Friday (Walk with Me) – Creepy Pasta

Friday (Walk with Me) – Creepy Pasta

Friday (Walk with Me) – Creepy Pasta

By Dakota Priest

I open my eyes just before the digital alarm clock on my bedside table hits 11:35 a.m. I stretch powerfully and crack my lower back and neck in the process, twisting so that the blanket engulfs me in a mangled mass of wrinkles and folds. I step onto the floor and head toward the bathroom. I have the strangest feeling of déjà vu. I like to ride these out, see just how far I can get in the event before it teeters off and I get back to discovering the world as it naturally is. I think it’s rather interesting, and while I move about slowly, I think rapidly about where I could have possibly seen this setting before. But I guess it’s an anomaly of the mind that scientists have yet to figure out.
I lean over the toilet with one hand against the wall behind it, aiming for the side of the bowl as I normally do. You know, just to make less noise. Not that it matters…there’s only me in this apartment. I guess it’s just early-morning-ear sensitivity. Maybe it’s just me. But as soon as I start to go, the stream flies down from me, misses the bowl completely, and lands all over my foot and my leg. “Agh!” I scream in surprised disgust. Just great.
After washing up and washing off, I head back out to the kitchen for breakfast. I occasionally spoil myself on weekends like this, when the weather is nice, and actually cook breakfast. I’m off on Fridays and I think it’s a good idea to keep my culinary skills sharp. I have a girlfriend after all, and I have to bring something to the literal table. But…just not feeling it today. So I grab a bowl, a spoon, the milk, and the Frosted Flakes, and sit myself down on the couch to pour up this grainy goodness. If heaven has cereal, they have Frosted Flakes. I’ve always poured milk first, then cereal, just to make sure I don’t pour too much cereal and it gets soggy before I finish the first bowl, and today is no different. I hate soggy cereal. The milk hits the bowl and splashes on itself until I finish pouring, following quickly with the cereal. This cold loser breakfast would not be complete without some good old court TV, so I whip my head to both sides, quickly searching for the remote.
…What the hell. It’s not in the spot where I left it. I hurriedly pull away the pillows on the couch, carelessly tossing them on the floor. The remote is not there. It’s not under my legs, it’s not between the cushions. I’m really starting to wonder if I was drinking last night and don’t remember. I put the bowl down, looking at the flakes and hoping they’re not too mushy already, and start searching under the couch. But the underside is clean as a whistle, nothing to be found. I can see straight to the wall. Now I’m mad. I stand back up, sit down hard, and pick up my bowl of cornmeal soup, lifting the spoon and dumping off the mushy flakes. First that, now this. The biggest problem is that my American brain is telling me to throw it away and start over, but my pocket is telling me, “Dude, you must think we’re made of money. Cereal is not fuckin’ free.” So I start to raise the spoon to my lips, when I cast my eyes to the side and spy the remote laying perfectly horizontal on the cushion on my right side. Words cannot express my confusion, absolutely sure that I would have seen it in the first place I looked. I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I’m not going to throw a dramatic fit to perform for only myself. I’m not psychotic.
I turn on the TV and flip to the closest court show, eager to see who hit whom, or who gets flip with the judge the quickest, shoveling a massive, wet spoonful of mush into my mouth and swallowing immediately so I don’t have to taste it. Ecch…soggy cereal. Not gonna lie, though, it is filling. My normal loud chewing is not present to disrupt the volume of the television either, which is a silver lining.
But after 3 minutes and somewhere close to 15 spoons of milky gruel, I heave an involuntary sigh and taste my breath. It causes me to freeze in place, the high-frequency din of the TV filling the air in the black space between segment and commercial break. It’s…unpleasant. Not wholly terrible, but definitely not what I want to taste when eating something sweet. It’s not very sweet at all. I look at the bowl, examining the “food” in it. Did I chew a spider or something? I look closely and notice a thin film on top of the floating mash. My eyes crack wide and I grab the milk jug to check the date.
TWO. WEEKS. OLD.
