Reflection, Part Three

Contains mature language.

This is Part Three of the story.  Part Two can be found here. 

Once again, the sound of the door creaking open broke the rhythmic silence in the room. Jack turned to see the being at the door. It was tall, nearing, if not over, seven feet, clad from head to toe in loose, flowing robes the color of midnight, so large and voluminous that it was impossible to tell the wearer's gender. The only area the robes did not conceal was it's face, which was shielded by a blank, porcelain mask, with two dark pits for eyes. Jack stared into those pits, trying to see the eyes beyond, but it felt as if he was staring into a black hole. The eyes seemed to suck him in, drawing him further and further away from the ground he stood on, and he finally broke his gaze, nausea playing with his stomach as a toddler would with a toy from a fast-food restaurant, bashing it back and forth with wild abandon.

Again, the voice, the strange, disembodied voice that sounded more like the rolling of thunder than anything, seemed to fill the room, as if it were being issued from the walls themselves, rather than the being at the door. “Much time has passed. Are you ready?”

Jack paused, then shook his head. “No. I'm not.”

The being spoke no more, but simply turned, walking into the darkness of the passage beyond, his robes fading from sight in the eerie blackness, before the door swung shut.

Jack leaned against the wall and sighed, before he slowly slid to the floor, as if he lacked the energy to stand anymore. He thought only one word.

Cassie....

*2006*

The Hopeless grew older, grew stronger, and, perhaps, grew wiser. He learned to hide his pain more securely, in order to better assimilate into society and gain more unfettered access to the few pleasures he had in life. The haunting presence of the woman in his mind's eye was eventually written off as nothing more than the product of the chemicals running rampant throughout his brain, and soon she was forgotten almost completely, the memory tucked neatly away in a rarely-visited corner of his head.

The human mind is a very strange thing.

“I.D.,” Jack said, holding out his hand. The man and woman each handed him a Driver's License, and he checked them both. The man was twenty-four; the woman, twenty-two. He handed them both back the cards. “Five each,” he said, and the man handed him a ten dollar bill before heading into the club.

Jack sat down on the bar stool behind the counter and pulled his cigarette case out of his pocket, lighting one, and remarking internally how nice it was to have a job where he could smoke whenever the hell he wanted to.

“That's really bad for you!” he heard someone yell over the pounding techno music. He looked over to see a small, attractive woman wearing a hoodie, jeans, and a flat cap.

“Hell yeah, it is!” he yelled back. “I wouldn't have it any other way!” He held the case out to her. “Want one?”

She shook her head. “I've got enough problems, I don't need lung cancer added to the list!”

He chuckled, looking at her again. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

She walked closer. “What?”

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

“Nope, you don't. And that line is still as bad as ever.”

He rolled his eyes. “I wasn't hitting on you, you just look familiar for some reason.”

“You weren't? Why not? I mean, I can tell you, I'm pretty awesome. You should probably hit on me.”

He chuckled. “At least you're humble, right?”

She smiled, and for some strange, arcane reason, Jack's heart leaped. “Hey, you have no idea!”

“I'm Jack.”

“Cassie. How's life in the security business?”

“Oh, you know. Secure. Or something.”

She laughed. “You're probably about the smoothest talker I've ever met.”

“Hey, why don't you have techno blaring in your ears every day for eight hours, see if your brain doesn't turn to mush.”

“Not a fan?”

“I mean...it's alright, but at the end of the day, I prefer rock.”

“Yes!” she said, holding out her hand for a high-five. Jack slapped it, a smile growing on his face. She nodded towards the front door. “Looks like you've got customers.”

He turned to see three men entering. He IDed them, took their money, and they walked in. “So what kind of bands do you like?” he asked, turning to the girl once more.

But she was gone.

He didn't see her again that night. He looked for her the next night, and the night after, unsure of why, but, he searched in vain. He knew he recognized her from somewhere, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out where. He didn't think she went to his high school. He was fairly certain they didn't have any friends in common, and he was positive they hadn't worked together somewhere. Finally, he shrugged it off, figuring it was all in his imagination.

A few weeks later, Zeke was at his apartment, the two of them celebrating 4/20 in traditional fashion, with a bong, an ounce of kill, and a collection of some of the best and most retarded stoner flicks known to man.

“Dude,” Zeke said, lightly hitting his shoulder. “You know what sounds fucking great right now?”

Jack turned his head, his eyes heavy-lidded. “More weed?”

“No. Yes. But, no. Fucking pancakes, man. Are you down?”

“Dude, I don't have the shit to make pancakes. I eat fucking TV dinners and Chef Boyardee.”

“So? You've got money, I've got money, let's hit Waffle House.”

“Waffle House has waffles. That's why they call it Waffle House.”

“They have pancakes, too, don't they? I mean, IHOP has waffles, why won't Waffle House have pancakes?”

“I don't know. Besides, who the hell goes to IHOP for fucking waffles?”

“Well, let's hit Denny's, then. They're close. They have pancakes.”

“I don't really want pancakes, man. I want...I don't know. I want a burger. With bacon. And cheese. And mushrooms. My God, I'm stoned.”

Zeke started giggling, which soon evolved into full-out laughing. “We both are, man. What do you say? Denny's totally has hamburgers.”

“Dude...I don't think I'm really good to drive right now.”

“I am! I'm a fucking master at driving while I'm high. I'm better than I am when I'm sober.”

“Fuck...no. That's a bad idea, man.”

“No, it's not. It's a fucking great idea. It's four-twenty, man! Live a little!”

“Shit....” He stood, sliding his feet into his shoes. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Nah!” Zeke said, springing to his feet. “We're gonna get our fucking grub on. Let's go.”

The drive actually was uneventful, and Jack found himself impressed at how well Zeke did. Of course, he also strongly considered the possibility that he only thought Zeke was driving well because he was blazed. Regardless, they made it there in one piece, without hitting or being hit by anyone, and Jack considered that a point in the 'win' column. They were led to a booth, given their menus, and told that there server would be there momentarily, before they each began devouring the menus with their eyes.

“Wow, security man. You're high as a kite, aren't you?”

“Huh?” Jack asked, looking up, and he was surprised to see the girl from the club standing before the table, dressed in the traditional black Denny's uniform. “Hey, you're—fuck. Give me a second.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “It'll come to you eventually. Maybe.”

“It started with an S....”

“No. Not even close.”

“I'll think of it any second now.”

“Dude,” Zeke said, “She's wearing a fucking name tag, for Pete's sake.”

Jack looked back at the menu. “That's cheating.” He snapped his fingers. “Cassie!” he said, looking back at her. Her name tag confirmed it, and she again laughed.

“It took you long enough.”

“Well, yeah, but...I don't know. Leave me alone, I'm high.”

