My brother and I had never expected to live together. We were opposites in that I was always of the softer, quieter type and he was of the tough sort which took pride in belittling others, working out and playing football. He was a large man weighing just over three hundred pounds and standing at six feet, five inches tall. We had decided to move in together after our parents divorced. It was a much easier decision than trying to choose a parent to live with.

That summer night was a balmy night and since our apartment did not have air conditioning of any sort, we kept the sliding glass door to the balcony open. After cleaning up the table and taking care of the dirty dishes, I sat down on the couch to watch a bit of TV and my brother went into his bedroom. A while later, he came out again and sat down next to me on the couch. We chatted for several minutes until my brother’s kitten, Tabby, woke up from her sleep on the lazy boy which was situated next to the couch. My brother had just gotten Tabby from a friend’s family whose cat had had a litter of four kittens. Tabby was the smallest of them and by far the most charming. She had very light gray fur with darker gray stripes running across her back like tiger stripes. The tips of her disproportionately large ears also had darker gray fur to match the stripes. My brother got her when she was only eight weeks old. He had had her for two weeks, making her ten weeks old. She was still small enough to fit into one hand and when she meowed, she did it with such a high-pitched voice that there was no mistaking her for anything but the tiny kitten she was.

Tabby let out one of her high-pitched meows in her kitten-like manner and took a long stretch before jumping onto the couch from the chair. She rubbed up against the side of my brother’s leg and started purring loudly. All conversation between us ceased as we watched her in a trance which only kittens can induce. My brother stroked her for a few moments lovingly, then stood up, picking her up, and walked into the kitchen to feed her. While she was eating, he came back in and joined me on the couch where we resumed our conversation.

Several minutes went by before Tabby came running into the living room as well as she could. She was young enough yet that she could not quite coordinate all of her limbs, which meant she took her fair share of spills on the hardwood floor. She let out another loud meow and my brother got up to play with her. He had purchased a small, furry toy mouse for her to play with and she could not get enough of it. My brother would flick it across the floor and Tabby would go prancing after it in her clumsy, uncoordinated way. She would then pick it up with her mouth and try to toss it in the air, but still lacked the strength to properly do so since the toy was designed for an adult cat rather than a kitten her size. My brother absolutely adored Tabby and could think of nothing better to do with his time than to play with her in such a way. The kitten would become bored with the game much more quickly than he would.

I watched this for a short time, but my attention eventually reverted back to the television set. Having become absorbed in the program I was watching, I was completely unaware of the following events until they had already more or less happened. As the television host rambled on about some unimportant topic, I was yanked out of my trance with such swiftness that it made me jump. My brother yelled TABBY!!! and I turned just in time to see him hopping over the railing of the balcony, following his kitten who had just slipped underneath the railing. Immediately, I sprang up from the couch. Before I had barely gotten off the couch, I heard a terrifying sound and then a blood curdling scream come from my brother. I ran with all my might across the room to the balcony. When I got to the railing, I looked over and what I saw was a nightmare. My brother, who had survived the single story fall without injury, collapsed onto his knees on the pavement below. There before him lay a splattered bloody mess of fur, bones and gore. A single large shoe print from my brother’s boot was visible in the middle of the mess.

He stared at it in total disbelief, then, slowly, he picked up the remains of his kitten. His hands were shaking and he could no longer balance on his knees. He fell over sideways and curled up into a fetal position. Holding the remains tightly against his chest, he began to rock. Tears streamed down his cheeks and it did not take long before he began to bawl uncontrollably. Bits of light and dark gray fur fell onto the pavement as he stroked what he could of the remains. By this time, several of the neighbors had come out onto their balconies and were watching, many of them horrified, covering their gaping mouths with their hands. A few of them began to quietly cry and many of them went back inside in a hurry, unable to cope with the scene unfolding in front of them.

It was dusk and the sun was already set down beyond the horizon. The parking lot was covered from the shadow of the apartment building as the buildings beyond the street were turned a shade of orange. A cool breeze picked up and blew some wrinkled pieces of paper and a plastic bag around the parking lot. A motorcycle roared passed on the road, the noise fading away into the distance. On the pavement below, just a couple of inches away from the small pool of blood lay a silent toy mouse, never to be played with again.

Thomas recalled what his father had told him about the terrorist attacks in New York some sixty years ago shortly after the turn of the millennium. The government began to crack down on its own population under the hypocritical motto of protecting freedom. Since that time, there have been two more terrorist attacks and in order to protect its citizens, the government has retracted most of the freedoms taken for granted by our forefathers.

Under the alias of “presidentstalin,” Thomas kept a very popular blog which he used to chronicle the unconstitutional wrong-doings of the government. He occasionally received death threats by fellow American citizens who were brain washed into thinking that what the government was doing was entirely necessary for the security of democracy. Those comments Thomas usually just deleted however.