My tongue juts out and I gag. No wonder my mouth tastes so terrible. I just drank a half cup of spoiled cow juice! I storm into the kitchen and slam the bowl into the empty sink, splashing drops of sour milk everywhere. I don’t care. I jumped straight out of bed into a series of unfortunate events. Sure would have liked to eat a civilized breakfast, but no. Now I find myself sitting on the couch, hand-shoveling dry cereal in my mouth to get rid of the taste as quickly as I can. I can’t hear the show at all, even if I turn it up. This is the stuff I was talking about. I feel the urge to speak aloud.
“You’re really trying my patience today, fate.”
I say these words with un-frosted corn-tasting crumbs stuck in my teeth. I roll my eyes and lay on my side, finishing out the court show and picking up my phone to decide where I’ll waste my precious time today. Jenna, my girlfriend, and I have been together for 5 years on the 23rd of this month. Hmm…our anniversary is coming up. I should go get her a bundle of roses or something. A card would be nice, too. I mean, I only have…
…Wait.
I open the menu on my phone to find the date. July 23rd. TODAY IS OUR ANNIVERSARY! I leap off the couch hurriedly; my mind is racing to formulate some kind of extravagant ploy to make it seem like I’ve been planning a surprise for months. I don’t even care how much it’ll cost me at this point—I will go into debt for this. I rip open the dresser drawer, snatching up the first t-shirt I see and pulling it over my frantic head. I can’t believe I was so stupid… How could I lose track of such a date? I clench my eyes in frustration and gnash my teeth, mapping out the route I plan to drive to pick things up and arrange reservations. I hop stupidly toward the bed while pulling up my jeans, falling to the mattress upon arrival. My lace-less shoes slide on and I march purposefully toward the door, grabbing my keys off the wall without ever looking away from the knob.
I’m anxiously tapping my foot in the elevator, looking at my watch all the way to the first floor. I am screwed. My heart is pounding fast, but I realize that I’m stressing myself out and things will likely be just fine, so I close my eyes and inhale deeply. I visualize the stress in my body as dark matter and I mentally congeal it all into one quantifiable mass, then picture it spreading into the air with a long, relaxing breath. It’s a tranquil thought. I see my empty silhouette in my mind now free from all that problematic muck and I concentrate on it for a second or two. I concentrate…until my relaxation technique is brutishly interrupted by the chamber jarring to an immediate halt and the lights failing. My eyes open to the darkened room, facing the silver doors that reflect my blurred appearance. It exactly matches the images of my conscious mind right now, utterly confused at what the hell is happening. I mean, it’s registered that I’m stuck, but my brain instantly wonders why, what happened, or who is responsible. In the first second I’m in here, I’ve already decided to simply stand still, anticipating the power coming back on and a continuation of my trip downward.
But that doesn’t happen.
My eyes dart around as I try to stave off the claustrophobic feelings. I was shoved into a wooden toy box by my cousins once when I was younger. It was very small, but they managed to fit me inside. They sat on it so that I couldn’t open the top. It wasn’t just the darkness that got to me. It was the loss of control. I didn’t have the weight to flip the box over, or the strength to lift the top. They were just being kids, lighthearted “bullying”. I understand they were not being malicious, but the event stuck with me all the same. This reminds me of that experience. I leap forward, slamming my fist against every button on the panel in an effort to get the chamber moving. Nothing happens. I scan the panel for the “Call” button, overlooking it several times in my nerve-wracked panic. I locate it at the bottom and thrust my fingers against it repeatedly, speaking with a loud voice, “Hello? Hello! Someone is IN THE ELEVATOR. Please get this thing moving again.” I’m trying to remain calm to keep myself from hyperventilating, but it’s all coming on very quickly.  I hold my breath in an attempt to prevent my twitching lungs from freaking out while walking in a circle to distract myself. There isn’t much room, and I have unwittingly made myself exceedingly aware of that fact by spinning around in this confinement. I feel like I’m gonna lose it. I stop turning around and jam my fingers into the slit in the doors, trying to pry and pull them open. The doors move about a quarter of an inch, but do not open. Man, they make it look so easy in the movies. I try and try again, pushing my fingers a little deeper each time I’m able to move the door, but not actually making any notable progress. I scream and throw myself backward from the door, slamming my back against the wall in an angry fit. I guess it’s best that the door didn’t open for me. I am likely stuck between floors, and if I’m not able to get out fast enough, the chamber could drop and sever me in half. My best bet is to sit here and wait.
