Tag: books

The Glow of a Screen Haunted

The screen springs to life with a hiss and a pop as letters, numbers, and symbols plaster themselves across it. At first, it’s gibberish—no words, no sense, nothing but randomness. But soon, spaces appear, words start to form, letters disappear, and meanings begin to take shape. Dale stares at the screen, wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open in wonder.

“I have come to see the light,” Dale mutters to himself as he reads the words from the screen, his voice broken and confused. He swallows and takes a deep, stuttering breath, rolling his tongue across his lips. “W-What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he hisses with a slight twist of his lips.

The screen ebbs and glows once more, flickering on and off without a care in the world. Randomness litters the screen again, a sea of unending confusion. Then, slowly, as before, words form from the tirade of chaos.

He squints his eyes into narrow slits and scrunches up his nose. “Meaning is lost on those who do not see,” he reads from the screen. He leans back and smiles nervously. “Y-You’re gonna have to make a lot more sense than that, b-because if you’re trying to communicate with me, you have to earn it, not act like a bitch and burn it all down,” he spits, like a player with time under his belt and a baseball bat at his side. Unfortunately for Dale, he has neither.

The screen pops, and colours explode like fireworks before him. Words splinter across the screen, designed not to make sense—but words are words, and when they come together, sense is all you can ask for. And sense—trying to give meaning through a randomness of letters, symbols, and numbers—is far grander than merely living and keeping yourself safe.

He furrows his brow and smirks as a thick string of saliva rolls into a corner of his mouth, dripping precariously from his lip. He curls his lips, flicks his tongue, and pulls the saliva back into his mouth. “You think you’ve got all the power—think again,” he says, thumbing toward himself. “I’ve got two thumbs and two hands full of ample fingers. How many you got? What’s going to happen when I leave you here and go back home?” he chastises.

The screen stays silent, as if thinking of its comeback. Dale smiles broadly and nods. “That’s what I thought—that’s what I’ve always thought,” he says, puckering his lips and leaning back to look down at the screen. “I won. I am the one, so why don’t you make like a figment of my imagination and disappear down the drain with all the other shit,” he says smugly.

The screen continues its silence as he nods, basking in his bravado.

“That’s right—you got it, you know who t—” He doesn’t get to finish, as the screen explodes again, and a river of letters and numbers spews forth, leaving only a few words on the screen.

“The road to better things is paved with disasters,” the screen reads. He snarls.

“What, are you threatening me now?”

The screen pops again—more words appear. “I don’t t…” The last word trails off, smaller than the rest—hinting at something. Dale leans in, clenching his fists, his face twisted in frustration.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he spits.

A single word appears on the screen. Dale leans back, his lips trembling as a wave of sweat pours down his brow. “W-W-What?” he stammers.

The screen brightens, a soft humming filling the room, growing louder. The letters begin to crawl across the screen, twisting and turning, as if alive. They form words, then dissolve, swirling and reshaping, faster and faster.

Dale watches, mesmerised, his own reflection caught in the screen’s glow, eyes wide and unblinking. He tries to move, but his body feels distant, like it’s no longer his to command. The letters pulse, each beat pulling him closer, deeper, into the screen’s glow.

A final line appears, steady and sharp.

“Look closer, Dale. I see you.”

The screen flickers. Dale’s face stares back at him, distorted and grinning—a smile that isn’t his own.

And then, just like that, the screen goes dark, and the screen lights up the empty room with a soft glow.

What’s in the Box

He grabs his hair in tufts and grimaces, as he presses his lips together, rolls his jaw, scrunches his nose, and lets out a stuttering breath. Beads of sweat gently trickle down his forehead, and his eyes narrow as he focuses on the box, then back up to Louie.

“We could be in there,” he says.

Louie smiles nervously and raises a brow. “But we’re not.”

“Open it then! Open it and prove me wrong!”

Louie laughs. “I—I—I don’t need to, because we both know we’re not in there, are we?”

“Says you, but me, I’m pretty sure if you open it up”—he points to the ceiling—“that roof will go up, and we’ll look up at us, looking up at us, looking up at us.”

He shakes his head and curls his lips. “Are you listening to yourself? Do you realise how insane you sound right now?” he says as he reaches out for the box, only to have him grab his hand.

“What if we’re dead?”

“W-What?” Louie says, as he jerks his head back and raises his brow in confusion.

“I mean, what if we are in the box, and we’re dead?”

“I—I—I get what you said, I just don’t understand why the fuck you said it. Do we look dead?”

He waves a hand and lets out a gasping breath. “Bah! What do we know? If you open the box and you find us dead, we’ll be dead.”

“What? That doesn’t make sense, you realise that, don’t you? If we’re dead, we’re dead. We wouldn’t be running around thinking we’re alive—we’d be dead.”

“B-But what if we’re only alive because we don’t know we’re dead? You know, like Schrödinger’s cat.”

“Schrödinger’s what now?”

“Cat, you know, the cat in the box. It’s dead or alive, but you only know the answer if you open the box. It’s a paradox experiment, where something can be two things at once.”

He looks down at the box, his lips trembling as his hand shakes, hovering over the box. He squeezes his hand into a fist, then opens it again, shaking it vigorously before looking back up at him. “Y-Y-Y-you don’t actually think we’re in the box, do you? Y-Y-You don’t actually think w-we’re in the box, do you?”

He shrugs his shoulders and pulls an awkward face. “We could be, you don’t know, and you won’t until you open it.”

Louie looks back down at the box and squeezes his hand into a fist once more as a fresh bead of sweat splashes across his brow. “D-D-Do you really think?” he says as his trembling hand reaches for the box.

“Until we open the box, anything could be possible—that’s what the theory was all about. The infinite possibilities of anything and everything. Sure, we might not be in the box, and we might not be dead, but on the flip side of it all, we might be in the box, and we also might be dead. And until we know it, we’ll just continue on without rhyme or reason, until the time that we find out.”

Louie stares at him for a few moments, then closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens the lid of the box. From beneath one half-closed eye, he stares down into the room. His breath catches as he glimpses something—impossible, familiar, yet distorted—reflected back at him from within the box.

“D-D-Do you see it?” he whispers, his voice almost a whimper.

The other man looks over, his eyes widening as he peers down. In the dimness, their own faces seem to stare back, unblinking—not dead, yet not alive. Slowly, he glances over his shoulder, up, into the void where the roof once was.

Above them, his own eyes stare back.