After getting up to get a quick cup of coffee, Thomas sat back down at his computer to write about the crack down he had just read about in the news. This latest incident involved the arrest of a fifteen-year-old boy who had written a school paper about why he thought the president should create a law mandating that all high schools should have an open campus. In a press conference after the arrest, the chief of police stated that the boy was being held on suspicion of collaborating with the Iron Fist terrorist group in Venezuela. The boy had no hope. Long ago the government had taken away any right to a trial by jury for suspected terrorists or for those suspected of collaborating with terrorists. His only hope was that the judge would be sympathetic to his case; however with the fury of patriotic brain washing that was so rampant, the likelihood of being acquitted was very low. Soon enough, the boy would just disappear and the media would move on to the next terrorist suspect.

All this Thomas wrote about in his blog entry. He also drew a parallel between the suspected terrorists of the modern age and the poor fools branded as heretics during the Spanish Inquisition so many centuries ago. Amazing how the human psyche does not change.

Thomas stood up from his computer after clicking the publish button on his blog. That entry was bound to conjure up some more death threats from the redneck patriots and religious conservatives. He went into his kitchen where he finished up his cup of coffee and set the glass in the sink. He stood and stared mindlessly at the cup sitting in the sink as he began to wonder what it would have been like to live in the time that sink was installed in the kitchen. The house was built before the turn of the millennium and the stainless steel sink was original. Although no freedoms had really been removed, the government used every excuse in the book to arrest those who exercised too much freedom. Thomas smiled. Maybe the government should stop reading books then. After all, the Communist Manifesto was such a tedious read and the government really had much better things to do.

Breaking his thoughtful stupor, Thomas turned to go back to his computer. In the pit of his stomach he suddenly felt an uneasy feeling about the blog post he had just published. He had broken his normal habit of using public computers to create the entry. When he looked at his computer screen, he sighed in relief. Exactly the way he had left it. Really he did not know what he should have expected except for it to be just the way he left it.

Thomas reached down to close the browser, when the hair on the back of his neck suddenly stood up. His sixth sense was telling him that someone was watching him. He tried to shrug it off as he turned off his computer and disconnected the Internet cable, but the eerie feeling refused to subside. Slowly he walked back to the kitchen. Everything was just as he had left it here too. It was only then that Thomas realized it was dark outside. He suddenly wanted another cup of coffee. Perhaps this would help ease the eerie feeling that still grasped his mind. Reaching into the old sink, he grabbed his cup and looked down in it. He paused.

Thomas instinctively looked up at the window that was over the sink when his peripheral vision caught a beam of light shine in. The noise of shouts, broken glass and splintered doors suddenly assaulted Thomas’ ears. He found himself unconsciously clinging to his coffee cup as he was apprehended by masked officers wearing black bulletproof vests. The cup was torn out of his hands and shattered on the ground – the last remnant of his life. The last thing Thomas saw before they put the bag over his head were the broken pieces of his beloved coffee cup now sprawled across the kitchen floor.

When Thomas came to several hours later, he found himself alone in a dark concrete room. The only light emanated from the small rectangular hole in the cell door, but was distorted by the bars in the hole. At some point shortly after his arrest, he had lost consciousness. He wished it would happen again. He cried out and suddenly there were voices coming from the other side of the door. The silhouette of the top of a man’s head appeared in the hole, blocking most of the light.

“So, you’re awake now,” the man said. “Good. We can get started then.”

At that, the man disappeared. Thomas heard more talking from a distance, then there was a series of clicking sounds that came from the door and a light flickered on overhead. The man reappeared in the doorway as he pushed the door open. Thomas tried to get up, but quickly found that he was bound hand and foot. Two men dressed in military style and armed with sub-machine guns followed the first man in. Each one stood guard around the door with each man standing on either side of the door. The other man, who was dressed in a suit and tie, appeared to be a detective of some sort. He came over and began to untie Thomas as the guards closed the cell door behind them.

“My name is Agent Peterson,” the man in the suit and tie said. “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other over the next few days, so I want to make this go as smoothly as possible.”

“I want a lawyer,” Thomas demanded. Peterson kicked him in the side as he sat on the ground. “I know my constitutional rights!” Another kick.

“I’ll be the only one you’ll see for a very long time,” Peterson answered maliciously. “Criminals get lawyers. Terrorists get this!” He kicked Thomas again in the side as he lay doubled over on the cold ground.

“Either you’re going to make this easy on yourself and tell me what I want to know or I’ll get it out the hard way!” Peterson stomped on Thomas’ arm nearly breaking it. Thomas cried out in pain.

“Venezuelan scum!” Peterson turned around to leave. The guards opened the door for him and then followed him out. They closed the door behind him and the light overhead turned off. Thomas was left alone in the darkness and in agonizing pain. He could not help but ponder Peterson’s last comment. Venezuela was a socialist country headed by an energetic dictator; and yet somehow, the citizens of that country had more freedom and more rights than any American citizen.

