were cannibals and satan-worshippers. And socialists looking to destroy this country and give it to illegal aliens, but they never explained why illegal aliens would want a decimated country and a failed economy. They never say why the gangs want to kill us, either. But they repeat it all every day, nearly every hour. Aunt Sue believes them, now, along with the rest of my family. It’s all they hear, twenty-four seven. It’s all I hear whenever I flick on the TV. I think I might be the only one that remembers what it was like before, but I stopped caring shortly after I gave up trying to save them. I had more important things to worry about. It’s a dangerous world out there.

It’s still sitting there, at the end of the table. I’m not even sure I could load it right. I’ll probably shoot my toes off if I tried. There wasn’t any instruction manual with the thing, though I guess I’m expected to know the basics. Point. Pull the trigger. Bang. But that’s it. Do I have to clean it every once in a while? Can I let it get dusty? I once owned a replica sword, dull edge. I laid it on some stones over my fireplace for a decoration, and the thing rusted. Looked like rust worms had crawled all over it, leaving thin trails in their wake. I considered cleaning it up and polishing it so it looked new again, but I lost track of it long before I found the time. Will the same thing happen to the slug? What would happen if I tried to fire it, then?

I guess I could take it unloaded. Bluff my way through. But what if I needed it? What if I “threatened” someone? Would I be allowed to shoot someone that threatened me if I threatened them? What if someone else felt threatened by both of us and opened fire? What if that threatened someone else? Where did it all end? What did the law say about that? And, should I risk it with an unloaded weapon?

Did anyone else feel that way? Was anyone else worried about that? Probably not. They probably had no qualms about shooting first if it meant saving their own lives. Some people are like that. Maybe I should look up how to load it, sometime. Maybe there’s a tutorial on how to aim and fire, too. I don’t know.

Maybe I don’t need milk that bad. Maybe it can wait for tomorrow. I could probably make the week without it. It’s not supposed to be good for you after a certain age, anyway. Right? Looks like rain, too. Don’t want to get drenched. So, maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. Besides, I don’t want to go out for just one thing, right? I’ll make a list. It’s not worth the risk, otherwise.

Right?