…But I can’t do that. Even forcing myself to sit in the corner to maximize my visual space proves ineffective. I still very well know that I am stuck in a very tiny elevator. I check my watch again. I’ve been in here for only two minutes. It feels like 60. And that simple math shows me that I am not cut out for this ordeal. I want my mommy. I’m holding back tears. I kick the silver doors and scream, “HELP!” to anyone outside the door that may hear me. But I hear no footsteps. No doors opening or closing, nobody even asking what may be taking the elevator so long. It’s like everyone has left the building, but I mindlessly continue for another minute or so. There is no result.
I slink downward against the wall, abandoning hope and playing my torturous death repeatedly in my brain. This is how it ends. I’m alone in an elevator where nobody knows I’m stuck. I check my watch again. It’s only been 90 seconds.  I’m feeling lightheaded, and at this point I realize that I was not able to stop myself from hyperventilating. My vision doesn’t go dark, but I feel my head falling.
What feels like the very next instant, I’m being jostled awake by another tenant of the building. She asks what I’m doing sleeping in the elevator in a rather rude tone. Like it’s any of her business why I would choose to sleep in the elevator had I actually been doing so. I must have fainted. I do not feel compelled to explain myself to this chick. I check my watch. I was only out for one minute.

I jump to my feet and take off through the lobby to my car, parked around the corner. My loaded pockets rattle the whole way there. I beep the doors unlocked and hurriedly jump inside, refusing to shut the door until I am fully composed. My head hits the headrest and my eyes close. My chest rises and falls rapidly while I try to catch my breath from sprinting. I can’t believe that just happened. I’m confused, frustrated, angry, still a little scared…but also relieved. I am so thankful to be out of that elevator. I promise myself silently to take the stairs from now on.
When I open my eyes, prepared to start the car, I notice a folded pink paper beneath my windshield wiper. Damn it! Today of all days, a ticket! I put the keys in and turn the car on, rolling down the window and pulling the paper inside. The sheet is lined. It is clearly not a ticket. I sigh relief and shake my head, forcing myself to find a little humor in this situation and chuckle so I can bring this reeling from the elevator fiasco to a halt. However, as I read the folded handwritten letter, the incident from inside begins to pale in comparison to my new feeling of hopelessness. It reads:

“Hey:
I left this on your car because I didn’t feel like running into you in the hallway. It just…would’ve been really awkward for both of us. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve been seeing someone else for a while now. It’s actually been about a year. It doesn’t really matter who it is. And I know at this point, your mind has immediately started to wonder why this happened. That’s exactly my problem with you, though. You’re so…weak. You are reading this, whining about “Whyyyyy?” in your brain when you could be blowing up my phone, tracking me down, determined to get me back. You could be doing a number of things to get what you want, but you just want me to answer your wimpy little concern. Fine.
You’re sweet. But if you’ve never noticed, I like sour candy. You’re a good guy, don’t get me wrong. You’re cute, you’re cuddly, you’re entertaining, you know how to make a girl feel better. You know who else has those qualities? A fucking teddy bear. And I’m not gonna give up the ass to a stuffed animal. As if I ever got the chance to… We are well into the 21st century you dingus—who the hell is “waiting for marriage” nowadays? I wanted to bed you the minute you started talking about the movie “Red”. But you took me for some prude Mormon girl just because my outfit didn’t show my boobs. Newsflash: I HAVE HORMONES YOU NOODLE. You pretty much forced me to have to sleep with other people for the majority of our relationship. I really tried to give it a good faith effort at first, but seriously, that dry spell can crack skin after a while.
You don’t fight. You hardly even argue. Every time I brought up an issue, there was an immediate apology. You didn’t even defend yourself to ME! What am I supposed to do with a guy who won’t even stand up to a chick? If some guy grabbed my butt at a party, you’d probably take him aside to ask how it felt. I don’t need a good guy. I need a great man.