Thomas had no idea how many days he had been left alone in his dark, cold cell. He knew he had been given three small meals since his arrival and they were his only means of telling time. A couple of days must have passed, he figured, because he was starving. They were giving him just enough sustenance to keep him alive. In that time, he had not heard from nor spoken to Peterson again. Sleep and blessed unconsciousness only came in varying intervals and never for very long. Boredom and starvation had begun to creep in and he figured they starved their prisoners to help them keep their minds off the boredom.

At some point, he found himself pacing his cell, when he heard voices and the clicking of the door again. The lights flickered on and in walked Peterson again accompanies by two different guards outfitted similarly to the last two.

“So, have you decided to cooperate?” Peterson asked as the guards closed the door behind them.

“Yes, I’ll tell you everything I know,” Thomas replied.

“Good. Let’s get started then.” Peterson walked around behind Thomas and grabbed his arms. He slapped handcuffs on each wrist. “Come on then.”

Peterson led him to the door which the guards had opened once again. They stood in a long concrete hallway with several other cell doors. Peterson grabbed Thomas by one arm and led him down the hallway. All this time, Thomas could not help but think of what that fifteen-year-old boy must be going through. Thomas was in his fifties and scared.

Eventually, they stopped in front of a plain steel door and Peterson opened it. He shoved Thomas inside. The room had a single overhead light, a table in the middle and two chairs facing each other on opposite sides of the table – clearly an interrogation room.

Unlocking the handcuffs on Thomas’ wrists, Peterson pointed to a chair and commanded Thomas to sit in it.

Thomas obeyed and Peterson sat down in the other chair. “So, tell me what you know.”

“I know I was illegally arrested for posting a blog entry criticizing you,” Thomas stated quite matter-of-factly.

Peterson shook his head. “We have evidence that you are connected to the Venezuelan terrorist group know as the Iron Fist.” He looked Thomas in the eyes. “Tell me what you know about them.”

“All I know is that I exercised my right to freedom of speech as stated in the first amend…” Peterson suddenly stood up, reached across the table and hit Thomas squarely in the jaw.

“You are a terrorist! Terrorists don’t have any rights!”

Through the pain, Thomas yelled, “I wasn’t considered a terrorist before I made that last blog post!”

Peterson stood up and threw the chair he had been sitting in at Thomas, hitting him in the chest. “If you’re going to play tough with me, I have ways of dealing with that!”

In a bout of anger, Peterson turned and left the room. Thomas now sat alone with the two guards who kept watch by the door. They had their guns pointed directly at him.

It felt as though years had passed since Thomas had been apprehended and held captive in this miserable hell. In reality it had only been a few months. No matter how hard he tried, Peterson still could not extract a confession of anything out of Thomas. He was guilty of absolutely nothing and he knew it. His only mistake was exercising his right to freedom of speech. In a day and age where publication is instantaneous and the government is paranoid for its own survival, such a thing as freedom of speech simply does not exist. Thomas lamented over the days when he was a child and talking badly about the government might have earned you a scorn from the ancient neighborhood Vietnam veteran, but nothing more.

As Thomas sat in his cold, damp cell, he started laughing. His laughter echoed off of the bare concrete walls, ceiling and floor. He could not control himself. For the first time since his arrest, he found his illegal captivity funny. There was no explanation. Perhaps he was going mad or maybe there was some sort of dark and twisted humor in being locked up for typing a few words and publishing them online. Was there really a difference?

A clicking sound coming from the door and the flickering of the lights turning on suddenly startled Thomas back to reality. The standard procedure of Peterson coming into his cell closely followed by armed guards was carried out to a T. It had been ages since he had last seen Peterson it seemed. At least 60 or 70 meals since he had last seen anyone or had even seen more light than that which came through the small slit in the door. Thomas had to squint profusely to allow his eyes to become accommodated to the bright florescent overheads.

“It’s been a while,” Peterson said, looking down on Thomas as he sat on the floor. “I hope by now you’ve decided to talk,” he paused. “Because if not, I’m going to try a few things to make you talk.”

Thomas stared at him blankly, still trying to adjust to the bright light. He said nothing.

“No answer, huh?” Peterson sniveled. “Well, that’s alright. We’ll see how you feel about it in a couple of hours.”

Peterson beckoned for one of the guards to go fetch something. The guard quickly disappeared out the door. A few minutes later he reappeared with a large metal box and a small plastic case on top of it. The plastic case was opened, revealing a remote control. Peterson removed the remote from the case, setting the case on the floor, then picked up the large metal box. Thomas could see that there was a round hole in the center of one of the sides of the box.

“Do you know what this is?” Peterson asked.

Thomas gave no response. He knew very well what it was.

Peterson continued, “This device is a wonderful invention of the CSS. See this hole?” he asked, pointing to the hole Thomas had noticed. “That’s where your neck goes. You’re head of course inside the box.”

