It was eleven at night when I returned home. I sat on the apartment
block roof, twelve dizzying storeys up, letting my legs hang casually over the
roof’s edge and contemplating the day I’d had. It was mostly quiet, but there
had been some particularly grisly proceedings, as can be expected from a day in
this city. I definitely needed a break all the same. I looked over to the
northern part of town, and could see the flurry of lights in other houses and
apartments. Occasionally one would turn off, and another on. Not one person in
this part of town could grab a snack or take a shit without me knowing about
it. It was a bizarre sense of control, miniscule as it was, and yet a
stimulating break from the savage everyday life in Darkwater. The lights
interested me, kept my attention. I had been sat for an hour at this point,
waiting for night to settle in, until it got dark enough for the streetlights
to turn on. They would start at the bottom of every street and work their way
up, one by one like pale yellow serpents, winding their way through the city’s
roads and paths. You couldn’t notice from anywhere else in the city, but the
exact spot I sat in, that I always sat in, was one of the only points that
captured this in its full effect. My own little utopia. The only place I could
really relax anymore, since Mario’s was petrol bombed the week before. Jesus,
the fact that I had to wear that goddamn mask just to unwind; it’s enough to
make you sick. In fact, the whole sickly-sweet back alley ambience that enclosed
that part of town is enough to make anyone see their last meal all over again.
It was only when that crescendo of light eventually emerged that I could at
last congratulate myself on surviving another day, trapped in the bindings of
the ugliest city in the world.
I slid off the roof, turning to grip the building’s edge with my right hand while unlocking my window with my left. As usual, I lifted the window panel and eased my way into the apartment. Once inside, I laid my key lightly on the counter top, and proceeded into the kitchen, where I put a pan of water on to boil. The apartment was pitch dark except for streetlights and the flashing red neon sign from that grotesque strip club across the street. I walked over to my front door, making no noise as I went. I had never used the door once since I bought the apartment. The woman at the main desk probably thought I was some kind of shut-in. Good. It was better that she thought that. Whenever she came knocking for the monthly rent I’d just slide it under the door for her. I didn’t bother asking who it was; no one else would ever knock. And if they did I wouldn’t open it, not for anyone. I had fitted about a dozen locks, all of different styles and makes, just to live up to my paranoia. Still, best to check they were all intact. And they were. They always were, just like the window. I wasn’t worried about anyone getting in through there either, as I had installed a new pane of glass to suit my needs months before.
I walked back to the kitchen to check the water was boiled. I didn’t bother putting any lights on, the darkness was not an issue for me and, well, I’ll come to the other reason later. The water was not boiled yet, so I took out the newspaper I had earlier found in the street. I also took a small notepad from the inside pocket of my jacket and began jotting down any particular stories that caught my eye. The Darkwater Daily couldn’t go a day without exploiting someone’s death, of which I was very grateful. Without this heartless parading of many innocent’s demise, I would be practically out of a job. I read through a few more stories, taking rough, scrawling notes as I went, before realising that the water was boiling heavily behind me. I grabbed the bag from the counter and poured the contents into the bubbling froth, then walked to the bathroom, turning the TV on as I went. My guard was well and truly down. Everything was fine, and the ease of the night was setting in. Although, as I said, darkness was not a problem for me, and bills were beginning to be, so I left the main lights off. I did, however, turn on the mirror light in the bathroom as I took my heavy leather coat off and hung it up on the hook on the wall. I also took out my blades, all seven of them, from the custom holsters on my waist, under my arms, on my ankles and the one from the flip-switch on my wrist. These I put inside the mirror cabinet, knowing that after I closed its door again, I would take off my mask. Even at my lowest defence this was a threatening prospect, as my identity was the only thing separating me from total annihilation. I could fight most things, even without my blades, but my true identity was my kryptonite. My mask had become more my face than the one my mother gave me, the only thing separating me from those useless, irrational, rule-crazy cops. And now it was time to take it off, and let the monotony of the night settle in. The mirror-door closed with a soft click, and that’s when I saw it. If I was a little older, a little slower maybe I wouldn’t have, but there it was. Clear as day. But how the fuck could this happen. I was so careful.
I only had maybe half a second glance, and that was only using my peripherals, because I knew that if I looked like I had noticed it, it would surely kill me. My instant reaction was not human, due to the lack of silhouette in the shower curtain. The shower was behind me and visible in the mirror, and if my defences were any lower, I wouldn’t have noticed its eye. That eye, the one that plagued me for weeks, stuck with me in the back of my mind, even stopped me from sleeping. It was huge, bloodshot and lidless. Black veins like spider’s legs ran through it, and centred in the middle was a great reptilian pupil, watching me as I acted as naturally as I could to avoid suspicion. It may already know I had seen it, but I had a strong hunch that if it did, I would be dead by now. My instinct told me that it hadn’t expected to be seen at all, as no usual human would have been able to. It underestimated me. I was not about to make the same mistake in return.