I’m tired of Chinese and Netflix on weekend nights. Yeah, it’s cute to do occasionally, but if that’s your idea of a great time, good luck stud. I wanna go skydiving in the desert, scuba off the coast of a tropical island, I wanna see shows in Vegas, get flirty and fuck in a library bathroom, I want to go on adventures! Like I said, you know how to make a girl feel better. I don’t need to feel better. I need to feel amazing.

TTYL”

By the end of the page, my hands are shaking. I feel a literal hole in my heart. It’s like my physical heart muscle just withered and crumbled. My world has gone silent. The passing cars and people bear no effect on my perception. I’m stuck in this…purgatory. This limbo. This endless space of colorless, insubstantial nothingness. She was so mean. So hurtful. She was so cold and calculated with those sharp words that it felt like actual cuts. I could sense the lacerations in my being. On our anniversary, no less. The worst part is…
She’s right.
I mean, we’d never slept together… I brought up no sex before marriage because I thought that was something she might want. I do recall her bringing up the list of guys she’d been with, where the relationships became very hollow and all about sex. She said she was tired of that. I wanted to change it and give her something different. We did spend a lot of our weekends together eating Chinese and watching Netflix… I just thought it was enriching our bond; I thought I would show her that I don’t need her to constantly doll up for me to find her attractive. Most of those nights, she wore sweats. I thought it would show her that my idea of fun doesn’t always consist of spending a grand on alcohol or going to the same local clubs. She liked movies…that’s what she told me when we met. I didn’t engage her in arguments… She is headstrong. While she is intellectual, she is also very stubborn and emotional. If she is right, she will not stop until her opponent is crying mercy. If she is wrong and proven wrong, she gets dejected and depressed. I didn’t want to see her upset; she was usually wrong. So instead of breaking her down and being vindictive, I decided to just bite the bullet and see how I could make her feel better. I…I thought that was what she wanted.
I ball up the letter and throw it out the window, deciding that it’s better for me to be angry than sad. I see it land in the street, then peel my car off, aiming my tire for the paper ball on the ground. I run it over and, without a second look or thought about where I’m going, flip a hard right, determined to outrun the crying, broken bitch of a soul that I left sitting in that parking space. I am numbing myself with this horsepower. I have a nearly-finished Red Bull in my cup holder. I have a half a bottle of illicit opiate pills in my pocket. I think now is the time.
While driving, I maneuver my waist so I can pull the pills from my pocket, one hand on top of the steering wheel, the other yanking on the top of the pill bottle to fish it from my pants. I get it out and use my index and thumb to pop off the cap, dumping a small number of them into my mouth. I normally take two. Now I’m not counting. I smoothly wrench the top back onto the bottle and slip it back into my pocket, exchanging my grip for the Red Bull and guzzling it. It tastes like sour pineapple soda. I smirk in ironic humor. That girl has forever soured me on the word “sour”. Sour milk, sour soda, sour milk, sour soda…what a muhfuckin’ day. I have no idea where I’m going, but I refuse to let the ghost that’s chasing me catch up and make me shed tears over this. I refuse.
I’m whipping corners and exceeding the speed limit, which is not particularly wise since I live in the city and there are stop signs everywhere. Who knows…I could maybe run my ex over. I am putting effort into not caring. I am playing energy-chicken with my feelings, hoping that I can outlast them forever and the rush of guilt, fear, bitterness, shame, and sadness. I know that if they catch me, they will swallow me whole. But until that time, I am on 100, and I am never coming down.
I turn on the radio. Loud. I roll down my windows, putting this energy into screaming the lyrics to the most hardcore metal song I can find. I’m sure people are looking at me as I pull up to this stoplight, slamming my back against the seat and throwing my hands around like I’m shooting a music video. And I don’t give a damn. I simply don’t. With all this physical activity, I feel the medicine working its way through my system quicker. I have been taking these pills since before I even knew that girl. I never told her. I was too ashamed. Now, I’m not sure whether it would have lessened her tirade or made it worse. Not that it matters, she was still going to leave me, pills or no pills. I take them…a little more than recreationally. Luckily, I have never been pulled over by the cops with them on me, though I almost always have them in my pocket. I roll my eyes, feeling the chemically induced euphoria starting to wash through my bloodstream. This is going to be a good next few hours. Am I addicted? Maybe.