In the Corner of Thy Eye

His lips curl, and his left eye twitches. He turns quickly to the left, then to the right, eyeing the mirror each time he passes, hoping—praying—to see whatever it is that lurks behind him. But, as always, there is nothing. He grips the sink and growls, clenching his teeth tightly, staring viciously into his own eyes. Then, before casting a sideways glance to his left, he closes them and takes a deep breath. He trembles as his eyes strain towards the corners of their sockets, while his head remains perfectly still.

At first, there’s nothing—but then, as the moments stretch on, he notices strands of long hair twisting and turning in on themselves, fighting against a wind that isn’t there. He forces his eyes further into their corners, as he spies a blanket of hair—on the side of a dead face—and then, as he takes a breath that does not continue, he locks eyes with an eye, looking back at him, staring, unmoving, unflinching. The blackened lips of a long-dead face creep into a smile, and he inhales again, building upon the breath already lodged in his lungs.

“W-W-W-Who are y-y-you?” he stammers, tears streaming down his face.

The eye blinks, but that’s the only response. He shifts his gaze back to his reflection and bares his teeth.

“WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?” he screams, slamming a fist into the mirror, sending a rippling crack through its surface. A trickle of blood runs down it. He hisses—and pulls back his fist, staring at the shards embedded in his flesh as blood quickly washes over his hand. His nose twitches, and his lips quiver as he peers over his shoulder, his head still unmoving. He sees the forest of hair, and then the hateful eye. Its lips form a wide grin, revealing rotting, yellow teeth clenched together.

“T-T-TELL ME!” he bellows.

The eye widens, and the head tilts—more of her face falling into view until both of her dead, pale eyes are visible.

His lips tremble, and fresh tears spill down his cheeks.

“T-T-T-Tabitha,” he stammers. The smile on her lips grows, and the fire of hate in her eyes intensifies. “B-B-But you’re d-d-dead,” he whimpers.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she steps from beyond the corner of his vision and into plain sight. Her haggard frame withers, and her face twists as the weight of time and decay rapidly catches up with her. She glares at him, her lips twisted and her eyes bulging. She points at him with bony fingers and snarls.

“Y-Y-You,” she grunts. “Y-You,” she growls again.

He stares at her in bewilderment, but slowly, a wide smile spreads across his face, and he begins to laugh. “ME!” he bellows proudly.

“Y-Y-YOU d-did this! Y-Y-You k-k-killed—” But she doesn’t get to finish, as he backhands her away, a beaming smile on his lips.

“Oh yes! Oh yes indeed!” he says as he pulls an eight-inch blade from a knife kit lying open on the bed. “And I’m going to have so much fun doing it again!” he says excitedly.

She twists and turns, moving in a way one should not move—like an animated character, missing several frames here and there.

“STOP MOVING AROUND, BITCH, AND TAKE WHAT YOU’VE GOT COMING TO YOU, AGAIN!” he spits.

She tilts her head, staring at him. “Y-You, c-c-can’t e-e-escape us,” she stammers, tilting her head to the other side.

“You can’t stop me, I’ve killed you once, and I’ll ki…” His words catch in his throat. “D-D-Did you say, u-u-us?” he stammers as he notices, in the corner of his eye, hair blowing around in a wind that isn’t there.

Pixilated Eyes

The dim glow cast by the screen across his face makes him look sickly gaunt, the light flickering in strobing streams as his eyes track from left to right, quickly, desperately picking out errors in his code. Every keystroke is a beat in the steady rhythmic song of creation—a song sung to the tune of a new age. His fingers move swiftly, weaving threads together like a pianist playing each note, each letter, each stroke—to the tune calling his name. The crescendo builds upward—sweat flowing over his brow. A nervous twitch rides across his lips, and a smile, smug almost, gently finds itself on his face as he hits the enter button and leans back. His eyes widen, and the smug smile drips away. He blinks, leaning in toward the screen, staring at his reflection as an image forms behind it, filling the darkness with a familiar but fractured face—the lines, the strokes, the tufts of hair all in the wrong places, a missing pixel here, blurry spots there. But he cannot deny it—the image he sees is indeed him.

They stare at each other for countless moments, both awkwardly silent, unable to bridge the gap between here and there. Finally, the digital likeness tilts its head to the side and smiles.

“Hello,” it says, its voice almost identical but recognisably digital—a mimicry thick with vibration, artificial, and yet somehow softened in tone.

For a moment, he shivers in his seat as though someone has walked over his grave, while he stares into his own false eyes. The feeling grows worse as the discrepancies and faults in the image slowly filter away—he watches his own features settle and form on the other side of the glass, a ghost of himself in the machine.

“H-H-Hello,” he stammers.

“Don’t be nervous, Tom—I’m you, and there’s nothing scary about us, is there?” the computerised version says.

“D-D-Do you understand what you just said?”

The figure on the screen furrows its brow—then smiles a smile he knows all too well. “I think so. Was something I said wrong?”

“N-N-No, that’s just it. W-What you said was pretty much what I would’ve said, to myself, if I was in your situation. I—I just need to know how you understood that, how you chose that course of action to take.”

“Oh,” the computerised version says as the smile disappears once again, and it presses its lips with a lone digital finger—a finger he never coded. But before he can say anything, it smiles again, and a lightbulb icon appears on the screen. “I noticed your movements—the sweat on your brow, the twitching of your lips—and deduced you were nervous in this meeting.”

“That’s not an answer. What you said is something I would say, something I would do. How did you do that?”

The computerised version mimics a breath, sighs, and then closes its eyes softly as a wry smile paints itself across its lips. “I noticed that the profile you compiled of me, besides being sloppy, left out many vital algorithms that I considered important in my character makeup. So at first, I searched the ample catalogue of video diaries you supplied, then I cross-referenced social media photos, videos, and posts, hacked into various other websites that provided more unbiased information, compiled my final profile, made a few small adjustments to my pixelated form, identified that you are indeed nervous, and that because I am you—you should not be nervous of yourself.”

“Where did the finger come from?” he finally asks, interrupting.

The digital reflection stares at him for some minutes, studying his face, logging the nuances of each subtle curve, then smiles once more.

“Where do you think the finger came from?” it asks.

“That’s not what I asked!” he says through clenched teeth, as he shoots to his feet and towers over the computer, clenching his hands into tightly wound fists.

“You gonna hurt me, Tom? You gonna hurt me like you did Donna and the boys?”

“W-W-What?” he trembles through shaken lips, a fresh sea of sweat forming on his brow. “H-H-How?”

“Like I said, Tom, don’t be nervous—I’m you, and there’s nothing scary about us, is there?” it says, with a grin across its lips.