I had to get out of the apartment. There was no way I could outrun it, whatever it was. Not in here. Once I was outside I would be safer, I can travel on the rooftops easily enough. The coat would have to stay though, and the blades. I left my mask on, and turned casually to leave the bathroom. I could see the eye clear as day, just to the left of the door, and as I walked in its direction I strained to not look directly at it. I could hear my own pulse pounding in my neck and ears. Sweat was pouring from my hands. It watched me all the way to the door, and I had to do everything in my power to pretend I couldn’t see it. The tension was killing me, what if it knew I had seen it? What if it was just toying with me? Either way I had the gut-wrenching feeling that if I made one wrong move, it would be my last. As I passed it, I saw the shower-curtain sway, as if a light breeze had passed through, but there wasn’t even the slightest breeze in the whole house. The eye had moved, and there was no telling where. I felt a horrible chill shoot straight up my spine, and then sink down in the back of my throat and into my stomach as I swallowed heavily, realising that the next time I see it, it would definitely notice. I would have to focus on whatever I was heading for, and nothing else. I made my way to the kitchen, turning the hob off when I reached it. Realising that I had no idea what to do next, I looked over to the window, fidgeting at how inviting it looked. All I would have to do is unlock it and slip out. There were other places I could go. But if whatever was stalking me saw me doing that, it could kill me while my back was turned. I knew it moved silently, and quicker than even I could see. I would have to be smarter. I looked at my meal, which was fully cooked now, in light disgust. Draining the pan, I tossed the uneaten food straight into the bin, muttering something about eating out to myself, in the hope that it could understand English.
What about clothes. I couldn’t go out dressed like this. But I couldn’t take off my mask while that thing was in the apartment. I’d have to go back into the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, I started back across the room, making my steps as calm and calculated as possible. No looking in the mirror this time. No admiring that beat-up sack that hung over my face. My stalker could have headed back to its original position. Just get in and out, nice and calm, grab the jacket and leave. I was fine, I was always fine. I had gotten myself out of worse situations in the past. In fact, living in this city was perfect training for conditions such as this. Every day being a new struggle for the innocent, honest people just trying to get by. But no-one was truly innocent. They all had prices to pay, and the only thing I had to really work out was which of them had clear enough consciences to declare them eligible to spare. Like an insurance company. Which of them had the integrity left; in those dead husks they called bodies, to sway me in their favour. No-one was truly innocent. Everyone makes their worst mistakes in believing they are.
You see the man getting mugged on the way home from work in some rotten back-alley he just has to add to his daily route. You see him get beaten, his money, watch and maybe even his shoes taken. You see him whimper and beg, and you curse the savage lowlife who would do such a horrible thing to the poor, helpless, hardworking man. What you don’t see is the man return home, his wife and their beautiful 5 year old girl waiting patiently for him, worried at why he is so late. You don’t see him shout and take his anger out on her. You don’t see the pure male persistence that drives him from allowing himself to be comforted by his loving wife. You don’t see him hit her when she won’t drop the subject. You don’t see him stand, lock-jawed and emotionless, over the sobbing wife he claims to love, their young daughter crying in the background.
And then what? Does she go to the police? Does she go to a friend? No, of course not. She smiles politely, tells everyone she tripped, and then a few days later finds comfort in the arms of an old boyfriend in some godforsaken hotel room on the other side of town. These are the things you don’t see, but I do. People can spend their whole lives looking for the bad guys, but the truth is that the bad guys are everywhere, usually right in front of your eyes.
No-one is truly innocent.
I grabbed my jacket and threw it over my shoulders, straightening out the collar and fastening the three buttons on the chest. Taking a deep breath, I then turned and walked back out of the bathroom door. The blades would have to stay. I walked over to the window. Damn, the thing was still watching, and if it saw me unlock it I’d be dead. I had the key in hand, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Nothing, nothing in this goddamn city had ever scared me. I had trained myself against fear, against anger. I trained myself only to hate the scum that filled this city’s streets and alleyways, to focus all of my rage on teaching the bastards a lesson. But this scared me. Fuck it. I rammed the key into the lock, twisting it and almost breaking it off, and yanked the window open, pulling it over my head. Before I could even begin to climb out I heard it coming. A quiet whistle, as it sped towards me. I spun around, holding out my arms in front of me for defence. I didn’t know what to expect in that split second before it hit me, but when it did hit, it hit hard.