“Celebrating four-twenty, are we?”

“What? Me? Never. I'm an upstanding member of the community.”

“Of course you are,” she said, a smile on her face. “You're ridiculous. What can I get you guys to drink?”

She left after taking their drink orders. “She's kind of cute,” Zeke said.

“Yeah...she really is, isn't she? Like...really cute.”

Zeke raised an eyebrow. “You got a thing for her? What, did you meet her at the club?”

“Yeah. And no, I don't have a 'thing' for her. I don't even know her.”

She came back a few minutes later with their drinks, setting them on the table before handing each of them a straw. “So, do you guys know what you want, or are you not quite done drooling over the menu?”

Zeke snapped his gaze back to the menu, an almost panicked expression on his face. “Everything looks so good...” he said, longing in his voice.

She laughed again, and Jack realized that that, for some strange, indefinable reason, he really enjoyed the sound of her laugh. “I'm jealous,” she said. “I'm not going to do shit for four-twenty. You two look like you're having the time of your life.”

“Do you know where Spring Oak apartments are?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, on Morgan, right?”

“Yeah. I'm at apartment three-twelve. Come on by, if you want. I'll smoke you out.”

Her eyebrows raised, and her smile turned wry. “Do you usually invite strange girls to your place?”

“No. Well, I mean. Not unless they're from the club. And management frowns on that, half the time.”

She shook her head. “See? Utterly ridiculous.” She glanced at Zeke. “Do you have any idea, yet?”

“Yes! This one,” he said, pointing at the menu. “Scrambled. And bacon, not sausage. And extra bacon.”

She scribbled down both of their orders and once again left, just seconds before Zeke burst out laughing. “You gave her your fucking address, homie? Really? Did that shit really just go down?”

“Dude, shut up.”

“You do realize that there's not a chance in hell she's coming, right? Like, you're aware that you just came off as a completely crazy psycho-killer?”

As high as he was, Zeke was still right. I just pretty much blew whatever shot I had with that girl. “Yeah. I guess so.”

The meal was eaten in relative silence. Jack's burger was decent, and the way Zeke tore through his eggs and pancakes, you would have thought that it was the ambrosia that Zeus sat down to every day.

Hung Jury

An argument. Not the first. Perhaps not the last. The participants are allies against each other, each merely wanting to do the 'right' thing. But what is the right thing? Can anyone truly know? At the end of the day, is the right path doing the thing that's best for you, that's best for the people you care about, or that is best for the planet as a whole? What moral code does one follow to truly be 'right?' Must one be true to a religious text, true to a law, or true to their own self?

The first ally is named Oron. He sits on a stone bench, one of many in the large room. He is clad from neck to toe in armor too masterfully-crafted to be an heirloom. On his back is a large shield, at his hip a long sword. He has a clean, honest face, with piercing blue eyes, and an air of quiet nobility hangs around him, as does the overbearing shadow of sorrow. His once-proud armor is in disrepair, tarnished and ugly. His sword appears to be rusted in permanent rest inside it's sheath. This man is a defender, a guardian, a man that champions the idea of suffering so that others will not have to. But he is broken. He has been defeated, as all men must one day be, and he knows not if he can defend anyone, let alone his ward, any longer.

“You're a fool, Oron,” says one of his allies and opponents, a man pacing perhaps ten feet away. He is tall, and an intimidating sight in his long, black trench coat. His eyes are red, and seem to just barely glow, like the last embers of a dying fire. His wavy black hair is cut relatively short, and his face is adorned with a meticulous goatee. Curved swords are in scabbards strapped to his back, and when he turns, his coat flares out, rendering the pistols at his hips visible.

Oron sits in silence for a moment, staring at the floor. Finally, he shrugs. “I don't see many options left here, Tybalt.”

“I fail to see it as an 'option' at all!” Tybalt spits, the word 'option' thrown from his mouth as if it were something vile and twisted. “It's obvious that you can't be trusted anymore.”

Oron stands, his tattered cape billowing behind him, and on his feet, tarnished armor or no, he cuts quite the imposing figure. “You can trust me to do the right thing, monster, as I have always endeavored to do.”

“You hate him, now. It's obvious to everyone.”

“And who are you to speak of hatred!” Oron roars, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. He pulls, but cannot free it from the rust imprisoning it.

“It's my job to hate,” Tybalt snarls, and his hands reach over his shoulders, drawing his swords, the blades carving elegant ribbons in the air as he begins to approach the knight. “What is your excuse?”

“Stop!” a voice cries, and Tybalt halts, his head turning to her. With a growl of frustration, he slams his swords back into their sheaths and turns, once more resuming his pacing.

It is easy to tell that Auria was once beautiful, but her beauty has been tainted with the shadow of death looming over her. Her large brown eyes are filled with sorrow, and her short blond hair falls listlessly around her shoulders. She has always been a creature of love, but her love alone can no longer sustain her, as evidenced by her slightly emaciated frame. Her sundress is faded, and her feet are bare. She sits on the floor, her back against the wall, and looks as if she lacks even the energy to stand.

“Killing each other isn't going to solve anything,” she says, her voice soft and pleasing, but then she coughs, a rough, painful sounding thing that seems to carry on for far too long, making Oron wince in sympathy, and causing a flash of sadness to fly over even Tybalt's eyes at the sound.

They both know, after all, that she is the best of all of them.

Silence fell, and Oron takes his place back on the bench, tugging futilely at his sword once more, and, for a long while, nothing is spoken.

“What you're talking about is murder,” Tybalt finally says, the silence breaking abruptly and suddenly.

Oron snorts, then starts laughing. “Incredible,” he finally says, shaking his head. “You want to kill...almost everyone. And this is your big opposition? That it is 'murder'? Really?”

“I never wanted to kill him,” Tybalt responds, his lip curled into a snarl, and his finger punched towards the window, emphasizing his point.

“Besides, it is not murder. Not by any of the standard definitions. Think of it as...euthanasia. People have been euthanized for thousands of years. Most likely will for many thousands more. It is...a noble act, to end one's suffering, when no other escape can be found.”

“Our job is to protect him, Oron. Not kill him.”

A fourth voice enters the fray. “Perhaps in this case, the two are one and the same.”

Barris sits at a table, facing three large books open before him, and many more in stacks beyond them. He wears the robes of a scholar, and half-moon spectacles are perched on his nose. He is by far the oldest in appearance of the group, with a long, flowing beard of silver and deep wrinkles etched into his face. “He is an artist. A tragic one, at that. Historically...those people never end well. Perhaps protecting him, in this case, involves letting him die sooner, rather than later.”

“Perhaps he should fight!”

“That's your answer to everything, Tybalt,” Auria says, her voice tired and weak. “But not every battle can be won by picking up a sword and shedding blood.”