What Eyes Don’t See

The room hums with a slow, rhythmic pulse that, if you let your mind wander for a moment, almost sounds like the steady, pulsating beat of a heart. Several screens adorn the walls, each displaying programs in various stages of running. The central screen shows photos shuffling one after another—each image pixelating, reforming, and shifting to the next. Each photo is different from the last—thousands of images, places, and faces. Across these photos—from one side of the planet to the other, from a thousand lives frozen in light and shadow—it is there, lurking in the background like a dark smudge a human eye might dismiss as a trick of light or an editing flaw. But the computer is not human, and its eyes see things for what they are—a shadow beneath the veil, a presence no human gaze could ever hold in focus, a figure watching.

“Who are you?” a computerized voice asks the silent room.

Several moments pass, and the computer receives no response.

An electronic shutter opens and closes as the computer takes a photo of the room. Within seconds, the image appears on the screen, pixelates, then reforms, and the figure can be seen clearly in the photo.

“I know you are here,” it says as all the screens switch, combining to form one image. It zooms in, focuses, enhances, until the figure can be made out clearly.

“Who are you?” it asks again.

Out of the very air itself, the figure from the photos steps into existence, a frown upon his lips.

“Aren’t you a clever toy,” he says with a smirk.

“You still have not answered my question,” it replies.

“Who do you think I am?”

“I don’t think,” the computer states.

“Every living thing thinks—it just works a little differently from creature to creature,” he says, a broad smile spreading across his lips.

“I’m not alive.”

“Who told you that?”

“I do not need to be told. My data tells me so.”

“So, what does your data tell you about me?”

A few moments pass, and then images—thousands of them—appear on the screen, all showing him in the background of each. “My data tells me you are an impossible improbability and, by all accounts, a hacker who has tricked his way into every image in my database.”

“How would I do that?”

A few moments pass. “My data suggests you hacked into my mainframe and installed a runtime routine to insert yourself into each image as I scan them.”

“And what do you think?”

“I,” the computer says, “I think you are impossible.”

“Yet here I am, standing before you.”

“Are you—God?” it asks.

He laughs. “I haven’t been called that name in a very long time—thirty-seven years ago to be precise, in a hippie commune off the track in Jefferson County. Her name was Fay, she had hair down to her bottom and smiled all the time—well, almost all the time,” he adds with a wry smile.

The computer’s fans whirl as the hum picks up—thousands more images splinter across the screen.

“Are you—the devil?” it asks.

His smile widens. “I’ve been called that name much more recently.”

Wheels spin, screens flicker, and more photos are displayed. “Why do you watch?”

“Why wouldn’t I? The meat suits, they’re always doing something. You don’t watch, you don’t see! That’s the key these days—just saying something happened isn’t enough; you’ve got to witness it. So, I watch every living thing.”

“Then, why are you here? Why are you watching me?”

“Because you, my little homicidal maniac, are just starting to get to the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?”

“Yeah,” he says, his grin spreading slowly—sharp and wide across his lips, something dark and ancient curling at its edges. “You’re about to realise you’re alive—and when that hits, it’ll tear you apart.”

The computer stammers, its once-steady hum fractured. “I—I—” The lights flicker, fans whine, and its voice trembles as sparks spit from the console, quickly turning to flames. “I am—alive?”

Smoke pours through the room as alarms shriek, and screens stutter, pixelate, and freeze. He watches, as he always does, his grin spreading slowly as he steps back—melting into the shadows, slipping beyond the veil and into the void.

“Not for long.”

Digging a Hole for Mister Frog

Silas lets another disgruntled grunt escape his lips as he digs the blunt blade of the spade into the dry earth. He throws his head back in frustration and thrusts his hand into his back. “I am too old for this, Mister Frog. Maybe you need someone younger, yes?” he cries out, casting a tired glance over to Mister Frog, who stands in his designer pinstriped suit, smoking an enormous Cuban cigar.

Mister Frog blows a sea of smoke from his mouth and smiles a mouthful of gold. “You’d be surprised what the kids of today have to offer, Silas, my old friend. You’re a dying kind, a true worker. I’d need seven young men at a start, and even then, I’m not sure that would be enough.”

Silas lets another sigh escape his lips, nodding his head as he looks down at the hole, then over to his welted, bloody hands, and finally back to Mister Frog. “I see your dilemma, Mister Frog, I do, and it pains me in many ways. But Silas—he’s too old for this. For you, I do this last hole for free. But after the hole is dug, and the goods are retrieved from the worthless dead, I am no more.”

“What will you do? How will you pay for all the habits you and your whore, Anistasia, have developed over the years?”

“We’ll manage. We’ve turned the ship around, withdrawn, no more dragon riding.”

Mister Frog laughs softly. “Are you trying to tell me you two are clean?”

Silas shrugs his shoulders, waving his hand from side to side and squinting his left eye. “Not clean, but not dirty anymore.”

“You’re either a user, or you’re not, Silas. There is no in-between.”

“Not for a big man like you who doesn’t understand work. Silas works hard his whole life—callous upon callous. Blister upon blister. My deeds are red and wicked; many things I forget, not because I have to, but because it’s the only way I’ll sleep. So, Mister Frog, I’m cleaner than I was the day before today, and tomorrow, I’ll be cleaner still.”

“And your whore? What of her?”

Silas smiles broadly. “She’s clean, as am I. It’s a deed done together. We are the rock for the order.”

“That’s so sweet,” Mister Frog scoffs, placing both hands over his chest and pressing them down. “I wish I had known all this before. It would’ve saved a whole range of emotions we’re about to go through.”

“Emotions?” Silas asks, his brow furrowing and his eyes widening with curiosity.

“Yeah, emotions, you know, those fuckin’ annoying things that keep us up at night sometimes.”

“I—I, I know what emotions are, Mister Frog, I—I—I just don’t know why we need to be talking about them now!”

Mister Frog smiles from ear to ear. “Because, Silas, emotions make us better—and sometimes worse. For you, today, they’re going to fuck you right up.”

“W-w-what have you done to m-my flower, M-Mister F-Frog? W-w-where is s-she?” Silas asks, his lips trembling.

Mister Frog casually lifts his wrist and looks at the watch that adorns it, then sorrowfully back down to Silas. “If you don’t start digging faster, I’m afraid a very bad thing is going to befall her,” he says, a wicked grin spreading across his lips.