James Walsh was a relatively normal man. He had a wife, a five year old daughter, a well-paying job and a reliable car. He was polite, well-mannered, and never purposefully hurt anyone in his life. It was eleven-fifteen at night when he got mugged on the way home from a late shift at work. The mugger took his wallet, keys, phone, even his shoes. He was left to stagger home in his socks on the cold, wet ground, clutching his broken arm, and cursing everything in sight. What would he do next? Would he go to the police? Would he seek comfort in the arms of his loving wife and child? Or would he go home and take it all out on them, screaming and hitting until there was nothing left? Well, there is no way of knowing that one I’m afraid, as just as he was turning the corner leading to his block, 215lbs of irony wrapped in a trench-coat came crashing down him, breaking every bone in his body and leaving him crippled on the hard pavement. He would never know what the object was, and no one else would either, because I was gone before anyone could see what had happened.
I slid off the roof, turning to grip the building’s edge with my right hand while unlocking my window with my left. As usual, I lifted the window panel and eased my way into the apartment. Once inside, I laid my key lightly on the counter top, and proceeded into the kitchen, where I put a pan of water on to boil. The apartment was pitch dark except for streetlights and the flashing red neon sign from that grotesque strip club across the street. I walked over to my front door, making no noise as I went. I had never used the door once since I bought the apartment. The woman at the main desk probably thought I was some kind of shut-in. Good. It was better that she thought that. Whenever she came knocking for the monthly rent I’d just slide it under the door for her. I didn’t bother asking who it was; no one else would ever knock. And if they did I wouldn’t open it, not for anyone. I had fitted about a dozen locks, all of different styles and makes, just to live up to my paranoia. Still, best to check they were all intact. And they were. They always were, just like the window. I wasn’t worried about anyone getting in through there either, as I had installed a new pane of glass to suit my needs months before.
I walked back to the kitchen to check the water was boiled. I didn’t bother putting any lights on, the darkness was not an issue for me and, well, I’ll come to the other reason later. The water was not boiled yet, so I took out the newspaper I had earlier found in the street. I also took a small notepad from the inside pocket of my jacket and began jotting down any particular stories that caught my eye. The Darkwater Daily couldn’t go a day without exploiting someone’s death, of which I was very grateful. Without this heartless parading of many innocent’s demise, I would be practically out of a job. I read through a few more stories, taking rough, scrawling notes as I went, before realising that the water was boiling heavily behind me. I grabbed the bag from the counter and poured the contents into the bubbling froth, then walked to the bathroom, turning the TV on as I went. My guard was well and truly down. Everything was fine, and the ease of the night was setting in. Although, as I said, darkness was not a problem for me, and bills were beginning to be, so I left the main lights off. I did, however, turn on the mirror light in the bathroom as I took my heavy leather coat off and hung it up on the hook on the wall. I also took out my blades, all seven of them, from the custom holsters on my waist, under my arms, on my ankles and the one from the flip-switch on my wrist. These I put inside the mirror cabinet, knowing that after I closed its door again, I would take off my mask. Even at my lowest defence this was a threatening prospect, as my identity was the only thing separating me from total annihilation. I could fight most things, even without my blades, but my true identity was my kryptonite. My mask had become more my face than the one my mother gave me, the only thing separating me from those useless, irrational, rule-crazy cops. And now it was time to take it off, and let the monotony of the night settle in. The mirror-door closed with a soft click, and that’s when I saw it. If I was a little older, a little slower maybe I wouldn’t have, but there it was. Clear as day. But how the fuck could this happen. I was so careful.
I only had maybe half a second glance, and that was only using my peripherals, because I knew that if I looked like I had noticed it, it would surely kill me. My instant reaction was not human, due to the lack of silhouette in the shower curtain. The shower was behind me and visible in the mirror, and if my defences were any lower, I wouldn’t have noticed its eye. That eye, the one that plagued me for weeks, stuck with me in the back of my mind, even stopped me from sleeping. It was huge, bloodshot and lidless. Black veins like spider’s legs ran through it, and centred in the middle was a great reptilian pupil, watching me as I acted as naturally as I could to avoid suspicion. It may already know I had seen it, but I had a strong hunch that if it did, I would be dead by now. My instinct told me that it hadn’t expected to be seen at all, as no usual human would have been able to. It underestimated me. I was not about to make the same mistake in return.