“And what would you have us do, then?” he says, turning to face her, his coat whipping about him dramatically. “What would you have us do, knowing full well that you're in the clutches of death as we speak?!”

She shrugs, and leans her head back to rest against the wall. “Foster hope,” she eventually answers, and sighs. “It's the second most powerful thing in the universe, hope. Overruled only by love.”

“With all due respect, Auria,” Barris says, his voice expressing remorse at what he must say, “One could easily argue that your cultivation of love and hope are what brought this mess about in the first place.”

She lowers her head, and a tear falls from her face, staining her dress. “I know.”

Oron stares at Barris, and shakes his head. “A low blow, scholar.”

“The truth is not always pleasant to hear, knight. But that doesn't make it's validity ring any less soundly. I am as fond of Auria as any of you. But fondness does not change fact.”

“The truth doesn't always need to be spoken. You are as aware of this as I am.”

Tybalt snorts. “So now, we should hide things from each other? You act as if it's even possible. Everyone knows you resent Auria as much as you adore her. Before she entered the battle, you thought you and I had things well under control. But you know as much as I, as much as Auria, and as much as Barris, that he was miserable. It was merely my influence that allowed him to hide it.”

“And now,” Barris says, raising his head from his texts and removing the spectacles from his nose, “he is more miserable than ever before. The hope that he had is dying, and, as much as I loathe admitting it, you're dying along with it, Auria. So...what do we do?”

“I told you,” Oron says, rising to his feet once more. “We put him out of his misery.”

“I admit, I must agree with you, though I daresay for different reasons. And you, Tybalt?”

“This is ridiculous. We can't just let him die. Not like a coward. Not like this.”

“And what would you propose we do in substitution?”

“I don't know, scholar. I just know that this is wrong. And absolutely pathetic, at that.”

“Auria? What say you?”

She coughs again, a horrible sound that echos throughout the room. After perhaps half a minute, the fit passes, and she gasps for breath, before finally panting, “We hope. We yearn for a brighter tomorrow. Maybe that will be enough.”

Oron walks to the window, stares out of it, at the rain pouring from the sky, hurtling towards the ground fifteen stories below, and the edge of the roof less than six feet below. “Hung jury, then,” he muses. “Two for it, two against it. Means it's not our call anymore. It's up to him.”

And on the other side of the window is the eye of a man, standing on a ledge slick with rain. He sighs, glances at the ground so very far below him. There is no fear in his heart, but all the same, he finds himself torn, as if half of him is demanding that he take the final step forward, and half of him is demanding that he not.

Reflection, Part Two

Contains mature language.

This is Part Two of the story.  Part One can be found here. 

*2001*

Humans are fickle things, changing themselves with every form they take. One could take a hundred of them, subject them all to the same horrors and wonders in life, and each would be affected in a different matter. Some would glorify the wonders, others would condemn the horrors. Some will see many of the wonders as horrors, others will see many of the horrors as wonders. There is no dividing line, no clear distinction which has been set in time to serve as a guideline for human growth.

There are only the Roles. Even they, though, are subject to the forever shifting nature of the human race, presenting themselves in ever-evolving manners.

The Hopeless, for example, is often a sad, pitiable creature. Without hope, a human is devoid of the most basic principle of life—the idea of a better tomorrow. However, even this eternal role is subject to the erratic basis of humanity, and sometimes—as in this case—the Hopeless becomes strengthened by his tragic existence, becoming a paragon of resolve.

But what is resolve without hope? Even when the Hopeless is strengthened by the void in his life, he is still a sad, pitiable creature.

Jack swung, pivoting his hip as he did so, adding extra force to the punch as his fist collided with David's face. He didn't let up, quickly shifting his weight and slamming his left fist upward to smash into the underside of David's chin, causing his head to snap back as he stumbled, his back contacting the brick wall behind him, before he sank to the ground, sobbing. Jack turned his head, spat. He took a step towards the high school freshman, hunkered down before him.

“Here's the deal, David,” he said, reaching into his pocket to pull out a pack of full-flavored cigarettes. He lit one, before proffering the pack to David. David didn't respond, and Jack shrugged before replacing them into his pocket. “Here's the deal,” he repeated, after taking a drag. “At the core of it, once you strip away the staff, the faculty, a school like this one is...well, it's a bit like a community, David. You have your preps, like that cheerleader bitch Melissa Hargrove, and they're a bit like the politicians. They're concerned with being liked. Appearance is a very big deal to them. And, just like every politician in the world, they want to appear to be a great deal better than what they actually are. And that's fine, because almost everybody is like that, but a problem arises when you decide to start telling stories about how people like Melissa Hargrove have acid, David. Do you know why?”

David shook his head, his breath coming in quick and ragged bursts through his nose. Both of his hands were to his face, one gently cupping his injured chin, the other covering the side of his face where a bruise was surely forming.

Jack nodded, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “I thought you might not know what the problem with that is, David, which is why, I'll wager, tell stories you did.” He stood, taking another drag, and began pacing back and forth in front of David. “The problem is that Melissa Hargrove has connections that let her get such a wonderful chemical. Very good connections, that make for very good acid. And since Melissa is so worried about appearance, if she were to get caught with a chemical like that,” his voice turned to a blade of menace, “well, she's probably not going to want to fucking share anymore—if you catch my drift.”

“But—but, she didn't get caught. I heard the principal searched her, she didn't have anything!”

Jack nodded. “I'm well aware of that, David. Do you know why?”

David shook his head once more, and Jack nodded. “I didn't think so. See, I'm not like you. I don't get straight A's. Teachers don't smile when I walk into the classroom, despite me being here a year longer than you. But all the same,” he stopped pacing, crouching down in front of him once more, his voice changing into a low hiss, “I am smarter than you. There's a reason why every fucking student in this school knows my name. There's a reason why I can break Terry Fudd's arm in the middle of the goddamn cafeteria, and no one saw it. And there's a reason why I can find out about your runaway fucking mouth,” he reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a small vial half-filled with a clear liquid, “and inform Melissa that it would be in her best interest to 'misplace' her supply.”

“Well, we're, we're good now, then, right? I mean, you have what you wanted, right?”

Jack shook his head. “I think I'm actually more concerned with what you want, David. You clearly wanted this acid to disappear.” He tossed the vial into the air, caught it. Tossed it again, caught it again. Once more, he tossed it, but this time in a gentle arc that bounced off of David's knee before landing to a rest between the freshman's legs. “So make it disappear.”

“What—what do you mean?”

“Exactly what it fucking sounds like, David. Drink it. All of it.”