Thomas was familiar with the box. He had done his research on American torture methods implemented by the CSS, or Committee for State Security since its creation in 2032 by the Terrorist Prevention Act. Tearing his eyes away from the box, he looked up at Peterson, who smiled.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” He beamed with excitement. “I’ll be nice. One more chance. Are you going to talk?”

Thomas said nothing.

“Well, ok then. Let the fun begin!” Peterson motioned for one of the guards to come over. The guard grabbed Thomas and held him in place as Peterson opened a latch on the side of the box. It opened like a giant metal jaw.

“You know, the beauty of this thing is that it’s multipurpose,” Peterson said as he went over to where Thomas was being held. “Not only does it evoke cluster phobia by enclosing your head, but it also deprives you of sight.” He smiled. “Oh, and of course you can’t eat or drink anything with it on either.”

In one quick move, Peterson snapped the box shut over Thomas’ head. He was enshrouded in total darkness and could only hear the sound of the latch closing and of a lock snapping shut. A sweat broke out on his forehead and he began to struggle. But to no avail. He was in too weak of a condition to overpower the guard still holding him in place. He leaned his head forward less than an inch until it came to a rest on the front of the box.

Suddenly a very high-pitched noise coming from somewhere within the box began squealing its way through Thomas’ head. The noise was excruciatingly painful and seemed to come from all around him. He began to struggle ferociously, but the guard continued to hold him in place. His ears felt as though they were about to burst. Instinct told him to cover his ears with his hands, but they too were being held. The pain was unbearable. As suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Thomas was relieved. A voice seemed to come from his own head, but he quickly realized it was coming from somewhere inside the box. It was Peterson.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” Peterson said through some sort of speaker system in the box. “I guess that’s something I forgot to mention about the box.” The squealing suddenly came back on, sending Thomas into struggling fits again. Then it stopped. “Oh, what fun!” Peterson said. “I’m enjoying this already! Can you imagine listening to that sound for hours?”

“I’m not a terrorist!” Thomas suddenly yelled, breaking his silence. He nearly went deaf in his effort to yell from the confines of the box.

“What was that?” asked Peterson. “I couldn’t hear you.” He turned the high-pitched sound back on with the remote and Thomas began to wiggle again. He stopped. “I still don’t think you’re ready to talk yet. Maybe in a couple of hours.”

Peterson turned on the noise again and, satisfied at seeing Thomas struggling again with the metal box locked around his head, strolled out of the room whistling. The guards soon followed, leaving Thomas alone with the box and the torturing noise.

Over the course of the next several months, Thomas endured many different kinds of ruthless torture. Different instruments had been brought in as Thomas had very nearly gone deaf after so many hours of exposure to the high-pitched noise of the box. Physically, he was a broken man, but he never confessed to anything he did not do. He admitted the running of his anti-government blog as well as a number of other trivial things, but never falsely claimed having anything to do with the Iron Fist.

Thomas’ only hope lie in the trial that was rapidly approaching. A single CSS judge would hear his testimony and that of Peterson’s, then decide his fate. Should he be found innocent, he will be released. Should he be found guilty, he had no idea what to expect. Death probably.

The morning of the trial found Thomas sitting on the cold hard floor of his cell mindlessly starring into the darkness. Drool trickled down one side of his mouth as he continued staring unblinkingly.

The familiar sounds of his cell door opening suddenly jolted him back into reality. Peterson waltzed confidently into Thomas’ cell with an entourage of armed guards. Two of them picked Thomas up from the floor while another snapped handcuffs around his wrists. Shakles were also locked around his ankles. Peterson stood in front of Thomas and looked directly into his eyes.

“Well,” Peterson began. “Today’s the big day. Justice will finally be served.” Thomas continued to stare at him in silence. “Let’s go,” said Peterson, motioning for the guards to bring Thomas out of the cell.

The bewildered man realized his fate was already sealed as he entered the courtroom. There was no jury and he had no right to a defense attorney as a suspected terrorist. It was his word versus Peterson’s and, although he had not confessed to anything at all, he knew his word meant nothing and that Peterson’s suspicions alone would be enough to convict him. As Thomas and Peterson took their seats, the judge entered the courtroom. There were heavily armed guards in every corner and by every exit of the courtroom. Three stood directly behind Thomas and two stood in front of the judge’s bench.

Fortunately for Thomas, the trial was short. Peterson fed the judge exactly what he wanted to hear by calling Thomas a terrorist who had collaborated with the Venezuelan terrorist group, the Iron First. He simply told the judge that the CSS had a reliable source from which these accusations were based, but never actually provided any proof – tangible or otherwise. Despite his attempts to defend himself, Thomas was never allowed any time to speak. In a total of three and a half hours, Peterson had managed to convince the judge he was guilty as charged; although Thomas suspected the judge never really needed any convincing.