I continue driving until I get the bright idea that I want to go to the shooting at the closest gun range. Twin 1911’s. High caliber. I’m gonna ride this out. I pull up to the building and leap out of the car, still walking at a brisk pace hoping that the ghost doesn’t catch up to me. I can imagine him, sitting in his ghost car in that parking space, still crying his ghostly eyes out over that heartless siren who just devoured him without even being around. Fuck him. He is…weak. I am not weak. I yank the door open and proceed to the counter, not bothering to look beneath the counter. I’ve only been here twice. Years ago. But I know what I want.
“Hi there. I wanna rent two 1911’s. .45 caliber. Gimme four boxes of ammo and a couple of those killer zombie clown targets.”
“Alright, I’ll need your i.d.”
We go through the formalities and soon, I’m popping on my goggles and earmuffs and loading magazines in my lane. I’m humming the guitar notes from that song I was screaming earlier, merrily popping bullet after bullet into the mag. I don’t care that I’m about to imagine her face on the picture of this murderer holding this wacky giant bloody Warhammer. I don’t care that I’m about to imagine killing her. I feel fine. In fact, I feel great. I feel like I imagine she wants to feel. And you know…I hope she does feel that way. I hope she’s happy. I know this feeling is not to be long-lived, but it’s noble to think such thoughts, however brief. Once my target is hung, I use the switch to zip it out to about 25 feet, slamming the mags into the wells and cocking both slides. I hold both the guns out in front of me and, without hesitation, start firing away. There are only two other guys here with me. They are shooting professionally. Carefully. One shot at a time, placing shot groups into specific rings on their targets, about a quarter-size. Good for them. I’m not shooting for sport. I’m shooting for therapy. I’m shooting for sanity. I’m shooting because I am powerful. I am strong. I am a beastly force with which to be reckoned. I’m shooting and I just. Don’t. Give. A. FUCK.
I empty the magazines and grab my spares, locking and loading another 22 shots. I get about 6 in before seeing sparks fall from the ceiling slightly to my right and feeling the vibration of a heavy object hitting the floor. This is followed by a man’s loud scream. I stop shooting, my alarm piqued. I put the guns down, but I don’t take off my eye and ear protection. I just lean my head back and peek around the lane blocker to see what exactly this individual is upset about. And I see it.
He is two lanes beside me, facing away from the range, double over, pouring blood out of his neck. There’s a big puddle on the floor already, right under him. My first thought: there’s no way I did that. I sure hope I didn’t do this. I immediately start to rationalize and defend myself to an invisible jury, thinking that if I can convince myself that I didn’t do this, I should have no problem convincing them…or at least convincing them that nobody can prove that I did it. I mean, bullets are too fast to be caught on camera. And we were all shooting at the same time. Like…right? I don’t want to touch him, but my humanity forces me to check on him and see what I can do to help. But I don’t know what to do. So I just…stand still. The attendant rushes in, dialing the EMS and grabbing the first aid kit from off of a wall. My blood runs cold. I start thinking about all the trouble I could be in, all the jail time I could be facing. I’ll lose my job. I’ll have a criminal record. There’s no way this is happening. People are pouring into the room and into the area, one by one gradually until there is a small crowd huddled outside the window in the hallway, looking in to see what exactly has gone wrong. I’m looking at them, but again, my world has gone silent. I hear nothing. I’m slowly scanning them all, reality touching everything but me at the moment. It’s like I have an umbrella, and reality is just raining down about me, but never touching me. I see what is happening…I just don’t feel it. I know it, I just can’t sense it. I lock eyes with a man outside the window who seems to be able to sense with certainty that I am to blame for this. He isn’t scowling, he isn’t angry looking, he isn’t pointing any fingers. He just seems to know… It’s likely my guilty conscience playing tricks on me. And it’s a serious thing, but I’m already in too deep. I have to finish convincing myself that this is somehow not legitimately my fault. I mean, I never did fess up to it, even to myself. That means I still have a fighting chance if someone accuses me…right? The man is really leaking. I sincerely hope he will be okay. Have I…just killed someone?