“But...a normal dose would only be a drop or two! Nobody could drink that entire vial without—”

“You can either drink it, or you can have your skull smashed into the fucking wall behind you,” Jack interrupted, flicking his cigarette away before cracking his knuckles and reaching into his pocket to pull out a pair of black gloves, sliding one on each hand. “Make up your mind.”

Tears now began streaming out of David's face. “Please, I don't wanna die,” he said, his words broken by sobs. “Please, please don't make me do this.”

Jack snorted. “If you don't want to die, I'd suggest drinking up. There's a chance you'll just get out of it with some brain damage. If you're really lucky, you won't even really have to deal with that, and you'll just get the trip of your life. Now...last call, motherfucker.”

Trembling hands unscrewed the cap from the vial, and pleading eyes looked into Jacks. They found no pity there, only hardened, ice-blue flints of uncaring malice. He let the cap fall to the ground, and he sniffed the bottle.

“It's odorless,” Jack said. “Tasteless. I'm sure you're well aware. Quit pussyfooting around and drink it.”

David sobbed again, and lifted the vial to his lips, letting the liquid trickle into this mouth. He swallowed, and opened his mouth for Jack to see.

“Good boy,” Jack said. He pulled off his gloves and stood. “Next time...well, why don't we be sure there's not a next time, hmm?” He turned, and began to walk away.

He rounded the outer corner of the cafeteria a moment later, and Zeke was waiting for him, dextrously maneuvering a pen between the four fingers of his right hand. “Well?” he asked, sliding the pen into his pocket and falling into step aside Jack. He was a tall, lanky man, who looked more like a nerd than anything—and his intelligence backed up that claim, registering well into the genius range. That said, the sixteen-year-old was surprisingly adept at the Israeli martial art known as Krav Maga, and, thanks to a few impromptu demonstrations of the his brutally efficient combat abilities, he was given a wide berth on campus.

“He got knocked around a little bit. Nothing too serious. And he drank it.”

“Did he fall for it?”

Jack chuckled. “He's freaking out right now, probably trying to make himself throw up, thinking he's going to flip his shit any minute now.”

“And you have the real stuff, right?”

Jack patted his chest, indicating the inner pocket of his long coat. “For free dollars and thrifty cents. She was all too happy to give it away for free, as opposed to getting searched and arrested.”

Zeke laughed and clapped Jack on the back. “It's gonna be a hell of a night, man.”

Jack turned, leaning his back against the bricks of one of the buildings and looking across the common area, at the hundreds of students safe and sound in their cozy little cliques, worrying about grades, or parties, or whatever insignificant problems they have that they consider so very important.

*Now*

Jack frowned, the memories surfacing almost against his will. He wasn't proud of the person he used to be, even though he couldn't deny that he had often wished he could turn into that person again.

*2001*

The Roles Incarnate are a rare breed, often leading lives that in some ways defy conventional logic. There is no clear, discernible reasoning behind the course that any human life takes, but when a human comes to embody a Role so deeply that it becomes Incarnate, the course of his life is inevitably altered, sometimes taking turns that seem almost mystical.

Jack held the eyedropper above his open mouth, squeezing it, feeling a drop of the LSD burst against his tongue, then a second, then a third. He closed his mouth, running his tongue around his teeth. It tasted like water. He knew that, he expected it, but it still somehow surprised him, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was legitimate.

Zeke took the eyedropper from him, a look of resigned trepidation evident on his face. “Here goes nothing,” he said, tilting his head back and letting a drop of the drug fall into his mouth. He handed the dropper to his girlfriend, Sonja, a spunky girl with short blonde hair and a pierced nose, and she did the same.

“So how long is it going to take for it to kick in?” she said, passing the eyedropper back to Jack.

Jack squeezed the leftover acid back into the vial before screwing the cap back on, putting the vial and eyedropper into his pocket. “Half an hour to an hour,” he said. “Sometimes longer. But it's my first time, too, so I don't know for sure.”

The three of them were sitting on the floor in Zeke's room, Zeke and Sonja leaning against Zeke's bed, and Jack a few feet away, leaning against the closet door. Zeke's room was a shrine to Gothic nerdiness, featuring large framed posters of Batman, the Punisher, and various other dark heroes and villains. On one wall hung an assortment of fantasy weaponry, various daggers, swords, and axes featuring ornate designs. Below that was a stand featuring more authentic, legitimate Japanese weaponry, a katana, a wakizashi, and a tanto. Zeke's house had been broken into at one point, and the wakizashi had come into play against the intruder, cutting off three of his fingers and inflicting a fairly serious chest wound. After that incident, Zeke's father had rewarded him with a Glock 17, a nine-millimeter, semi-automatic handgun, the butt of which could be seen poking out from underneath Zeke's pillow.

Zeke reached behind him, his arm grasping around under his bed, before he pulled out a shoe box. He opened it, pulled out a small glass bong, and unscrewed a bottle of water, filling the chamber, before reaching back into the box, into a sandwich bag, to pull out a few pinches of marijuana, loading the bowl of the bong. He pulled a lighter from his pocket and sparked the bowl, filling the chamber with smoke, before lifting the bowl and sucking the smoke into his lungs in one impressive pull. His face turned red as he resisted the urge to cough, and Jack snorted, the shadow of a smile on his face. Zeke flipped him off casually, and passed the bong to Sonja.

Jack reached into his coat and pulled out his cigarettes, blazing one to life between his lips. Sonja finished her hit and held the bong out to him, and he shook his head. “No. I want my head to be clear when the acid kicks in.” She nodded, and passed the bong back to her boyfriend, who shrugged before taking another monster hit.

Jack leaned back and smoked in silence, ignoring the two lovers sharing a bong and small talk a few feet away. He finished his cigarette and crushed the remnant into a glass ashtray, considering how in that small little tube, one could very easily see a parody of the human life, a carcinogenic, disease ridden thing that would at one point burn itself out, leaving nothing behind to speak for but a worthless carcass with very little use that would one day decompose to nothingness, and a cloud of pollution to sicken the planet even further than what it already is.

What's the point? He asked himself, reaching already for another cigarette. He hated himself when he got this way, when he turned into this introspective, depressed creature. He fought that side of himself daily, determined to beat it into submission with drugs, a carefully constructed mask designed to hide what few emotions he felt, and pure, unabashed strength of will.

He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. He breathed a stream of smoke out and realized that that, too, could be seen as a parody of life, a loose collection of cancer and death that would eventually fade to nothingness.

He shook his head and leaned back again. His gaze fell to the poster of Batman crouching on a gargoyle jutting from the side of a tall building. He liked Batman, liked the idea of a man dedicated to doing the right thing, to turning his pain into something noble and pure. He wasn't entirely sure why he liked that idea, being as it could quite be considered the exact opposite of himself. He took his pain and inflicted it upon others through intimidation, trickery, or, when necessary, pure brute force, as if as long as the world was hurting as much as he was, then his pain would begin to feel insignificant.