The next day Thomas was brought back in front of the judge for sentencing. As the judge read the sentence, Thomas silently stood in horror.

“You are hereby sentenced to be drilled,” the judge read aloud. “This is the standard procedure for terrorists adopted by the CSS.” Thomas tried to speak. “Silence! You no longer have the right or privilege to speak unless given permission by a CSS agent. If you don’t know what it means to be drilled, you will find out soon enough. That is all.”

The judge got up from his bench and left the courtroom as Thomas was hauled off by four guards. He was taken to a concrete room he had never seen before. In the center lay a table in the relative shape of a human. Thomas was forced onto the table after being released from his handcuffs. His arms were strapped down to the ‘arms’ of the table and his ankles were strapped down to the ‘legs’ of the table. Several straps were tightened over his chest making it difficult for him to breathe. Finally a strap was tightened over his head, securing it to the table. He was entirely unable to move, no matter how much he tried.

“So this is what happens to terrorists,” a familiar voice said from somewhere above Thomas’ head. It was Peterson. “I told you, you were a terrorist. But sadly you didn’t believe me.” Peterson patted Thomas’ head as though he was dog. “Just remember, Thomas, the government is always right.”

Thomas tried to rebuke Peterson’s cocky statement, but a gag was quickly placed into his mouth. “Didn’t the judge tell you, you have no right to say anything?” Peterson yelled. “But I guess it doesn’t really matter. After all, you won’t be able to say much for much longer.” At that, Peterson turned and left the room.

As Peterson left, another man came into the room. He introduced himself as simply being “The Doctor.” Thomas never managed to get a look at him as he was stuck with his head strapped down staring at the ceiling. A rustling broke out to the left of Thomas. He began to perspire profusely, having no idea what was about to happen. The rustling stopped.

Suddenly he could feel a cold metal tip press against his temple. The Doctor apologized profusely before he pressed the drill into Thomas’ frontal cortex through his temple. Thomas felt a rush of extraordinarily intense pain and lost consciousness. His last thought before blacking out was that of the broken fragments of his favorite coffee cup sprawled across the floor of his kitchen.

When Peterson came to visit Thomas, he found him sitting on his haunches, rocking back and forth in a corner of his cell. He had a bloodied red cloth wrapped around his head. Drool was pouring out of his mouth and tears streamed down his cheeks. A rank stench filled the cell from when he had soiled himself. When Thomas saw Peterson, he smiled a very happy smile and made an unintelligible noise to express his delight of having a visitor. Although he could remember what had happened over the course of the past several months, he was no longer in control of his own emotions or responses. Peterson patted Thomas’ matted hair and he grinned.

“Excuse me, miss!” Charles called in vain, trying to capture the attention of a young lady he had just seen in a window two stories up. It was useless, however, as she had already closed the window and disappeared inside the depths of the house where she certainly could not hear him.

The autumn evening was cloudy and cool, but not cold, with a swift breeze that ran through the streets like a spooked team of horses. He looked down again at the item which she had dropped that now laid on the ground very near him. It fluttered slightly as the wind tried with a great endeavour to move it, but without success. Taking only one step forward and with very little effort, Charles bent down to retrieve the item. He examined it for a quick moment and found that it was a very clean white handkerchief adorned with the initials ‘ET’. The two letters were embroidered flawlessly with a dark blue thread in one corner of the cloth. Somewhere near the centre was what appeared to be an ink stain which was the only blemish that it contained.

After a brief moment’s thought, Charles resolved to knock on the door of the house so that he may return it to the woman he had seen above. The door was opened almost immediately and to his great surprise, it was not a servant who opened the door, but rather the lady herself.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Charles began politely. “I believe you dropped this.” Charles held out the handkerchief for her to take with one hand and took a good puff of his pipe while holding it with the other.

“Oh, thank you,” replied the lady as she smiled and took the handkerchief. She was a rather slim young woman who had bright blue eyes and a head full of dark brown hair that was tucked neatly into a white bonnet. She wore a rather old fashioned looking dark brown dress with a white apron. Charles could not help but stare into her brilliant eyes. There was something about them that entranced him, but what he could not imagine. For a moment the two young people stared into each other’s eyes without a word. “My name is Elizabeth Talboth,” the lady said suddenly, breaking the trance.

“Sorry, I seemed to have wandered into my own thoughts,” Charles replied as his cheeks turned bright red and he looked away from her eyes. “I am Charles Hartley.” He removed his hat, putting it under one arm and took the pipe from his mouth. Gently, he grabbed hold of Elizabeth’s hand and kissed the back of it.

Flattered and blushing, Elizabeth said, “Would you like to come in and have a cup of tea? I was just about have one myself.”

“I would love to!” Charles exclaimed and followed Elizabeth into the house. “What a splendid house you have! Is it your father’s?”

“No, it is mine. I live here alone.”