Amidst the commotion happening just feet away from me, I see someone in the hallway picking up her phone and walking away from the group. I notice the man beside her do the same thing. And then another. And another. Pretty soon, everyone’s phones are ringing. Their faces are lit up in the hallway by their tiny glowing screens illuminating the identities of the callers. I watch as they pantomime concern and force-calming on their conversational partners. Is something going wrong?
My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket. It’s my sister. She is away at college in another city, just thirty minutes away. She’s a few years younger than me. We’re close, but don’t speak very often. Doesn’t take away from our bond, just have our own lives and things to do. I pick up the phone expecting to be able to ask her if something is wrong, but I don’t have to ask. As soon as I tap the answer button, I hear clattering, banging, screaming, roaring. Just God-awful noises. She is audibly crying and clearly running. She’s screaming my name. I start to speak back, but I hear a loud crash outside the door down the hallway. Shattering glass. It takes a quick back burner to my little sister, though. I plug my open ear and shout at her, asking, “What?! What is it? Talk to me, tell me what’s wrong!” Through the clamor and chaos, I’m able to make out only these words:
“…Coming…they’re everywhere…my God! My God…save…oh my…what the f—“
That is the last thing before I hear what sounds like her garbled choking and the phone being thrown into a crazy spin on the floor next to her. My heart stops. It does more than skip a beat as I listen to what sounds like my sister…my little sister…get mauled to death by what sounds like a rabid tiger. And she’s choking, gasping through blood, crying and pleading for her life. She is praying. The image I have in my head matches the audio that I’m hearing. It is exactly the worst thing I have ever heard in my life. This is exactly the worst feeling that I have ever had in my life. The noise on the phone is cut short suddenly after a loud roar and what sounds like the animal stomping on the phone twice before it jingles in my ear, signaling that the call has dropped. That happy little jingle is the trigger that brings my entire reality screeching back to life. The crowd in the hallway has stopped looking at the man on the floor, and turned their attention to where that crashing sound came from. They are screaming. They are pointing and backing up. A couple of people are running away, but the greater portion of the crowd simply stays and fights to hide behind each other like a gaggle of fearful children. I can’t imagine what must be coming down that hall.
Got damn. I was right. I couldn’t have imagined what was coming down that hallway. A one-ton freak-behemoth beast barrels down toward them and knocks them over like bowling pins, grabbing on frail man in its mouth and giving him what I can only describe as a locked-jaw  pit bull death shake. The man’s head bashes against the bulletproof glass and cracks open like a fucking egg. I can no longer feel my heart. I pissed myself minutes ago. I am wholly, uncontrollably, inexorably, undeniably paralyzed by fear. I couldn’t say what these things are. First the elevator. Then the breakup. Then the bullet. Then my sister. And now this. I stand in shock and gripping terror as what was once a gathered crowd becomes a mass of mangled flesh and hair at the dead-end of the hall. I hear successive gunshots, I see muzzle flashes, but what I do not see is the beast flinching. I’m not even sure he feels it. He doesn’t even seem to notice where they’re coming from, as the shots last for half a minute without consequence. At the end of that period, the woman with the gun, one of the attendants, is slammed against the glass by an entirely different monster and proceeds to helplessly shriek as her innards are eaten out through her back. Her mouth begins to leak blood as the teeth fly through her skin and pull her sides off. Her body jars left and right speedily, randomly, in tandem with the swings of the monster’s head. I vomit without bending, coughing, or looking away from the sight. It just comes up, out of my mouth and hits the floor. My eyes are watering. I am crying, but I’m so stricken with grief and horror that I cannot move.
                Is this the end of the world?