But...it never did. No matter how much he railed at the world, no matter how many people cringed in his presence, no matter how many noses he bloodied or ribs he broke, his pain never diminished, but instead seemed to grow with every passing day, with every passing thought, as if it was a black hole inside him, growing stronger with every evil deed he committed.

Time passed, and Jack become more and more involved in his thoughts, completely ignoring Zeke and Sonja. They didn't bother him, knowing full well that he simply got like this sometimes, and interrupting his thinking at such a time was likely to snap on his 'autopilot', throwing him into an unthinking rage before he realized who, exactly, it was that was interrupting him.

A smile begin to grow on his face as he sat there, and after a few moments, he realized how profoundly happy he was. He took a deep breath, and the feel of the cool air entering his lungs seemed almost profound.

There it is, he thought.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, slowly breathing in and out, but after a while, he looked towards Zeke and Sonja. Zeke had his arm around his girlfriend, and they both were leaned against the bed, each bearing a somewhat goofy smile.

“How long have we been tripping?” Jack asked.

“Fuck if I know, man,” Zeke responded. “I was high before I was high.” He started sniggering, and Sonja shook her head.

“That was not that funny.”

He leaned over, planting a kiss on her exposed neck. “Funny enough for me,” he said, and she rolled her eyes.

Jack lit another cigarette. He glanced once more at the Batman poster. “Whoa,” he said, noticing that the edges of the poster were slowly waving back and forth. “That's...kind of cool.”

“What is?” Zeke asked.

“Look at the posters, man. They're waving.”

“Whoa....”

Jack closed his eyes, and was soon is his own little world, his mind expanding into a million different places, his minds eye ablaze with activity. He seemed to slip into a trance once his cigarette was finished and crushed into the glass ashtray alongside it's brothers. He could see the room that they were in, and he saw the Batman poster he had stared at earlier. His minds eye zoomed in on the poster, closer and closer, until he seemed to pass through it, making the molecules that comprise the poster visible, then even closer, making the atoms that made up the molecules visible, then closer still.

He was struck by the revelation that every one of those tiny building blocks was somehow connected to every other, and that what happened to one would invariably cause repercussions affecting not only every building block of that poster, but of all of creation. As this came to him, his vision seemed to pull back out, once again zooming out past the atoms, the molecules, until he could see the poster once more. It kept pulling out, though, eventually showcasing the planet, and then the system, and he realized that all of these were the building blocks of something even greater. His vision kept pulling back, and he realized that the galaxy was the tiniest building block of something greater, and finally, that something snapped into view, this grand, inexplicable work of conscious art that was the master and the product of all of creation.

But what's the point!? he cried out internally, and his vision seemed to zoom back in, impossibly fast, back into the galaxy, back into the solar system, back into earth, inside some house he had never recognized before, and he saw her.

She was short—he guessed only a few inches over five feet. Her hair was long and dark, her eyes the most entrancing hazel he could ever even imagine comprehending. Her clothing was nothing fancy, jeans and a low-cut but fairly casual top. She didn't look like a model, or an actress, and she had almost an air of tomboyishness about her.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and he felt his mouth drop as he stared at her through closed eyes. She wasn't perfect, but her imperfections somehow made her more than perfect.

She raised her eyes to his, and a sad smile lit on her face. “I am,” she said, simply.

He Ran

It was time. Thomas glanced down, checking one last time that his shoes were laced and securely tied. They were, and he breathed a slight sigh of relief, knowing how difficult it would be to tie them now. He inhaled, filling his lungs with a deep breath, and exhaled, watching the mist of his breath float serenely past the shelter of the overhang covering the front porch into the field of water pouring from the sky.

It was time.

Very suddenly, Thomas stepped past the dryness of the porch and broke into a steady jog, quickly crossing the entirety of the front lawn before stepping from the gutter to the rain-slicked street, his feet splashing up streams of water behind him. The run was oddly satisfying, somehow rewarding in it's own sake, and he increased his speed, jogging quickly past mailboxes and parked cars, his only company on the dreary gray day.

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. For every fairy-tale ending that one person receives, another must endure tragedy. Very rarely had Thomas dared dream for the fairy-tale ending for himself, and thus, he was rarely disappointed. But tragedy...he had grown quite used to the presence of that haunting specter in his life. He had carried his fair share, and perhaps much more. Perhaps more than any man could bear.

So, he ran.

He rounded the corner, leaving the neighborhood, and continued his journey down the abandoned street. He passed a convenience store, it's bright lights promising a safe refuge from the gloomy weather, but he didn't stop. He continued jogging, his pace slowing a bit. He was already getting tired. He could practically smell copper in the air, mixed with the aromas of gasoline and rain.

Hope is a strange, fickle thing. You can live without it your entire life, and, though you may be a sad, pathetic thing for it, it's absence will not be terribly missed. But once you have had it, once that strange, fickle thing has lit inside your heart and filled your mind with empty promises, you'll find that it's quite impossible to ever live again without it.

So...he ran.

There is no pain in the world like the pain of the heartbroken. Many claim to have suffered such suffering, but they speak in ignorance. They've suffered heartaches, small fractures, but to have your heart truly broken, to have it unwillingly ripped from your chest and shattered before your very eyes, leaving not even a mote of dust left to try and fill the void within you—this is a rare thing. This is a thing that no man can ever truly recover from.

His arms began to hurt, but he blinked back the stinging tears that threatened to revolt against his will and picked up his pace, now sprinting down the street, as if he could outrun memories, agonies, and perhaps his own humanity.

A misnomer, perhaps. Could something bearing such unfathomable pain really be considered human? Could something so lost, so devoid of any driving force, even the basic evolutionary imperative to survive until the next day really be grouped amongst the whole of humanity?

Perhaps not.

And, thus, Thomas ran.

A car passed him, driving the opposite direction, causing a torrent of water to rise up and strike Thomas, as if it was offended by the dark stains growing on Thomas' clothing. He grit his teeth, expecting to be rewarded with more pain as the water slammed against his aching arms, but he realized that his hands were beginning to go numb, and he received no extra torment.

It was a hollow blessing. Physical pain is a fleeting, temporary thing. But emotional pain, true emotional pain, is an all-encompassing infection, an eternal curse, forever twisting the mind and soul of it's bearer, promising a future devoid of smiles, of laughs, of even the slightest shred of the possibility of a brighter tomorrow. It is a dark, hollowing thing, forcing the victim to turn his body into a gruesome puppet, able to fake cheeky grins and lighthearted tones while every cell of his body is screaming for release and relief.

Thomas's step faltered, and he unwillingly slowed to a walk. He continued this pace for a few seconds, before his fog-ridden mind realized what he was doing. It was growing hard to think.