Charles pondered her statement as he took off his overcoat and looked around. Elizabeth took his overcoat and hat and hung them on a rack near the door specifically designated for such a purpose.

“You live alone? Not even any servants?” asked Charles, pursuing the point.

“No. None.”

“How queer! It is not often one finds a woman living alone; especially in a house such as this.”

Without answering, Elizabeth showed Charles into the drawing-room and said that she would be back in a moment with tea. She then withdrew from the room, leaving Charles alone. The room was quite large and was decorated with many artefacts from the eighteenth century; presumably possessions of the original owner of the house. The room was quite dusty and one could easily find cobwebs anywhere in the room. It became apparent that she had not entertained guests in quite some time. Elizabeth soon returned carrying a golden tray with a white antique teapot and two cups to match.

“How did you come to possess such a house?” asked Charles, sitting down in one of the many old chairs, ignoring the filth.

“It has been in my family since it was built,” answered Elizabeth. “My mother died giving birth to me and my father died when I was fifteen. I was their only heir.” Elizabeth looked at the dusty floor for a brief moment, then began to pour the tea.

“I am so sorry to hear that. But don’t you keep any servants?”

“No, I live here alone. I don’t need any.”

Charles thought this statement particularly odd. Elizabeth certainly must have had the means with which she could easily afford servants and judging by the amount of filth in the room, it was obvious that she needed their services desperately. Charles thought about his own house. He too lived alone, however, he lived with the company of a butler and two servants. It was not easy for him to imagine life without such services at his disposal.

Charles took a sip of his tea. “Elizabeth, tell me what you do then here alone.”

Elizabeth took a seat and answered matter-of-factly, “I write.”

“What sort of writing do you do?” Charles took another sip of tea and looked again into Elizabeth’s eyes. They were such a fascinating spectacle to be withheld! The bright blue iris that surrounded the pitch black pupil almost seemed to be moving like restless water in the open ocean during the peak of a strong storm. Only this water was glowing brightly with a brilliant radiance like that of the shallow water surrounding a tropical island; only Charles would not have known that — he had never left England.

“I write poetry, mostly,” Elizabeth replied and smiled. She then took a sip of her tea.

“Pardon me? I am sorry, I was off in my own thoughts again, I am afraid,” Charles said, unable to look away from Elizabeth.

“I write poetry.”

“Poetry? That sounds fascinating!” Charles said, trying to conceal his indifference.

“Yes, poetry. I have been writing poetry since I was first able to write, although admittedly, in the beginning without the sort of sophistication one might associate with poetry. But I suppose everyone has to start somewhere.” Elizabeth took another sip of her tea.

“I should like to read some of this poetry of yours, Elizabeth,” Charles said, still unable to remove his gaze from her eyes. “That is, of course, if you don’t mind.”

Elizabeth blushed. Smiling, she answered, “Of course I don’t. Although, I must confess that I do not believe anyone has ever read my poetry before. I mostly just keep it to myself.”

“Ah, but what is the point of writing, if there is no one to read it?” Charles took a sip of tea.

“There is always the hope that someone charming may come along, like in my poems,” Elizabeth answered bashfully and took another sip of tea. After a brief pause, she added, “Charles, I think I would like to be you.”

Taking absolutely no notice of her last comment, Charles continued to stare into Elizabeth’s hypnotic eyes. The two sat in awkward silence for a while. Then, quite suddenly changing the topic of conversation, the two young people continued to converse for quite some time.

Charles watched Elizabeth carefully. He was mesmerised by her seemingly unnatural elegance and it seemed to him that he could almost make out a glow emanating from her very body.

He also rose from his seat and quite suddenly said, “Thank you for such a pleasant evening, Elizabeth, but I am afraid I must be on way now. It is already dark outside and I have business I must attend to before the day is through.”

Elizabeth turned away from the newly created fire to face Charles. “Before you go, would you like to read one of my poems?”

A dark, almost tangible feeling crept over Charles like a thousand spiders crawling all over his body. There was something in the way she spoke these last words that sent a chill tumbling down his spine. He shuddered and hesitated, but out of sheer courtesy and due to his prior commitment, he replied, “One of your poems? Oh yes, I would love to.”

Leaving the fire as it was, Elizabeth took Charles’ hand and led him back into the foyer, then up the main staircase. Every step they took squeaked and echoed throughout the dark dusty house. As they approached the top of the staircase, Charles squinted to see in the darkness, but could not see anything. As soon as they had reached the landing, they paused while Elizabeth lit a candle that was on a small wooden table adorned with a large red cloth. With the dim light of the candle, he managed to see that there were four closed doors surrounding the landing. Elizabeth led him to one of them and opened it. He followed her into a musty bedroom full of furniture covered by white covers. The bed had four posts, all of which were bare, and a very dirty mattress. The room itself was not particularly large and had a hideous worn yellow wallpaper that covered the upper half of the walls. The lower half was covered with a dark wooden panelling.