I have time. I have enough time. I slowly reach behind me. My brain is still high enough to have no inhibitions. My body still feels euphoric enough to not care. I am numb. I am without sense. I  pick up the gun and shakily lift it to my head, my eyes still locked on the woman’s bloody corpse smudging gore all over the window. I will not die like that. I can’t be caught by those fucking things. I can hardly see through my tears anymore. I imagine this as my eyes’ way of telling me that it’s over. I don’t need to see whatever is in front of me. I don’t need to be distracted from what I’m about to do. My final moments will be occupied by my own voluntary thoughts, not taken over by fright of some leviathan. As soon as my vision is completely blurred, I close my eyes and the tears gush down my face. I’m trembling. I will not die…like that. I refuse.
I pull the trigger hard, feeling the blast against my temple. I am knocked aside and thrown to the ground. It is loud. It is powerful. My ear is surely bleeding as well from the sheer sound of it.
…But I am not dead.
I quickly repeat, firing next shot in same spot, aimed a tiny different to take another part of my head. The effect go again. The pain so heavy that I even no feel the parts of my head what gone. I only am…tingle. And little bit burn from the entry wound. Am I survive shoot in head?
A beast bust through at door, eyes on me and I am the close one to it. Shit. Shit. I do no escape. I not simply think right not more. I am gone half brain. I am die slow. He stomp down in my face and go scream loud to my eye. I blink no. I flinch no. Not I move no cry. I am think on the past. And I know again…
I remember now. It was a warm, windless night. I remember thinking it was perfect. There was not even any sound. I was high again. I took five pills. I wasn’t stumbling, mumbling, crackhead high. I was just…elevated. Highly elevated. I felt happy, I was energetic. I was free from my worldly cares, even if only for a few hours. I normally don’t take five. I guess I just had a few extra at the time before I got more. I had no job at the time; I had begun taking more pills to deal with the depression of having no money. The biggest problem was that just before I bought another bottle, I had no more money. So I took a crystal vase from my mother’s basement and sold it at a pawn shop. She never used it. I figured she may have even forgotten it was there. I was actually surprised the shop took it—I feel like I may have even been low-balled. They didn’t hesitate to offer me $200 for it. I left the vase at the store and took the money to my friend, who received the pills as prescription, but no longer needed them. So he just sold them to me. It wasn’t necessarily a “Trap house” kind of deal. Just a private purchase by a private buyer. I left his house and went straight to a small gathering of friends downtown. We hung out at this mall. I was the only one with a car.
I pulled up to the mall and parked in the garage, which is underneath the building. To get inside the building, I had to take an elevator back up to street level and walk around to the front. I remember passing a homeless guy, sitting against the building. He was rather clean looking for someone with supposedly nowhere to go and no money to his name. His sign was also surprisingly fresh. He even had name-brand shoes on, which sported very minimal scuffs right beneath the toes; the kind of scuffs you get from running. Like from the police. I’m not gonna front, his shoes were nice. So nice that I wanted some just like those. The woman that was walking in front of me, when he addressed her, generously opened her wallet and offered him a $50 bill, to which he nodded and simply, speedily, insincerely said, “Thank you, gah bleshu,” and started looking my way. I rolled my eyes and started to walk past him. When he asked me for money in that passive-ass way, “Aye, sir, you think you got a li’l somethin’-somethin’ to help me out, sir?” I gazed very obviously at his feet, then at his stylish yet wrinkled t-shirt, and his obviously brand new fitted hat. It even still had the sticker on it. He pretended not to notice, waiting a few awkward seconds for me to answer before blinking and looking directly into my eyes. I sighed. “I don’t have shit for you, dude,” I spat, verbally and literally. I hocked one just a foot away from him, casually but purposely. I can’t stand that kind of worthless lifestyle. He was clearly able-bodied. I didn’t like his dishonesty, and I didn’t like his meek demeanor. Hell, I didn’t know him and I didn’t like him. I went into the mall and met up with my friends, not thinking twice about the guy.