I had to get out of the apartment. There was no way I could outrun it, whatever it was. Not in here. Once I was outside I would be safer, I can travel on the rooftops easily enough. The coat would have to stay though, and the blades. I left my mask on, and turned casually to leave the bathroom. I could see the eye clear as day, just to the left of the door, and as I walked in its direction I strained to not look directly at it. I could hear my own pulse pounding in my neck and ears. Sweat was pouring from my hands. It watched me all the way to the door, and I had to do everything in my power to pretend I couldn’t see it. The tension was killing me, what if it knew I had seen it? What if it was just toying with me? Either way I had the gut-wrenching feeling that if I made one wrong move, it would be my last. As I passed it, I saw the shower-curtain sway, as if a light breeze had passed through, but there wasn’t even the slightest breeze in the whole house. The eye had moved, and there was no telling where. I felt a horrible chill shoot straight up my spine, and then sink down in the back of my throat and into my stomach as I swallowed heavily, realising that the next time I see it, it would definitely notice. I would have to focus on whatever I was heading for, and nothing else. I made my way to the kitchen, turning the hob off when I reached it. Realising that I had no idea what to do next, I looked over to the window, fidgeting at how inviting it looked. All I would have to do is unlock it and slip out. There were other places I could go. But if whatever was stalking me saw me doing that, it could kill me while my back was turned. I knew it moved silently, and quicker than even I could see. I would have to be smarter. I looked at my meal, which was fully cooked now, in light disgust. Draining the pan, I tossed the uneaten food straight into the bin, muttering something about eating out to myself, in the hope that it could understand English.
What about clothes. I couldn’t go out dressed like this. But I couldn’t take off my mask while that thing was in the apartment. I’d have to go back into the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, I started back across the room, making my steps as calm and calculated as possible. No looking in the mirror this time. No admiring that beat-up sack that hung over my face. My stalker could have headed back to its original position. Just get in and out, nice and calm, grab the jacket and leave. I was fine, I was always fine. I had gotten myself out of worse situations in the past. In fact, living in this city was perfect training for conditions such as this. Every day being a new struggle for the innocent, honest people just trying to get by. But no-one was truly innocent. They all had prices to pay, and the only thing I had to really work out was which of them had clear enough consciences to declare them eligible to spare. Like an insurance company. Which of them had the integrity left; in those dead husks they called bodies, to sway me in their favour. No-one was truly innocent. Everyone makes their worst mistakes in believing they are.
You see the man getting mugged on the way home from work in some rotten back-alley he just has to add to his daily route. You see him get beaten, his money, watch and maybe even his shoes taken. You see him whimper and beg, and you curse the savage lowlife who would do such a horrible thing to the poor, helpless, hardworking man. What you don’t see is the man return home, his wife and their beautiful 5 year old girl waiting patiently for him, worried at why he is so late. You don’t see him shout and take his anger out on her. You don’t see the pure male persistence that drives him from allowing himself to be comforted by his loving wife. You don’t see him hit her when she won’t drop the subject. You don’t see him stand, lock-jawed and emotionless, over the sobbing wife he claims to love, their young daughter crying in the background.
And then what? Does she go to the police? Does she go to a friend? No, of course not. She smiles politely, tells everyone she tripped, and then a few days later finds comfort in the arms of an old boyfriend in some godforsaken hotel room on the other side of town. These are the things you don’t see, but I do. People can spend their whole lives looking for the bad guys, but the truth is that the bad guys are everywhere, usually right in front of your eyes.
No-one is truly innocent.
I grabbed my jacket and threw it over my shoulders, straightening out the collar and fastening the three buttons on the chest. Taking a deep breath, I then turned and walked back out of the bathroom door. The blades would have to stay. I walked over to the window. Damn, the thing was still watching, and if it saw me unlock it I’d be dead. I had the key in hand, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Nothing, nothing in this goddamn city had ever scared me. I had trained myself against fear, against anger. I trained myself only to hate the scum that filled this city’s streets and alleyways, to focus all of my rage on teaching the bastards a lesson. But this scared me. Fuck it. I rammed the key into the lock, twisting it and almost breaking it off, and yanked the window open, pulling it over my head. Before I could even begin to climb out I heard it coming. A quiet whistle, as it sped towards me. I spun around, holding out my arms in front of me for defence. I didn’t know what to expect in that split second before it hit me, but when it did hit, it hit hard.
James Walsh was a relatively normal man. He had a wife, a five year old daughter, a well-paying job and a reliable car. He was polite, well-mannered, and never purposefully hurt anyone in his life. It was eleven-fifteen at night when he got mugged on the way home from a late shift at work. The mugger took his wallet, keys, phone, even his shoes. He was left to stagger home in his socks on the cold, wet ground, clutching his broken arm, and cursing everything in sight. What would he do next? Would he go to the police? Would he seek comfort in the arms of his loving wife and child? Or would he go home and take it all out on them, screaming and hitting until there was nothing left? Well, there is no way of knowing that one I’m afraid, as just as he was turning the corner leading to his block, 215lbs of irony wrapped in a trench-coat came crashing down him, breaking every bone in his body and leaving him crippled on the hard pavement. He would never know what the object was, and no one else would either, because I was gone before anyone could see what had happened.