Elizabeth led Charles to a small vanity with a chair and a mirror standing in the corner opposite the door. There she lit another candle that stood on the left side of the desk, then set the other one on the right side. She turned around to face Charles, who stood behind her watching her. She kissed his cheek, then, stepping out of his way, beckoned him to sit down in the chair. As he took a seat, Charles looked at Elizabeth’s reflection in the mirror. Her wild blue eyes were glowing more ferociously than before. As he stared into her eyes, utterly transfixed by their beauty, it occurred to him that it could be the darkness or perhaps the dancing light emanating from the two candles on the vanity that made them so bright and beautiful, but his instinct told him otherwise. His eyes were locked to hers and there was nothing he could do about it. Suddenly, Elizabeth broke the spell releasing Charles and giving him the freedom to once again look where he pleased.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” she said, breaking the silence and looking bashful. Her cheeks probably turned red, but in the darkness of the room, it was impossible to tell.

“No, no, it is quite alright.” Charles smiled as he said this, but refused to even look at her reflection.

“I do not want to keep you long, I will get one of my poems for you,” Elizabeth said and pranced off into the darkness.

Charles looked up and saw on the vanity something quite familiar. He reached over and picked it up. Slowly unfolding it, he noticed the thick layer of dust that had accumulated on top of it. It was a white handkerchief with the initials ‘ET’ embroidered in blue thread in one corner and an ink stain in the centre. Charles stared at it a moment, puzzled. Then from behind him came the footsteps of Elizabeth returning to the room. Charles quickly refolded the handkerchief and put it back where he had found it.

“I found my favourite poem for you!” Elizabeth exclaimed happily as she entered the room. “I really do hope you like it.” She walked over to Charles and handed him a sheet of paper. The paper was surprisingly yellow and brittle. A poem, entitled “Together to One”, was written on the paper in beautifully ornate archaic handwriting. With Elizabeth standing behind him looking over his should, Charles began to read.

Charles glanced up and looked at Elizabeth’s reflection in the mirror. She was staring at him fiercely through her intense bright blue eyes. Elizabeth smiled at him, then put a hand on his shoulder. He shuddered once more as a chill sprang up his spine, then continued to read.

Charles began to feel a tingling sensation coming from somewhere deep in his body. Taking immediate notice, he tried to pry his eyes away from the poem, but found he could not. The hand on his should had become very heavy.

He could feel his insides shifting and he felt a sensation as though his very frame was getting smaller. Parts of himself began to disappear while other parts took their place. He could feel his well fitted clothing beginning to hang loosely from his body. His eyes began to burn greatly.

His chest was getting heavy. Two bulges began protruding through his shirt. On the nape of his neck, he could feel his hair growing rapidly. Memories of well before his time began to flow through his mind freely. Charles tried desperately to look up at himself in the mirror, but was still unable to tear his attention from the poem he held in his now feminine hands.

Charles suddenly looked up. In the mirror, a woman with a pair of brilliant bright blue eyes stared back. He did not have to read the rest of the poem. He found he already knew it.

The shop is fairly dark and there are shelves of different kinds of bricks in the background. The shopkeeper is standing behind a counter located on the left of the set while the entrance to the shop is on the right of the set.

I had been working on the project for quite some time by then. It was my life’s passion; almost bordering on obsession. My plan was to have it finished, or at least well enough documented to be passed on to another, before my own retirement. This project was of enormous proportions and could make me a fortune. My ingenious plan was to build an automated house for those of us who are even too lazy to open our own doors as we walk through them or to fix our own breakfast every morning. My personal favorite part of this plan was the automatic door feature. The idea was to be able to simply walk up to the door and have it open for you by stepping on a pedal at the foot of the door. This pedal would in turn trigger the start of a small steam-power engine located above the door jam, which through a system of pulleys, would pull the door open for you. Other such features included the automatic fireplace-lighter, the push-and-cook oven, and more.

Anyway, enough advertising my own genius and back to what I was saying. I had let the fireplace dwindle to red ashes as I was too entangled with my own work to even think about it. As I continued to work, I had a startling realization of what was actually going on around me. It was as though I had been whipped by reality; the cold began to settle in and coming from the dark were strange noises of all types that I had never heard before. The noises not only startled me, but also sent shivers down my back making me extremely cold as though I had fallen in the cold waters beneath a frozen pond.

As I began to investigate the origin of these noises, thoughts of what it might be, what it could be, started running through my mind like rabbits running from a predator. I walked across the room to discover that the door leading from the main hallway had been opened. This confused me profoundly, as I was almost entirely certain that I had closed it upon my entry into the room. I wandered out into the dark hallway and realized that there was nothing out there, however, I decided to investigate further. Turning and going down the hallway to the right, the wood planks that made up the floor creaking underneath my feet with every step, I stopped and gazed into each and every room of the 21 rooms on that floor of the manor. To my relief, I found nothing.