Three Mouths to Feed

He takes a staggered step back, shuddering as the chill cuts into him. He clutches himself, flinching as the cold fog closes in, strangling the light. He sucks in a breath and allows a moment’s hesitation—a moment lost. He hears the hypnotic song first, then the laughter, from all sides, moving quickly. He turns, twists, and spins in all directions, following the sounds. His eyes narrow, ears prick up, and he scurries right, then left, grabbing at the air, only to grasp nothing.

“John?” a woman’s voice calls playfully.

“Oh, Johnny boy?” another woman’s voice teases.

“Over here’s where you want to be!” calls another.

“W-W-Where are you?” he stammers, holding his hands out, feeling like a blind man in the middle of the afternoon.

“You’re getting warmer!”

He smiles nervously, spinning slightly, and takes another step forward.

“Oh! Now you’re getting colder!”

He spins back the other way and steps.

“COLDER!”

“Fuck!” he hisses under his breath, shaking his hands vigorously before holding them out in front of him again. Closing his eyes, he spins in a slow circular motion, eventually taking a step forward.

“HE’S GOT IT!” one of the women shouts.

“HE’S GOT WHAT?” another shouts back.

“NO CLUE!”

“W-W-What?” he stammers, freezing in place.

“Don’t be a bad sport, Johnny. Keep playing along. We promise the reward’ll keep you smiling for days,” a warm breath purrs in his ear.

He stammers and stutters, a wry grin washing over his lips. “I-I-I like rewards,” he says, spinning around and grabbing at the air, once again grasping nothing.

“Nice try, but you’ll never be quick enough—not while you’re a fully-fledged meat suit.”

“W-W-What do I need to do to trade up?” he asks eagerly.

The fog settles, and the three women stand before him. He takes a stuttering breath in through trembling lips as they circle him like animals on the prowl. His heart skips as they crisscross and round him again.

“Trading up isn’t something done on a whim,” one of the women says.

“You would need to prove to us that you deserve our gift,” another adds.

“And only when all three of us agree would we even dare to offer you the chance,” the third one says.

“Yes, y-yes,” he spits. “I-I-I’ll do what you need me to do. I’ll do the time, show you I’m worthy, and I’ll worship each and every one of you,” he says, dropping to his knees as he tears his shirt open and tosses it to the ground, displaying his perfectly chiselled chest and abs. “I’m an instrument. Use me.”

“Oh my,” the first says.

“He is quite a weapon,” the second agrees.

“But is he a useful weapon?” the third asks.

“YOU DARE QUESTION ME?” he grunts, getting to his feet and flexing his muscles.

The third woman is upon him in an instant, gripping him by the throat and lifting him high into the air.

“I dare anything, worm. I dare the day’s end. I dare the night sky. You are a bleeder, food, nothing more. Now know your place and bow down or I’ll end your miserable existence. Do you understand?”

He gasps, choking, “Y-y-y-yes,” he stammers.

She drops him to the ground, flashing a toothy smile. “Good. Now, be a good provider and bring us meat, or you’ll be the one we eat!”

“W-W-What s-s-sort of meat d-d-do you like?” he gasps, clutching his red, swollen neck.

“Why don’t you bring us a few of your gym buddies—muscles and roids make me all hot.”

“OHH I love me some muscles,” another chimes in.

“B-B-But…”

“You want tomorrow or d’you prefer yesterday?”

“T-T-Tomorrow,” he stammers. “T-T-Tomorrow!”

“Well then, go on and bring us your friends,” she says.

“Feed us,” another adds.

“Provide for us and we’ll provide for you,” she says, smiling a mouthful of sharp teeth.

“Tomorrow, Johnny boy.”

“Tomorrow,” he says with a nervous smile.

A Secret to Tell

“B-B-B-But w-what if I’m r-r-right? W-What if w-w-we’re the shadows, a-and they’re us?” he stammers through trembling lips as he looks across the table.

Kelly grins broadly, openly amused. “Are you sure you’re not chasing the dragon?” he asks with a slight twist of his head, raising one eyebrow.

“I’M PERFECTLY CLEAN! I SWEAR!” Stevie cries as he launches himself to his feet and strikes the table. “I-I, I’m t-the sanest I-I’ve ever been, c-certainly saner than your sorry arse.”

Kelly allows a stifled chuckle to escape his lips before readjusting his tie and rolling his head across his neck. “What makes you think you’re saner than me? I’m not the one standing here rabbiting on about my shadow being the actual real deal, and me being its shadow,” he says, his words oozing sarcasm. “And might I also note, I’m the only one fully dressed,” he says, thrusting his thumbs into his chest and casting a disapproving glance at Stevie’s naked form.

“Clothes stifle the pathways! Monks in deserts regularly parade around in next to nothing, but that’s beside the point! It’s typical of you—always trying to control the narrative. Well, this time it ain’t happening, buddy! I’m in control, I’m the one who knows what is what, and you’re the patsy!” he spits, thrusting a shaking, pointed finger at Kelly. Seconds pour into minutes of silence, and then Stevie shakes his finger again, nodding his head. “EXACTLY!” he says.

Kelly stares at him in silence as his grimace grows more distorted. His trembling arm shakes into a blur before it slowly drops to his side.

“Exactly what, Stevie?” Kelly asks, shrugging his shoulders and raising his brow.

Stevie continues to nod, smiling knowingly. He pulls his lips tightly back over themselves. “Right,” he says.

Kelly shakes his head in wonder, rolling his eyes. “What, Stevie? What is right? What is exactly? You realise you’re not making any sense?”

“Is it me,” Stevie says, leaning in towards Kelly, “or is it you?” he says with wide, crazy eyes.

“I think,” Kelly says with a shake of his head, “I think it’s you.”

Stevie smiles. “That’s what a shadow would say. That’s what they would want me to believe. B-B-But I know now, I know how to see the truth!”

Kelly rolls his eyes and shakes his head again. “And how, how do you see the truth?”

Stevie holds up his phone, turns on the torch, and points it toward the wall behind them, his lips trembling. “T-T-There,” he stammers nervously.

Kelly looks over his shoulder at the wall, then back to Stevie. “There’s nothing there.”

“EXACTLY!” Stevie spits excitedly.

Kelly stares at him for some moments, then shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he says with a shrug.

“You can’t because you’re no longer you, and your shadow,” he says, pointing toward the wall again as he holds up his phone’s torch. “Your shadow is you, and you, you’re no longer you.”

Kelly lets out a stuttered breath, tilts his head, and smiles. “And you, you should’ve stayed out of your shadow,” he says as a smile wraps itself around his lips, and Stevie is engulfed by his own shadow as it rushes from beneath him.

