Some Things Never Change: A Book Dedicated to Absolutely Nothing At All

Death And Dishonor

He was dead. Dead and lost to us. I have no recollection, just a feeling of guilt welling inside me, like an overfilled balloon in my lungs, threatening to burst open at any moment. I was beside him, and myself, kneeling down, covered in blood. Most of it was his, some was mine, judging by the long claw-like scratches on my chest. My lungs ached, and each breath sent fiery spouts down my windpipe. The air in the room was thick, choking me in a fiery smog. What the hell happened? Why was this man dead? And why don't I fucking remember? I had to search for answers, something to fill in the blanks. But, there was nothing in here to do just that. The man. Searching through his wallet showed who he was. Walter Martin,  56 years old, and a retired mailman was this bloody mess in front of me. Turning on the light revealed his head was violently destroyed, and a gory cinderblock confirmed my horror, and I puked in disgust. Wiping my mouth, I still grasped straws trying to piece together everything. Got home from the packaging plant early, fell asleep, and now.......nothing. Blank. Goose egg. I assessed myself. I was scratched heavily, with some bruises, I had a massive headache, but nothing was missing. Peering through my wallet, nothing was missing, so I wasn't mugged. My knife was still on me, so I could get out. I tried shoving the door open, and it gave after a few attempts. It was then that I knew where I was. I was at the old location where our packing plant was almost blown apart by a fuel explosion. That would explain why the rooms were choked with stale air. The debris blocked the vents, cutting off air to some rooms. The door was yellow, so we must be on the fifth level, under the office floor. Looking around, I noticed the catwalks had fallen apart, and that conveyors were torn up from falling debris. This place was basically an abandoned shit shack, falling apart from about 23 years of being unmaintained. I chose to play it safe, and take the stairs, the last step crashing noisily. I heard clicking noises in the dark, and it stopped me dead in my tracks. Shuffle....click....click.....shuffle...
The sounds sent icy tingles down my spine, and I felt an extreme urge to vomit. Damn nerves. Just get the best of ya sometimes. Ignoring the sounds, I continued to search for the next set of stairs. I found the stairs alright, but not working stairs. What I instead found was a jagged pile of metal at the bottom of a concrete precipice. I had to be careful about it, but I could use the stubby brackets that attached the stairs to the concrete to get down. If I fell, I would babe harpooned a hundred ways to sundown. I took in a breath, then examined the brackets. Though they would barely manage, I leapt for the first one. I landed, shifting my weight on the one leg firmly planted on the bracket. To my surprise, I didn't end up as a human kebab, and continued downward. It was about halfway down, when the brackets were less sturdy, and to remain on one too long meant serious issues. I looked at the ones across from me, but they were in horrible shape, so I couldn't do that. Below me was even more jagged remnants of what used to be stairs. Down I kept going. Jump, shift, jump, shift. Finally, I reached the bottom of the stairwell shaft, and kept easily onto solid ground. I laughed aloud at the ridiculousness of the situation. Then I heard it again.
Shuffle.....scratch.....scratch....click.....shuffle....
I turned, and looked at the open office on the upper floor, and saw a silhouette, as soon as I made eye contact, it took off. Boy, I'm glad it was a floor above me, whatever the fuck it was. Continuing,on, I found so,e old newspaper articles pasted to the wall. Various historic events were posted. Elections, births, deaths. What stood out was a clipping about a fire. Looking closely, it was the fire that had nearly killed everyone in this plant. What the fuck was a newspaper article doing here, about the very same incident that occurred. Checking the date, it was dated a year earlier than the actual fire, but the day stayed the same, as well as the month. What the fuck? Then, as I came to a bizarre realization, I turned to see the shadow. It.....it was.....me. It all made sense. I started the fire on accident that cost lives. People died because of my negligence. I'd been inside this place while I hallucinated the last few years, playing it out in this place. And now, I was face to face with my worse enemy: ME. He looked back, like a strange holographic reflection of me.
"Hello, Marcus. It's been some time. But I can see you've snapped out of it." It spoke,
"Who the hell are you?" I asked, seriously doubting reality at this point.
" Think of me as a figure for everything dark, everything you hate, what you'd never do or say. I'm basically the darker half of your mind, the place where nightmares seem like a good dream."
No words came to me. My brain struggled, thoughts slipping, I stood shocked and paralyzed. It looked at me, and clicked and rattled in its bizarre fashion. It reached out a hand, and mine immediately shot up, out of control.
"I can't make you understand by telling you. Let me show you......"