We stayed mainly in front of the sushi restaurant in the food court, as many of my friends like sushi. I don’t, but they do. I ate a burger that one of them bought me with her pocket change. That was nice of her. We were in there for a few hours, listening to each other’s music, exchanging funny stories, surfing YouTube, secretly browsing through porno sites. Some were funny. Some were not. We did this until an hour before the mall closed. When we flooded out the doors, I happened to look to my right and spot that same “homeless” guy getting into the back of a deep red Cadillac on the opposite side of the street. I knew it. I just fucking knew it. I was mad. I was frustrated. I was self-righteous. I was livid. I was energetic.
I was high.
I dashed across the open lane in front of me, shouting at the guy opening the rear door on the luxury sedan, “Hey, asshole! Yeah, YOU, motherfucker.” His head turned toward me just before he jumped inside and pointed ahead, yelling something at the driver. The driver, clearly in his tinted-window panic, floored the pedal and made his tires screech. It took only one second for the car to catch traction. It took only one second for me to get across the street. It took only one second.
I had just barely made it to the car when I noticed the front wheels turning my way. I had not even stopped moving when the car started doing so. I tried to halt at the exact point of my stride, but my momentum was too great. The hood of the car lurched forward and made contact with my thigh, forcing my leg to bend the wrong way and snapping my top half forward, then back. My head slammed against the ground, nearly knocking me out. I was still conscious. The front driver’s side tire ran over my crotch and literally cracked my nuts, then my stomach as I felt my guts burst through my side and onto the street, then my chest as I felt my ribs crack and my lungs give way, and parted ways with me just at the collarbone, straightaway following up with the rear tire in the same path. I was not yet dead, but I was certainly beyond repair. There was no ambulance around. No cop cars to avenge me. Nobody with any significant medical knowledge. Just a bunch of people that just kind of knew me. A few of them rushed over to my side, freaking out far too much to touch me. I remember twitching…I remember being in total shock. I was too stunned to feel pain. I could only feel pressure. It felt like the car was still on parts of me, just kinda sitting there. I knew it was gone, but I was still trying to wrap my mind around what happened. The Cadillac pulled off around the corner in a very loud hurry, drawing a lot of attention to the scene.
…I died that evening, laying on the street staring back at the mall entrance. The very last thing I saw was my friend’s shoes. I died a thief, a drug addict, a judgmental dick. I hadn’t even spoken to my mother that morning when I visited her house—I just used my key to go in and start looking for things to hock at the store. I died a scourge. I died a burden. I now realize why things have gone so horribly wrong today. Today is not today. Today is forever. Today is the rest of eternity.
This is Hell. I am in Hell. I deserve this. I deserve it all. I allowed myself to become this terrible person and now I will suffer for it. I deserve to be in pain, the smoke of my torment ascendeth up forever and ever.
I pop into my own, back to what is now. I am lay down to floor missing pieces of where my head gone. I see demon bite down in my arm and rip away to move my whole me across the floor one 24-inches away to I stop moving. I throw up a times two. I no am can breathe choke on my throw up, stop in my throat. Demon monster on all fours, begin to eat my arm. Sky outer side of hallway is nuke orange. I no am die. My eye fall on someone not me, he not is death. Nobody am die. Us are all living on the floor, us all keep to living while blood out of skin. Stomach on the floor. Telephone in hand away from myself.

Sister scream
Elevator
Folding up letter papers car
Piss on foot
Wet mush flakes
TV clicker not is here gone way
Hell demon beast

Whispery voice my ear go say, “Forever…forever…” I am agree with him. Forever ever ever ever ever I lay here floor wait for me dying. I want am die. I need go die. Blood rain, scent of dead body all round.
I snap open my eyes just before the digital alarm clock on my bedside table hits 11:35 a.m. I stretch powerfully and crack my lower back and neck in the process, twisting so that the blanket engulfs me in a mangled mass of wrinkles and folds. I step onto the floor and head toward the bathroom. I have the strangest feeling of déjà vu. I like to ride these out, see just how far I can get in the event before it teeters off and I get back to discovering the world as it naturally is. I think it’s rather interesting, and while I move about slowly, I think rapidly about where I could have possibly seen this setting before. But I guess it’s an anomaly of the mind that scientists have yet to figure out.

Dakota Priest

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