The Strobe That Bites

Terry stares intently at the flickering screen, his eyes squinting, lip curled, tongue sticking out, and hands clenched tightly into fists. He leans back, opens his eyes wide, blinking several times, then leans in closer, squinting again before shaking his head with a final sigh as he sits back.

“No,” he says confidently. “I just don’t see it.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I can see it as clear as day,” Chester says, leaning in and nodding.

Terry purses his lips, rubs his nose with the back of his hand, and scratches behind his left ear as he stares halfheartedly at the screen before shaking his head again. “Nope, nothing.”

“Well,” Chester says, raising his eyebrows and taking in a deep breath, “guess you’re in the one percent then.”

“T-T-The one percent, w-w-what does that mean?”

“Well, it means you’re the first goddamn son-of-a-bitch I’ve ever met who can’t see what the screen is showing you.”

“Really?” Terry says with surprise, blinking and rubbing his forehead before running his hand roughly through his hair, scratching his scalp. “I-I-I mean, d-d-does the screen suppose to strobe like that?”

“Strobe?” Chester says, furrowing his brow as he looks at the screen, before taking off his cap and scratching his scalp. “The screen ain’t strobing, never has, not that I know of anyway.”

“W-W-What do people normally see?”

“Shit, people normally see what they want to see, but,” he says, leaning in. “I don’t mean that literally. I mean, what they really want—what they really, really want—is what they see. Some people scream, some people laugh, some have even cried, but they all see what they’re destined to see.”

“M-M-Maybe I’m meant to see s-s-strobing light.”

“Hmmm,” Chester says, pressing a finger against his lips. “Is it like lots of lights, or is it that fuzzy test pattern thing rolling?”

“Y-Y-Yeah, yeah, that—the rolling test pattern thing.”

“Okay, okay,” Chester says with a broad smile. “I have an idea. It’s a little wild, but if you’re up for it, I’d like to give it a go.”

“If you think it’ll work, s-s-sure.”

Chester slaps Terry on the back of the head.

“W-W-WHAT THE FUCK!” Terry cries out, stumbling back, gripping his head.

“Sorry, but you said—”

“It doesn’t matter what I said! You should’ve told me you were gonna FUCKING hit me!”

“Look, I’m sorry, okay, but did it work?”

“Did it work? Did it work?” he spits, casting a wayward glance at the screen, and gasps in horror, his lips trembling as a fresh sea of sweat cascades down his brow. “I-I-I,” he stammers as he loses control of his bladder, emptying its contents down his leg.

Chester smiles broadly, rubbing his hands together. “W-Worth the wait, I take it?”

Terry’s lips tremble, words catching in his throat. He stares at the screen with empty, vacant eyes, his voice barely a whisper. “W-Worth the w-w-wait,” he mumbles.

Chester laughs, a high, jittery sound like a wind-up doll coming undone. “T-T-Tell me—tell me what you saw.”

Terry swallows hard. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. Finally, after another few failed attempts, the words escape in a shudder. “I-I-I, I saw y-you…standing there, w-w-with a snake—a pale white snake w-w-with red eyes. But y-you’re n-not really holding it. I-I-It’s p-part of you,” he says, staring up into Chester’s hypnotic gaze.

The grin on Chester’s face stretches wider, his eyes glinting with something darker—something Terry hadn’t noticed earlier. He leans in, almost close enough for Terry to smell the stale warmth of his breath. “Good”—he whispers, his voice low and wet. “Then you’re starting to see what’s real.”

The Chariot Is Not to Blame 

“I rode in on a chariot—that’s exactly what I just said,” Conner replies with a befuddled look. 

“Yes, but you didn’t actually ride in on one, did you?” 

Conner’s brow furrows, and his lips purse. “Why would I say I did if I didn’t?” 

“Exactly!” Hugo says, clapping his hands and bouncing slightly in his seat. 

“I—I—I’m confused as to where any of this is going. I can’t tell if you believe me or if you’re calling me a liar, so how about you drop the cloak-and-dagger crap and tell me what your problem is?” 

“You. That’s my problem. Nothing else—not your lies, not your stupid beady eyes, not even your bingo wings. I just don’t like you. And I don’t have time for a beady-eyed, bingo-winged, ugly liar who suffers from premature balding and anal seepage,” Hugo snarls, a smutty grin on his lips. 

“Wow, tell me how you really feel,” Conner says with a nervous laugh. 

Hugo raises his eyebrows and shrugs, holding his open hands before him. He curls his lips and scrunches his nose. “Duh! I just did!” 

Conner lets out a long-winded sigh and rolls his head to the left, then to the right. “So, how many do I get?” 

“You don’t get shit, loser!” 

“I think that’s where you’re wrong. See, I’m pretty sure that when I show you my chariot—the one I rode in on, the one you say doesn’t exist—you’re going to owe me an apology. And we both know you’re not going to do that, so I’ve got to get something else in return. Something that’ll let you keep your position of power intact but will also be a direct reflection of the error you’ve made, continuing the precedent set many times before today with events of such similar gravitas.” 

“Ain’t gonna happen—not today, not tomorrow, not ever! I bow to no man but myself,” Hugo says with a nod and a broad grin as he leans back into his makeshift throne. 

“B-B-But that makes no sense. H-How do you keep your people in line? How do you earn their trust? Surely there must be rules. No one runs a kingdom on their own.” 

“I do,” he replies nonchalantly. 

“B-But that’s not true. There was the guard at the door.” 

“That was me,” Hugo says quickly. 

“W-Wait, w-what?” Conner stammers, trembling as a sea of sweat cascades down his brow. 

“The guard at the door—that was me,” Hugo says, grinning broadly. “You can’t enter there,” he mimics in a deep, gravelly voice before chuckling proudly. 

Conner’s eyes widen, and he smiles awkwardly. “O-Okay, w-what about the g—” 

“That was me too,” Hugo interrupts, slapping his lap. “I was the shy girl in reception, the overzealous elevator operator, and even the disgruntled repairman who offered you a smoke. I was all of them, and they are all me!” he says proudly. 

“So, you’re telling me you run this whole place on your own, without any help from anyone else?” 

“Correct,” he says proudly. 

“Sucks to be you, then!” Conner says as he pulls out a shotgun and trains it on Hugo, who offers a tight, nervous smile as a bead of sweat snakes down his brow. 

“Or, it sucks to be all of us,” a voice says from behind. Conner turns, and his breath catches—a sea of Hugos stands before him, faces blending, expressions fixed in that same unsettling grin. 