He forced himself into a sprint, flying down the street, a crimson trail streaming behind him. His step faltered once more, but he caught his balance, once more regaining his frantic pace. He made it perhaps another ten seconds before he stumbled yet again, this time falling to the ground, unable to command his unresponsive hands to stretch out before him and break his fall. He lay there, exhausted, as finally some semblance of rest began to overtake him.

He was done running.

Reflection, Part One

Contains mature language.

The room was almost silent, broken only by the an ancient grandfather clock against the far wall occasionally ticking, accompanying each swing of it's dull bronze pendulum with an audible consequence, an infinite span of time trickling away between each extreme of the pendulum's path.

A half-dozen paces from the clock, a man sat on an aged oak chair, his elbows on his knees and his head cradled in his hands. The chair was an odd thing, clearly masterfully crafted and apparently made of a single piece of wood, but the varnish on it was worn, as if it had been left in solitude for a great many years before being sat in by the individual that occupied it now.

He stuck out in the room, a man wearing jeans and a faded green tee shirt, his long hair tied into a ponytail behind his head, and a grizzled face that was a clear sign he had neglected shaving for at least a few days. In a room that was the very epitome of timeless, with the few pieces of furniture clearly at the very least hundreds of years old, the sturdy door on the wall opposite the grandfather clock made of iron, an ornate mural etched into the metal that seemed blatantly simple and yet impossible to decipher the meaning of at the same time, the man, in his modern clothing and casual level of grooming, stuck out like a sore thumb, as if he was the focus of one of those 'One of These Things Just Doesn't Belong' puzzles you might provide a small child to keep her occupied for a few short minutes.

Finally, the man raised his head and sighed. He was suddenly stricken by how very thirsty he was, and he turned his head to be greeted by the sight of a beautiful, small wooden table bearing a filled crystal carafe next to a crystal goblet, the rim covered with a thin ring of gold. Slowly, he filled the goblet with water, before taking a long drink. The water was surprisingly cold, considering the fact that the room was the perfect temperature, neither even the slightest bit warm or cool, and the man had sat in the room for a very long time, now, during which the water certainly hadn't been refrigerated.

A quiet creak broke the monotony of the slow ticking as the door opened. There was the soft swish of robes on the marble floor, and then a voice spoke, a deep, rumbling voice that seemed more felt than heard. “Are you ready?”

He took another drink. “Is it time to go?”

“Not unless you want it to be. You have time to reflect, if you desire.”

He set the glass down. “How much time?”

“There is no limit.”

“Can I leave this room?”

“There is nothing for you outside of this room.”

“I'm not ready.”

“Very well.” The swish sounded again, followed by the creaking and the soft click of the door closing.

Time to reflect, he thought.

*1990*

There exists certain roles that are forever manifested through time. The Hopeless, The Reaper, The Soldier, The Madman, the Philosopher, the Dreamer. Every man, every woman, every child embodies to some extent every one of these roles, along with countless others, but there are some rare individuals that truly come to become them.

The Hopeless—this Hopeless—was born in the year of 1990, into a small child, alone in the world.

Jack couldn't remember much of his father. He had fragments, here and there, often memories in which he knew his father was present, was around at the time the memory happened, but he couldn't recall his face.

His sharpest memory was arguably his last. The year was 1990, the month August, and his father was a Sergeant in the US Army. He remembered his father kneeling before him, the feeling of his strong arms wrapped around him, and the fresh smell of aftershave coming off of his cheeks.

Sergeant Clark Radden was killed by a roadside bomb. He was in a unit guarding a group of seventeen civilians, ushering them to the safety of a nearby town. And very quickly, Jack's world changed.

Chloe Radden, Clark's wife, had known Clark for nearly her entire life. The first 'date' the two of them shared was when she was in seventh grade, he in eighth, and it was an innocent thing that involved Clark joining Chloe's family on a trip to the movies. They had gotten married a few years out of high school, and had their son, Jack, named after his paternal grandfather, a few years after that.

Chloe found herself ill-equipped to the life she found herself in. She attended the military funeral two days after she first heard the news. She wasn't allowed to see the body—shrapnel, she had been told, had shredded through her husband, and the funeral was decidedly closed-casket. After the funeral, she picked up a bottle of alcohol, and began drinking. For the next few months, she neglected to stop.

“Mommy?” Jack asked, tugging on her outstretched hand. She was fast asleep, sprawled face-down on the bare mattress, a mostly-consumed bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee Whiskey held with loose fingers. She lay unmoving, and Jack tugged her again, until she finally groaned, her eyes cracking open, murmuring unintelligibly. Finally, she recognized her son, and sluggishly sat up, unscrewing the cap off the bottle and taking a sip.

“Hand Mommy her cigarettes,” she said, gesturing at the green pack on the bedside table, her voice a low croak. Jack did so, and she pulled a cigarette and her lighter from the small box before lighting it. She blew a long stream of smoke out of her mouth, and Jack coughed.

“We're out of cereal, Mommy,” he said, and Chloe sighed. She took another swig from the bottle before stumbling to her feet and walking to the bathroom, bringing her cigarette and whiskey with her. A few moments later, she emerged again.

“Come on,” she said, walking past him with a heavy sway in her step.

The cupboards in the kitchen were mostly bare, and the refrigerator/freezer was doing an excellent job of mimicking them. Finally, she pulled a frozen beef patty from the freezer and put it on a plate before placing it in the microwave. “Hamburger for breakfast, honey,” she said, turning the dial of the microwave.

This was the life of young Jack Radden.

The next day, the same issue presented itself. Jack searched through the cupboards, the fridge, the freezer, but couldn't find anything to eat that wouldn't require cooking. Once again, he walked to his mother's room to find her sprawled across her bed, this time with a bottle of off-brand vodka.

“Mommy?” he said, once again, as he began to tug on her hand. She didn't move, and he wrinkled his nose as he saw the vomit on the bed and the pungent aroma struck him with the force of Bruce Lee's famous One Inch Punch.

“Mommy,” he said, tugging her hand a bit harder, and all of a sudden the fairly bright five year old realized that there was no gently snoring, no sound of breathing from his mother at all. The child experienced what felt like a large chunk of ice settling into his stomach. He tugged on her hand again, desperately trying to wake her up, but he knew that wasn't going to happen.

*Now*

Jack sighed again, shaking his head. Once more, he took a drink of water, and he yearned for a cigarette.

He hadn't thought of his parents in a very long time.

He stared at the pendulum, slowly swinging back and forth, counting away seconds, minutes, hours, years, lives.

