Futile Trials

Dim Wits

Weeks pass and you have completely forgotten about the riddle, the strange person, and the sniping job. It is now but a fleeting dream that you scarcely remember existed, much less what had happened.

One day after a physically exhausting jog, you take a long route back to your apartment to get an extra lengthy cool down. Your route takes you on the splicing edge just between town and the industrial district: one one side, trees lining the streets and people ardently window shopping; on the other, billowing smoke stacks and the whir of machines as they hustle to and fro cataloging and building and deconstructing. 

The only true dichotomy in this town.

As you wander down the arching sidewalk, slowly curving back into town, you pass the old warehouse with letters overhead so worn you can only make out T EPS.

You've only been past it once or twice, and standing here beside one of the dusted, cracked windows, you can understand why many have come to call it haunted. It's rumored that if you look inside and don't get pulled in by a ghost, they'll grant you two wishes: one of destruction and one of welfare.

You've never been one to particularly believe in such stories, but the curiosity is a burning thing that you simply can't ignore.

You step off of the sidewalk and onto the soft dirt, laced with golden yellow stems of dead grass. Gingerly, you wipe a space in the glass and cup your hands to the window, slowly leaning in to see into the dark recesses. You squint and press closer, but all that is within is a blur of shadows.

Little do you know, however, that one of those blurs has since moved closer, and now crouches beneath the other side of the window. When you have pressed yourself as close as you can, the other figure leaps upon the opportunity, crashing their hands through the fragile glass and lacing their pale fingers about your neck before dragging you inside.

"You lied," they hiss, crouching low to be at your current level: the floor.

They release their grip from about your neck, but it is only one of three major issues: Although they no longer choke you, you still can not find the air to breathe; Secondly, they had landed you on your back, knocking the air out of you.

Even still, those were only temporary.

The third issue— the most pressing issue— was the shard of glass jutting out of your abdomen.

"You said you'd come. You said you'd do it. You lied. You never even tried."

It all comes rushing back: the crazed maniacal person in the park, the card, the riddle... how could they know? Were they watching? The whole time?

"I believed in you," they whisper, and for a moment, their androgynous appearance is overcome with femininity.

When they grip the shard of glass, however, their mien makes a complete flip into masculinity. "But you lied..." They rip the glass up to the base of your ribs, turning the steady pooling of blood into a rushing waterfall. "You lied."

Game Over.