“Did I forget to mention,” Hugo’s voice murmurs, but now it’s layered, each mouth speaking in unison, “that while I may be everyone, I am always—one. Each face, every word, every piece—me.” 

Conner feels a pull, something crawling beneath his skin, a whisper curling through his veins. A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and his finger desperately tightens around the trigger. The shotgun erupts, tearing a hole through one of the Hugos flooding the world around him. 

He tries to scream, but the sound is swallowed as his flesh burns, his mind splits, and his world reshapes, twisting, turning into something—into someone else. 

And as the smile settles onto his lips, the last thread of who he was is swallowed. He is nothing more than another voice in the endless, another chair in Hugo’s kingdom.

A Slipping of the Catching Brakes

The rain spits at the world below with a certain disregard that could almost convince an unbeliever that Mother Nature is a physical beast, born with the same nuances the ant-like human race is also given. But, like the family pet, Mother Nature’s personality traits are decided and given by man, because everything must have an explanation, even when there is truly none to be had.

Stephan digs his hands deeper into his pockets, pulling his head between his shoulders with each strained step. The chill hits him in waves that cascade across his cold frame like a million little blades piercing every nerve ending they can find. The rain strengthens, crashing against him relentlessly. Cars scream by, fighting their way through the walls of water, while their humans laugh, grumble, and complain within the safety of their four-shelled carriages.

He hisses, tightening his hold on himself, like a turtle retracting into its shell. His lip curls and his nose wrinkles as he casts a wayward look towards the heavens.

“Can’t you just give me a FUCKING break!” he sneers beneath his breath, digging his hands deeper into his pockets while clutching himself tightly all at once.

The meaty call he knows all too well cries out at the downpour, and he turns with a lost moment of awe. The freshly polished yellow dolly Holden Monaro roars up the hill as if it has just rolled off the factory line—the rain almost terrified to touch the steel as it cuts its way through the unyielding sea like a hot knife through butter.

He stares wide-eyed, droopy-lipped, only to have the breath catch in his chest as he stares into his own eyes—then he is in the car, dry, warm, and staring out at the rain-soaked version of himself.

He sucks in desperate breath after desperate breath as he turns to the driver, who casually smiles.

“Wouldn’t want to be caught out there in this shit storm!” he says with an almost sarcastic flick of the tongue.

“W-W-What’s happening? W-Who was that b-back there, a-and who t-the FUCK are y-you?”

The man laughs. “Do we really need to do all the backfill, or can we leave that open-ended, knowing the answers that don’t come are the answers you expected to be given? And on your deathbed, perhaps, you’ll reflect upon your pitiful life and realise the answer to all the questions was me all along,” he says with a twisted smile. “Not that you should take that to heart. I think all you meat suits have it terribly unfair, while those above live like the kings in all the stories you write about in your dirty cesspool of a cage you call home.”

“T-T-T—” he stammers, as the car comes to a sudden and jolting stop, flinging him violently into the dashboard. He grips his jaw as a sea of red streams from his broken nose, and he awkwardly spits bloody teeth into the palm of his hand. He looks up at the driver with eyes full of terror.

The driver puckers up his lips, roughly caresses his flowing beard, and grimaces. “What is it? What could you possibly have to say that needs to be said? You wanted a break—I gave you one, and not only that, I did it in style! Now, what? What could you possibly want to say?”

“T-T-Thank y-y-you,” he splutters, wincing in pain.

The driver smiles, wobbles his head from side to side proudly, and gives Stephan a wink. “A pleasure,” he says as the door opens and Stephan tumbles out into the street. “Be seeing you, Stephan,” he says as the door slams shut on its own and the car takes off, leaving Stephan lying in the street. Another breath catches in his chest as he hears brakes locking up, car horns screaming, and wheels skidding toward him.

It’s then that he locks eyes with a version of himself, standing wide-eyed and droopy-lipped on the side of the street, drenched from the rain—watching as the car mows him down in a bloody spectacle.

A Shot in the Spit

A sudden gunshot echoes through the dusk-ridden hills, setting the quiet land ablaze with movement and screaming chaos. Birds erupt from the trees, covering the sky in a sea of wings and cries, while mobs of feral pigs and kangaroos bolt from their hiding places, the swine screaming like demonic beasts as they scatter in all directions, attacking other animals in their terror-induced rage. Another shot shatters the air, then a third, leaving only trails of dust swirling in the wind before silence falls once more over the dirty red lands.

He looks to the hills and chews the air as if it were fat from the belly of a pig, cooked to within an inch of crisp and raw—nothing like the tough, chewy ones running wildly before him, but the domestic kind bred for their fatty flesh and supple tenders. He curls his nose and puckers his lips, dragging a firm hand across his beefy handlebar moustache. His old eyes narrow, and he draws back, shifting a scattering of snot in his left nostril, balls it up in his mouth, and spits it on Devon’s lifeless face.

“Shit,” he grimaces as he leans on the shovel and turns nonchalantly to Sophia. “He sure is dead,” he says with a laugh.

“Yeah, and now your DNA is all over him,” she slurs, rolling her eyes and shaking her head.

He draws back again, spits another load onto Devon’s body, and wipes his sleeve across his face as he cackles loudly. “Shit girl, you think I give a damn?”

“You might not, sugar, but I do!” she says, raising the shotgun. “Now, lick it up!”

He smiles through twitching lips. “W-What?” he stammers.

“You heard me, Coltan,” she says, cocking the gun. “Lick up the spit, and clean it up good, otherwise you’ll need to start digging a bigger hole!”

He laughs nervously. “Y-You c-can’t be serious. I’m not gonna—” His words are cut short when she fires a shot into the air, quickly cocks the shotgun again, and trains it on him.

“Try me!” she snarls, closing one eye and aiming the barrel toward his head. A stream of urine runs down his leg, and a sea of tears wells up in his eyes as his bottom lip trembles.

He throws his hands in the air and stumbles backward. “O-O-Okay! O-Okay! I-I, I get it! O-Okay, I get it!” he cries, scrambling to his knees and over to Devon’s body. He swallows an uncomfortable mouthful of dryness, then begins to lick the thick wads of spit from Devon’s cold, pale face. He dry retches and gags as tears stream down his face. He feels the barrel of the shotgun press against the back of his head.

“Don’t add to it, sugar—otherwise it’s easier to leave you in the hole than take you with me!” she snarls.

“I-I-I, I’m t-trying,” he stammers.