*1995*

Just as a series of mountains can block the sun's light, so, too, can a series of tragedies block the light of humanity. It is quite possible for a person—particularly a child—to shut off emotionally, after enough hardship, sometimes quite permanently, as a defense mechanism. Of course, while it is quite an effective method of defending one's mental status, it also forces the person to grow in an...unnatural manner. Human beings are meant to have emotions. Even the struggle to overcome base emotions could be considered human, a noble endeavor to overcome anger, jealousy, pride, but if one's emotions are shut off entirely, then they are forced to grow without being able to feel happiness, or love, or the most basic shadow of hope.

And thus, the Hopeless was born. He almost certainly could have recovered from his father's death. His mother's death, following so closely after his father's, could have perhaps been something that he could eventually overcome, given enough time and love. Time, he was given plenty of. Love....

Well, no man can understand love. Not truly. Not in it's entirety. And, therefore, no man can truly say exactly how much love this Hopeless would have needed to heal, to become human. But, certainly, no matter how much was required, it was far, far more than what he received.

The force of the backhand literally lifted Jack off of his feet, seemingly temporarily nullifying gravity's effect on the boy. Jack fell to the ground, and his uncle was on top of him, fumbling in his pocket, and then there was a snap as he flicked his wrist and the polished steel blade of the pocket knife flashed in the light.

“You need to learn some fuckin' respect, boy,” Uncle Jeffrey said waving the blade in front of his face. “Or you're gonna end up just like your fuckin' father. You understand me?”

He had that acrid aroma drifting from him again, and his pupils were large, black pools of malice. This was the first time this had happened...this week.

Of course, it was only Monday.

Jack, you see, had taken out the trash. He hadn't been asked to, he merely saw that it needed to be done, and so he did so. However, he did forget to put a trash bag back in after he was done, completely disrespecting everyone else in the house, since he was, of course, purposefully attempting to make someone else finish a job he started.

He had lived with his uncle, aunt, and their three children for roughly five years. During that time, he had dealt with at least mild levels of almost every abuse conceivable—physical, emotional, sexual. He'd gotten used to it, or at least as used to it as one could. The physical abuse he considered earned. The emotional abuse he considered a pleasant alternative to the physical. And the sexual...well, it had happened, and he didn't quite see any point of complaining about it, so he didn't.

Jack wasn't cut that day—he rarely was. His uncle brandished the knife often, but it wasn't but once in every dozen or so times it was brought out that it was actually used.

It was an average Monday.

*Now*

He stared at calloused hands and, not for the first time, he wondered how very different his life may have turned out if he had given into the daily temptation that began occurring at age eleven or so to sneak into the room of his aunt and uncle with a butcher knife while they lay sleeping and....

Well. The point is, he didn't ever do that, did he? He was too cowardly to take matters into his own hands. Too cowardly to stand up for himself. Sure, he could argue with himself all day long, I was just a kid! but at the end of the day, he knew that he was a coward then...and he was a coward now.

Because cowardice never really goes away, does it? No, it stays inside you, festering within, growing like a tumor, ruining what few good parts of yourself that you have left. Once you realize what a coward you are—and Jack did realize it, finally, after years, but still at a relatively young age, barely in the double digits—you are forever changed.

“I am a coward,” he said, as if he had just come to the conclusion once again, and he flinched at the sound of his voice, and realized it had been a very, very, long time since he'd had company and spoke. He stood, began pacing back and forth, once again wishing very firmly that he had a cigarette. “I am a coward,” he repeated, and then, “a goddamned, fucking coward.”

Fallout

November 21st, 2011


I don't know why I'm writing this.  I don't really see the point.  I'm expecting the power to go off any day, now--I'm surprised it's lasted this long--and then what use is this computer going to be?  I guess this is just my attempt to keep my sanity, in a world that doesn't make sense anymore.  And maybe one day, historians will read this the tale of someone who survived, at least for a while, after the Bombs dropped.


It was fall of 2011.  I can't remember the exact date.  Almost a month ago, I guess.  Too much has happened.  Ironically, it would have been a bad day, anyways.  My girlfriend, Gloria--an apt description for her, because, trust me, historian, she WAS glorious--and I were at a restaurant.  Nothing really fancy, it was just a mid-week lunch date.  She told me that she was leaving me.  There was someone else.  And then, almost as if God felt like emphasizing the blow, the flash came.

I don't know how many nukes were used.  Enough to basically level the country, and the ones that the Good Old US of A threw back were enough to level the world.  No cities left.  Not even a millionth of the people alive that once were.  The entire planet, gone in a series of flashing lights.

Somehow--grace of God, I guess--I survived.  I literally have no idea how.  I guess I went into shock for a while.  Finally, I realized that I was still sitting at the table of this restaurant, which was now in pieces.  Most of the wall next to the street was gone, the booths and tables demolished, in fragments strewn around me.  Somehow, my table was almost perfectly fine.  Rubble was scattered atop it, but it was still upright, and I was still sitting at it.  My food had disappeared at some point, as had Gloria.  I guess she's dead, now.  I don't know why I'M not.

I finally left the ruins of the restaurant and started walking home.  It was a long walk, longer than I'd ever walked before, but I finally made it, a few hours after dark.  My house was mostly intact, scarred here and there, and with all of the windows broken, but intact.  I climbed upstairs, went to sleep.

Over the next few days, I started to worry about survival.  I started scavenging around the neighborhood, and finally gave up and began the long walk to a Home Depot.  The place was in shambles, but there was still a lot of stuff around, ripe for the picking.  I loaded up on boards, locks, everything I would need, and began a very frustrating walk back home, pushing a shopping cart of tools and pulling a lumber cart loaded with wood behind me.  A few survivors were on the streets, and I got paranoid as I passed each one, knowing the new world we found ourselves in could turn very nasty, very quick, but no one bothered me.  The most I got were a few strange looks, people wondering why I was worried about nails and hammers when more important things like food were still easy to scavenge.

I got back home late, and began to board up every window in the house.  It blocked out all the natural light, but security was more important.  I started working on the front door, and installed six new deadbolts.  I was going to save the other four that I had for the back door, but I finally decided to just board it up, and I used the four deadbolts on the door to my bedroom, the place where I knew I'd be most vulnerable.


I'll continue this later.  I need some sleep.


November 23rd


Hello again, Historian.  Somehow, the power is still on, and I haven't had to use the generator I picked up a few weeks ago, yet.  I was honestly surprised to find it at the Home Depot--which, by the way, was a store where you could get home-repair type stuff, since I imagine they don't exist in your time--but it was there.  At the same store that I got everything else, ironically.  In fact, there were still PLENTY of generators, which is kind of sad.  I know that there are survivors other than me, I've seen them, but I guess very few of them have realized that eventually, the power WILL shut down.


