The Grean Household

52: Ridding The Filth

It was early 2045, the wind was howling, and the shadows were crawling.

The paranoia had come to sweep him away, except the shadows weren't a figment of his imagination. These were the people that had come to collect payment- the thing that he tried to withhold from their cold claws.

Oliver was awake, though his legs were shaking. Torn open packets of PBD lay around his desk and office. It was a mess. The wind knocked up against his window. There was something off about tonight. Something flew in the wind.

He had his fair share of feeling paranoia and seeing shadows, but this was different. There was an unusual quietness to his thoughts. Oliver was staring at paperwork, wondering if people knew. They had to have known. People would look at him weird, it was starting to drive him mad, though he kept everything inside- or tried to.

He rarely went outside, only going in full clothing that covered every inch of his body when he needed food that he rarely ate. The house smelled of rot and sweet fruit. Oliver would sit in his chair, inhaling the fumes of the drug, hoping that his euphoria would never end. It was an artificial heaven that was better than the real world.

Oliver was in his office, running his hands around the contracts he signed that had eventually ended up useless. He expected the people he paid to do a better job at keeping those little rats locked away. He soon learned, after they reported to them, that they only got one.

The girl. 

It was rage that made him throw his computer against the wall. The same computer that he was looking at now. All he got was a cracked screen that he tried to read through. Sometimes, it'd shut down to blackness and he'd have to mess around with it so the screen would come back on. 

All the evidence a punisher needed was right on his desk.

The sound of a lock clicking shocked Oliver out of his paranoid thoughts. Now he knew there was someone around. The road was quiet, no cars daring to drive by.

For months, he noticed people watching him. It wasn't the normal frightened stare at his state. Instead, they glared, as if knowing what he had done, despite his sins being completely silent. Their faces disturbed him, the high warping them into the faces of demons. Oliver felt they were following him, whispering to each other as if collecting data of his behavior.

It left him too shaken to try and eat, though he kept smoking and inhaling the colorful fumes of the citrus-smelling killer.

Oliver was hunched over the desk, huffing as if there was thick smoke from fire in his home and his lungs didn't work quite right. He was sure he was dying. His heart was beating wildly, fingers tracing the outline of the paper.

The paranoia got so bad he had gotten a gun and kept it on his hip at all times, always loaded. Sometimes, he'd rub his finger on the grip to calm himself incase the rain hit his window too hard or the wind whistled too loud.

But there was no whistle and no knock. Just that singular click of a lock somewhere in his house.

Oliver was straining his ears to listen, but nothing was coming up. He heard nothing. But the house felt full. Like his children had returned to spy on him- to kill him. Taking out his gun, he turned and opened his office door, peering down the dark hallway. The light was on in the kitchen. As if the thing hunting him sensed his concern, the house felt empty- its presence quickly fled.

It was an odd feeling. The paranoia that he was being watched made his skin crawl. There was a fact that somewhere, somehow, the people whispering about him months back were now in his house, and still whispering- though this time, they made sure to hiss louder than they had before.

Then it was still and silent. He slipped the gun back into the holster on his hip. It seemed that he was guilty, but he argued that what he did was so everyone would feel what he felt: what being rejected and thrown away felt like. It felt like betrayal of a person you trusted. Like a forceful hand down his throat that wanted to claw his heart out. But he never cried. He always found a way to take out his anger without damaging his property.

It was there again- that feeling. But this time it was stronger- like a breath down the back of his neck.

Oliver pulled his gun. Twisting, he wanted to shoot. A sharp pain rang up his shoulder blade as a hand forced the gun into his desk. The hands were strong yet they weren't male. This was a woman attacking him.

With her furious strength, she pulled him over her back. Oliver landed on the floor, groaning in pain as he landed on his wrist awkwardly. She was tall, her shoulders wide, her build athletic. Oliver looked up, noticing that she didn't seem afraid to kill him there. He fought back, going for her knees. This woman was strong. She forced him back. Oliver's head hit off the corner of the doorframe and he dropped.

Her hands were on his nape, dragging him out of his office. When Oliver noticed his chair in the living room, he fought back. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it as hard as he could. Like a foolish child, he slapped her. The woman groaned, dropping him for a second. With nowhere to exactly escape to, he crawled. She grabbed him by the ankle and dragged him back. Then, with a strong bicep closing around his trachea, she brought him up.

Her muscles bulged against his throat. A rage passed through the way she squeezed. He knew she had the power of murder right there, but she held off- he didn't know what for.

She spoke nothing to him. The only thing he could hear in the ringing of his ears were her grunts and growls as she squeezed harder around his throat. Her grip didn't falter. Oliver scratched at her forearm, attempting to breathe. Then, she stomped down on the back of his leg. His bone snapped and punctured his skin. Breath was so far away. Oliver was seeing stars and feeling like he was already in the depths of hell, about to pay the price for the many sins he prayed were forgiven.

Then, she let go. Oliver could breath. His body was trembling, his blood pooling out of his shin. Though the grip loosened, the woman never let him go. The end of a gun was pressed to his temple. Oliver struggled, hearing her finally speak.

"We know, Oliver Grean." She snarled, pressing the gun further into his head. Her gaze found a place on the wall, a seemingly euphoric expression painting her face- an expression of release. She had found her mark, and now had the luxury of executing him herself. 

"Your abuse won't go unanswered." Before she pulled the trigger, she leaned down into his ear, her breath hot. It was last words he'd ever hear. Her finger cramped against the trigger, her muscles still bulging with flaming anticipation of completion.

"This is what you deserve, you arrogant prick." She had the relief of finally squeezing that gun.

He heard nothing. Felt nothing. 

He just plunged into cold darkness.