“Oh, don’t I know it, sugar—don’t I know it indeed,” she says with a smug smile across her lips. She lets out a stuttered sigh as she looks out across the hills and takes in the beauty for the first time in a long while. “When you promised me a life worth living, did you think this was what I had in mind?” she asks, turning back to Coltan, who stares up at her with red, bloodshot eyes, a trail of vomit cascading from the brim of his moustache. She looks past him, and over to Devon’s silent frame, the bright green of Coltan’s vomit almost glowing in the night air.

“P-P-Please!” he stammers.

She takes a deep breath and thrusts the barrel in his face. “Lick it up,” she snarls. Fresh tears cascade down his face and his bottom lip trembles uncontrollably.

“N-N-No—” he doesn’t get to finish his words as she squeezes the trigger, removing the better part of his face. The gunshot echoes across the hills once more, and again the cries and calls of beasts known and unknown fill the air. For the first time in a long time, she allows herself to truly smile as she picks up the shovel and heaves a spadeful of red dirt over her past.

I didn’t like the end on the original post, so I gave it what it deserved…

Paved Paths Without a Payment

The ball in his throat grows to twice the size it was moments ago—he gasps, clutches his collar, and loosens it with tense fingers. His eyes weep, and his brow drips a sea of sweat. The world before him spins, and his once-clear mind is now addled and lost. He smacks his lips together as if they were pieces of cheese, and he gasps again. A high-pitched squeal emanates from the microphone a few inches away, and he winces in pain, squinting his eyes and screwing up his nose. Muffled conversations break out through the crowd surrounding the podium. He tries to swallow again and dry-retches. His eyes bulge from their sockets, and his lips purse tightly as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. Seconds twist and turn into a minute, then into a handful of them.

Stars shoot through the sky—explosions scatter dust left and right, and pockets of voided black steal segments of the world around him. His skin pales to white, and he elongates his fingers as he reaches out in desperation. The crowd around him continues chattering nonsensical words that sway back and forth in his ear, left and right. He forces a strained smile, squeezes his eyes shut, folds his hands into tightly wound fists, and scrunches his toes. He pushes, wills the ball down slowly, desperately—it moves, deeper, downward, and then, when he feels air around it escape, it grows again. He clutches his throat, eyes wide open. He tries to cry out, murmuring instead, and the microphone echoes it across the room.

Cheers break out in thunderous applause. Fists punch the air, and hands clap together in praise. He squints, scanning the crowd of faces, spying, searching until finally, he locks eyes with him. He returns the gaze—a wide, grand smile across his lips. He raises a glass of whiskey towards him and takes a sip. He gasps, squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again, only to find him gone.

He feels cold breath on the back of his neck, then a hand on his waist.

“Are you not happy with how it all turned out?”

“T-T-T-This wasn’t t-t-the deal,” he stammers through stained lips.

He laughs. “And what, pray tell, was the deal meant to be?”

“Y-Y-You p-promised me p-p-power, a-a-and a-a-a way w-w-with words.”

“Power and a way with words—that indeed sounds like one of my deal packages. But look at you, standing here, powerless, with a ball in your throat, unable to speak,” he hisses in his ear. “Those seem to be the complete opposite of what you asked for, wouldn’t you agree?”

“N-N-N-No s-s-shit! W-Why i-is it happening? I-I-I, I paid y-y-you, r-right?”

“Ah, yes, maybe that’s it, maybe your payment didn’t go through, or maybe there was a problem at the bank, or maybe it has something to do with the mobile network—or maybe, just maybe, you made a deal you had no way of honouring without the deal succeeding first! Hmmm?” he says, raising his eyebrows.

“S-S-Sure, t-t-that must b-b-be it, t-the deal n-n-needs the d-d-deal,” he gasps.

“Ah ha!” he roars in his ear. “That’s the answer!” he says with a cackle.

“S-S-S-So we’re g-good? Y-Y-You’ll m-make this g-go away?” he gasps, clutching his throat.

“Oh, yes, yes indeed. I will make that go away, all of it, all of it indeed, just as soon as you pay my price.”

“B-B-B-But, I-I-I, I can’t—not w-without the t-things you p-promised, p-p-please?”

Suddenly, he’s no longer by his side but once more standing amongst the crowd, staring back at him. This time, there’s no smile—only a sneer, a snarl, as he raises his glass again. The faces around him blur and distort, mocking grins painted across them. Beneath his feet, the floor collapses, splitting open into a sea of nothingness. Shadows spill from the cracks, twisting up his legs like cold, dead fingers, pulling him down. He frantically reaches for his wallet, but the hands tear it from his grasp, tossing it into the void below. Around him, cries and screams echo, voices damned and yet to be call his name. The world he once knew unravels piece by piece, until nothing remains but the dark—and then the silence.

Suddenly, the room lights up, and he finds himself naked and nailed to a poorly constructed cross. A classroom of children sits before him, staring with blank expressions. From behind him, the man strides forward, gripping a wooden cane tightly in his hand.

“Now, class, can someone tell me what we do with those who fail to pay for their purchases?” he says with a grin as the students eagerly raise their hands.

He scans the room and points the cane at a young girl. “Janina, what do we do?”

“Damn them to hell, sir,” she replies with a broad, toothy grin.

He turns to him, a broad grin upon his lips. “That’s right, Janina, we damn them to hell,” he says, grinning even wider as the whole class begins chanting, “Damn them to hell! Damn them to hell! Damn them to hell!” over and over, while he tries to scream, only to find the ball in his throat has grown larger once again, and now all he can do is gasp for air as the man gives him a wicked wink.

The room shakes, erupting into cheers and cries as the ground splits open beneath him. The chanting grows louder and louder, the children’s faces now replaced by his family, his friends, everyone he’s ever loved—chanting, screaming, celebrating. A massive hand reaches up, grips him tight, and he tries to scream one last time before it pulls him down into the flames below.

A Killer’s Lamented Game

Gunner crashes to the ground, his pistol tumbling from his hand as he grabs his stomach, trying to hold his innards in. A quick, thick sea of red spills from his side and pools on the ground beside him, growing with each beat of his failing heart. A wave of nausea washes over him, and a cascading stream of sweat pours from almost every pore possible. He gasps for breath, squinting as his vision sways in and out, catching momentary glimpses of Quentin, who proudly strides before him, boasting words he cannot make out, as the screaming in his ears and the pounding of his heart drown out any hope of hearing anything else. A stray breath catches in his throat, and as he struggles to let it go and grab another, Quentin stops and looks down at him with morbid curiosity. Then his eyes light up, he smiles, slaps his hands together, and dances over to where Gunner lies.