I mentioned before that I'm trying to keep my sanity, but it's getting harder.  I keep hearing this ringing in my ears, at the most random times, and it's starting to really get under my skin.  I don't know if it's just something in my head, or if maybe it's because my hearing is damaged from the sound of the explosions.  Either one makes sense, I guess.  It didn't start right after the explosion, though, I don't think.  I remember the flash, the roaring sound in my ears, but the ringing didn't start until later.


I do know that I'm starting to lose it, though.  I'm hoping it's just shock, but I keep losing track of time, forgetting what I'm doing, forgetting what I've done.  Earlier today, I guess I had made up my mind to try and scavenge food, so I guess I trundled off to a grocery store to see if there was anything left to scavenge.  I don't remember making the decision to go, or even actually GOING, I just know at one point I looked down and realized that the wheel of the shopping cart I took from Home Depot was caught on a piece of concrete jutting from the street, and it was loaded full of stuff.  Canned goods, mostly, some toiletries.  The essentials, stuff that would last.  I got the wheel unstuck, took my stuff home.


I got almost all of the way home when someone came up to me, asking where I got it all at.  Wanting to know where I was, where I was going.  He was trying to distract me--he wanted my food.  I could tell.  Luckily, I started carrying a baseball bat, and I saw it tucked inside the cart.  I pulled it out, got it ready.  I didn't want to hurt him--I don't want to hurt ANYONE--but there aren't that many resources left in the world, and I couldn't let him take what I had rightfully found.  He finally got the message, backed off.  I kept turning back, checking on him, but he only stared after me, didn't follow, and once I turned a ruined corner, we left each others sight.


The ringing.  There it is again.  I can never tell when it's going to start, and I can never tell when it's going to stop.  Sometimes it lasts for hours, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for mere seconds.  Sometimes you think it's finally stopped, and then BAM there it is again, right out of the blue, driving you up the fucking wall.


November 30th

I don't know if the clock on this computer is messing up, or if I'm just getting worse.  If the date is right, and today is the thirtieth, then I've lost a few days, because it hasn't been a week since I last typed on here.  That was only three or four days ago, as far as I can remember.

I wish Gloria was here.  Part of me is glad she's gone, glad she doesn't have to go through the hell this world has become.  Every time I step outside, I know that I might not ever be coming back, and every time I lock the deadbolts behind me after I GET back, I know that I'm not entirely safe here, either.  There are maniacs out there, people who have taken this situation as a blessing to do whatever they want, no matter how wrong it is.  I'm glad Gloria doesn't have to live in a world this hopeless.

But at the same time, she centered me.  She always had.  I was going to propose to her, believe it or not.  I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, because she always made me better.  She cleared my head, she helped me focus.  Artists talk about their muse, the person or thing that is their inspiration in their work.  She was my muse in LIFE.


Now, all I have left of her is her memory.  She's the reason I carry around a baseball bat, instead of trying to find a gun somewhere.  She's the reason I try to go on.  As long as I keep her alive in my memory, she's not dead.


I went by her house yesterday.  It was a long walk, longer than the walk home from the restaurant so long ago.  All this walking is putting me in the best shape of my life.  I left before the sun came up, got there in the afternoon.  There wasn't anything left, just fragmented concrete that made up the foundation at one point.  There was almost nothing left in the entire neighborhood.  I stood there, staring at the gap in the universe where her house should be for maybe ten minutes before I finally left.

DAMNIT!  The Ringing is happening again.  Why won't it stop?!

December 18th


Everything is worse than ever.  The power finally went out, and I'm running this on the generator.  I'm almost out of gas for it.  There's lots of snow outside, too much to go out in.  Too much to go out in, there's no way I'd be able to scavenge anything and get it back here.


People keep trying to get in.  They pound on the door, the windows.  They try the doorknob.  I hide when I hear them begin their assault on my house, run up to my bedroom and 

FUCK THE RINGING AGAIN

It won't stop.  It KEEPS FUCKING COMING.


Anyways.  I go to my bedroom, lock the door, get my bat ready.  So far, I've been lucky, no one's been able to get in.  Yet.  It's just because there are easier pickings out there.  One day, they'll be REALLY determined to get in, and some fucking deadbolts aren't going to keep them away.


I had to turn off the heater to save enough of the gas to type this message.  I guess this is going to be the last one I can send, Historian.  My generator is going out, and with as much snowfall as we've had, there isn't any way I'm going to be able to get more gas.  It's already down to 40 degrees in the house now, and I turned off the heater, set to 65 degrees, less than an hour ago.  I'm nearly out of food, and I don't have a lot of blankets, and--the point is, I'm going to die soon, I think.  It's okay.  The ringing stopped, finally.  I'm going to save this.  Put it on a disc, and a flash drive, all the stuff I can think of.  Hopefully one day it'll be found.  And I'm going to go get in my bed, with my jacket, some heavy clothes, my blanket.  Stay warm as long as I can.  And when I can't take it any more, I have some Ambien.  They're sleeping pills.  I figure when it comes to that, I'll just pop some of them, and freeze to death in my sleep.  Better than being awake for it, right?  At least I'll get to see Gloria soon.

Goodbye, Historian.  I hope you're from a better world than the one I'm leaving.

FUCK.  THE RINGING STARTED AGAIN!


"Babe, just give it up," Alex said.  "He hasn't answered his phone for, like, two months.  He's obviously not going to."

"I just want to talk to him," Gloria said, setting the phone back in the cradle.  "I'm worried about him."

"I'm telling you, he probably split."  Alex sat down on the couch and flipped on the TV.  "When he came by last month, he seemed out of it.  Maybe he just decided to get away from it all for a while.  I'm sure he's fine."

"That's so weird, though.  You should have talked to him."

"Babe, I'm sorry, but I'm not about to go out and talk to your ex when he shows up at your house.  Not to mention, he was creepy.  He just stood there for like twenty minutes, staring at the house.  It was weird."

"We had been together a long time.  He probably misses me."

"Well, I'm thinking he's missing you all the way in Maui, then.  I'm sure he's glad he got away before this damn snowstorm came in.  It's ridiculous."

"It's just...that's not like him.  I don't think he'd just leave like that."

"I know, Gloria, but we've been to his house.  His windows are boarded up, he's got extra locks on his doors, and his mailbox is full.  His porch light didn't turn on with the motion sensor, and the doorbell didn't ring, so it looks like he even turned off his electricity.  I'm telling you, he's split.  And I can't really blame him.  You're a lot to lose.  It'll take him some time."

"Yeah...I guess you're right."  She sat down on the couch next to him, and he reached over, playfully pulling her onto his lap.

"Now," he said, a smirk on his face, "what say we generate some body heat to fight off this snowstorm?"

She smiled naughtily.  "Why, that sounds like a lovely idea."