Fuck him. It wasn't my fault. Rodrickson started the fight. He fuckin threw the first punch! Fuck em both. Fuming, I grabbed my shit out of my locker, slamming it shut, and cracked the wall behind it. Fuck it. I headed to the generator rooms. I needed some serious fuel. I rolled a massive dolly and loaded fuel barrels. I pushed the cart into the maintenance elevator, and headed to the top. Stale Muzak poured through speakers in its faded, metallic tone, like a Transformer with asthma, dying of tuberculosis. The doors open and I push the dolly to the middle of the floor. I popped open the lid and dipped rags in the fuel. Putting the lid back on, I popped the hole open and stuffed the rag in. I balanced the barrel on the low wall overlooking the open atrium below, which was the center of this facility. I lit the rage and pushed the barrel. It tumbled for what seemed like forever, and the, with a thunderous crash, it landed and split into a twisted pile, sending an ignited fireball of raw fuel in all directions. I picked up another barrel and sent it into a balcony, spilling fuel, and I turned, making my way to the office. People poured out, and slid in waste fuel leaking from one of the three remaining barrels, and fell, crashing into one another. I pushed the doors open, throwing a lit rag behind me, turning a slippery mess into a screaming, burning pile of fuel-covered bodies. I kicked two cabinets out of he way as I dumped most of  the leaky barrel, and another full one onto the floor, soaking papers, desks, and cubicles. I made my way to the back when my former boss came out. Quickly, I pulled a paper cutter blade apart from the base, and smashed him in the head, knocking him unconscious. I tied a phone cord around him, binding him tightly to the barrel.

Minutes later......

He woke up, dazed and confused, and looked at me hazily.
"Well, that's a sad ending, isn't it? Burned alive by a psychopath who'll never be found."
He looked, shocked and terrified, and started pleading for his life, making so many promises of money and favors.
"I want a total identity change. Michael Ryan Moore, age 28. Fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes. I want it all right now, understand?"
He nodded, and told me to get a phone. I untangled it and he made the deal, carefully dancing around sensitive areas. He thanked them, and hung up.
" The deal is made. You're free to go. Now, you gotta hold up your end of the bargain."
" My end? I never said you would live. Thanks for being brave though. See you in hell, Richard."
I lit the rag, and dumped the last of the mostly empty barrel and lit a trail that scorched its way to where Richard lay helpless. Flames licked and ignited, melting Richard into a horrid, liquid mess. His shrieks turned to dry gurgling and choking on blood. I left, and let the place burn. I headed out of state, and completely lost my humanity. My identity is completely broken, and I feel lost. Walter can help me. He's a great guy......

It was me. I killed them. Their blood stained my hands. It looked at me and smiled. It reached out, patted my back in sympathy, and quickly grabbed my neck. I struggled against its grip, but it continued to hold on. Blackness closed in around my vision. It grabbed with the other hand and twisted. My vision went black and I was lost in a pool of darkness. Floating through a place, beyond time and space, beyond life and death, and into eternity, I drifted. I saw broken visions of Walter, concerned, and afraid. I saw him, struggling, trying to escape from something. And then me, smashing his fucking head in with a cinderblock, lifting and slamming repeatedly, mashing his brains into the concrete. I saw everything in one moment, and then, at the height of it all, I was plunged further into darkness..........