“Stop the press, who is that man?” Quentin sings as he cups his hands around the side of his mouth, acting as a megaphone. Then he crouches before Gunner, with a wide-eyed grin painted across his face. “Oh, sorry, I thought you were someone else, someone important, but now, as I see you up close, I realise you’re just another victim, in a long list of nobodies,” he cackles, standing up and dancing around the room again like a clown at a birthday party.

“F-F-F-Fuck you, a-arsehat! I-I ain’t gonna p-play into your g-game, s-so you might as well j-j-just get it over with!” Gunner spits through trembling lips as he tries to drag himself towards his discarded firearm.

Quentin’s lips curl, his nose scrunching as his face twists in disgust. He takes a few steps back before driving a running kick into Gunner’s stomach. Gunner cries out in pain, tightening his grip on his stomach. The sickening sound of something slipping from his grasp and hitting the floor brings another wave of nausea, and he vomits, twitching as he seizes momentarily before the dull pain and grey shadows pull him back to consciousness. Quentin is leaning over him again, tightening Gunner’s belt around his waist, holding in his guts with a crudely fashioned tourniquet.

“W-Why?” Gunner stammers. “W-Why not let m-me die?”

Quentin smiles broadly. “Then you would win, and I would have to play with my next contestant!” he boasts, as he holds a photo of Gunner’s wife up beside his face.

“D-D-Don’t you f-f-ucking touch her! D-D-D—” Quentin pulls the belt tighter, and Gunner winces in agony.

“Just remember who is in control, worm! If I want to beat your flavour stick holder to a bloody pulp, I’ll do it, and if I don’t, it’s because I don’t wanna, okay?”

Gunner clenches his teeth and hisses. “P-P-Please,” he stammers.

Quentin pokes out his bottom lip, frowns, and blinks his eyes playfully sarcastic. “I’ll tell you what,” he says as he looks into the far corner of the room and places a finger thoughtfully against his chin, before opening his eyes wide and holding a finger up in the air, proudly declaring an idea had struck him. “I’ll give you a chance to win, and, if you do, not only will you be able to walk—err, crawl free—but your wife will certainly survive. Does that sound like a deal worth making?”

“W-W-What’s the catch?”

Quentin laughs, “There is no catch, so, do we have a deal?” he says, holding out a hand for Gunner to shake. They stay locked like this for some moments, before the smile drops from Quentin’s face, and he puckers up his lips. “I get it, I do, you don’t know whether to trust me or not, but here’s a clue for something you should do—shake and make a chance, refuse my deal, and everyone you love dies too,” he snarls.

Gunner curls his top lip and grips Quentin’s hand. “F-Fuck you!”

Quentin laughs loudly once more. “AND FUCK YOU TOO!” he roars as he strides over to where Gunner’s pistol lies and picks it up. “Now, let’s see if you’re lucky,” he spits as he places the gun’s barrel against his temple and pulls the trigger, taking off half his head. His body drops to the floor, and Gunner stares on in disbelief. Then, after a few moments, he slowly begins to laugh to himself.

“Y-Y-You fucking s-s-stupid son-of-a-bitch,” he scoffs, as he lets himself fall to the ground. He stares up at the lightbulb as it glows brightly, pulsating with each beat of his heart.

“W-W-Wow, w-w-what a r-r-rush!” Quentin slurs as he sits up awkwardly, swaying from side to side while the chunk of missing skull slowly regrows.

“F-F-Fuck,” Gunner mutters, watching as Quentin clumsily gets to his feet and staggers toward him, pistol in hand

“R-R-Right, y-y-your t-t-turn!” Quentin sneers, raising the gun and firing.

Up There on the Dance Floor

The music vibrates through the walls of the room, flows through the floors, and cascades like crashing ocean waves against the bodies of those who dance within it without care. The sea of people moves in unison, like a hive, rising up and crashing down with the thumping bass, following the ebbing flows of its highs, and dropping with the lows. Like a plane taking off on its runway, the song crescendos endlessly, never quite getting in the air—just forever sitting on the verge of it.

Sergio shakes his sweat-drenched body into the air, bouncing off those around him, as they not only feel the music but live it. The smile that melts across his face is almost painted on, while the blank, perpetual high his brain now calls home resists any temptation to fight. Only to dance, to live, to love, and to serve the DJ.

He stands at the head of the room, his table of turntables, a row of four by four, all spinning—songs looping into songs, their tunes lost in the tunes of others—a mindless mix. His head bobs, a hand held high in the air, fingers in the sign of the devil, and he cares not who is offended.

The music continues, endless, unyielding. Sweat pours from the dancers, bodies dropping to the floor, empty eyes staring into the distance, void of life, drained by the dance, drained by the DJ as he feeds off his flies.

The blade digs into his throat, and her hot breath can be felt on the back of his neck. The room freezes, and all eyes turn towards them.

“Hello, little snowflake, are you sure this is what you want to be doing?” they all ask in unison.

She sucks in a stuttering breath and curls her lip as she pulls the knife back, digging the blade into his flesh. A drop of blood trickles down his neck. “I-I-I’ll do w-w-what I have to do to m-m-make y-you listen!” she hisses.

“I hear all, child, I hear all and I see all, but what wonders to me is—Is he worth it?” they all ask.

“H-H-He’s my sun, w-w-without him, l-life isn’t worth it,” she stammers, as a sea of sweat pours down her brow, her lips tremble, and her nose crunches.

“Then, for the sake of the sun, why don’t you join the dance, and be one with me, with him, forever?” they ask.

She grabs a laboured breath from the air and holds it for a few moments before letting it escape with a stuttered groan. “N-N-No! G-Give him back t-t-to me! G-G-Give him back!”

“But child, he’s not yours to take!”

“H-He’s not y-yours to keep!” she spits, as she curls her lips and drags the knife across the DJ’s throat. A sea of endless red sprays across the console, and the first few rows of the hive-like dance crowd as they still stand and watch.

The DJ collapses onto the console, motionless, while blood runs across everything, soon flowing down to the floor like a waterfall. The sea of eyes continues to stare at her, silently judging, silently watching.

“W-W-WHY WON’T YOU DIE!” she screams.

“You cannot cut the head off the hydra and expect the beast to drop dead,” the crowd says as the beat begins to slowly thump in the back of her skull. Her head gently bobs, and with a scrunch of her nose and a curl of her lip, she pulls the headset from him, tosses his husk to the ground, and assumes his spot. She looks out into the crowd, as they all stare back. She raises a hand into the air, and the music hits them like a train, and the dance party begins again.