I started back to the room in which I was previously working before being interrupted, when I heard the same set of noises: only this time they were coming from the first level of the house. Against my instincts, I decided return to the room anyway and pass it off as being nothing. It wasn’t until I was about halfway back, when a strange glow came from the lower level. I could see it very clearly as I looked back towards the main staircase in the front of the house. It seemed to be coming from the parlor. Not even my imagination could draw a reasonable conclusion of what this mysterious glow may be. I decided to investigate, and headed towards the front of the house.

The year was 1997. Just out of college, I had purchased this house, which seemed perfect for me. It was an old house, but it was very large – even for today’s standards. Since childhood, I had always envied my parents for their riches and large, extravagant houses. They would never consider this one – it was too old – but nonetheless, it was perfect for me. It had been sitting empty, with only the occasional caretaker to come by and make sure it was still standing, for the past seven decades. The last owner to take up residence there had died in, what was claimed, to be an accident. He had been a very wealthy inventor who, at the time of his death, had been putting the final touches on his lifetime’s work. According to the records, he died doing what he loved – inventing something. No one knows for sure what happened, but his butler just one day found him dead in his foyer.

I had just closed on the house the previous day and had begun to move in. As part of the closing deal, the previous owner, who never did live there, had installed electricity and a central heating system – which was the first time the house had had either. The house was entirely furnished with old furniture that, I’m sure, was original with the house, so there wasn’t much for me to move in.

It was night out. The newly installed light-sensitive lamps began to turn on outside the house. I had been moving my personal items, packed in plain brown U-Haul boxes, into the house all day long. It was fairly dark in the house still, but I didn’t bother turning on the lights yet, as I was still moving my boxes into the parlor and the light from the exterior lights was illuminating the interior sufficiently enough for moving boxes. As I continued moving my boxes from the truck outside into the parlor, I heard strange noises coming from the upper floor. I wasn’t entirely sure where from, since I had not seen the entire second floor and I hadn’t even been on the third floor yet – part of which I had not even the slightest clue of how to get to. The noises startled me. At first I ignored them, but after a while, they were becoming too consistent to ignore any longer; they almost sounded like footsteps coming from one of the upper floors. Since I hadn’t done so yet, I flipped on my lights in the parlor, creating a warm glow that penetrated throughout the surrounding parts of the house.

I had just come to the top of the stairway, which extended out into the foyer, next to the parlor, when I found the source of that mysterious glow. It seemed to not only be inside the house, but outside as well. I had no idea what it was or where it was coming from. All I could see, after I made the heart-pounding decent down into the foyer, was the blinding white light as well as what seemed to be fuzzy outlines of strange objects – both inside and outside. Blowing out my now useless candle, I crept towards the parlor.

After I had turned the lights on, I heard the noises stop – only for a second though. It seemed as though whatever was making the noises was unsure about the light. I was still in the parlor, debating whether or not I should investigate the noises, as they once again started to get closer and closer. I froze as I heard the creaking seemingly come down the stairs and stop. I saw a dim light that was hard to make out, but seemed almost like it was flickering; perhaps a candle. A candle? Was I going insane? How could a candle possibly be floating? Even if that could happened, how would it be moving AND making noise? I had no idea and could not come to a reasonable conclusion that didn’t border on lunacy.

All of a sudden the flickering stopped. I immediately felt a sense of relief. Then the noises began again – this time only a few feet away from me in the foyer. I stared at where the flickering, floating thing used to be. As the noises continued approaching the parlor, I could slowly begin to make out a fuzzy figure as the light started to hit it.

As I crept towards the parlor, all of a sudden I froze. I noticed a fuzzy shape in the light. It moved, but only slightly. I could make out the outline of what looked to be a person and his eyes. It seemed like it was staring directly at me. I had no idea what to do. All of a sudden, I felt a sharp pain in my chest. I dropped to the floor, and that was the last I can remember.

I continued staring. Not knowing what to do. As I continued to stare at the faded, unfocused light that had moved, it suddenly stopped. I heard a WHAM on the floor. This scared me nearly to death. I jumped almost until my head hit the high ceiling of the parlor and ran like I had never ran before out to my car.

I let my crew down and I let myself down. As captain of our fishing boat, I should have taken more responsibility for my crew. I was panicked though. Scared shitless as they say. I couldn’t have more than I did. Or could I have?

I’m currently writing this account in the claustrophobic space of the boat’s small office by flashlight. The rust has covered the windows, blocking the light of day. It has taken my boat, my crew, and soon will most likely take my very life from me. And as far as I’m concerned this goddamn rust can take this boat and me down with it. I’m sure I’ll meet up with it again in Hell soon anyway.

I should probably explain what happened, otherwise it would render this note useless. I should be somewhat vague as to explain the entire situation before I either die of dehydration or the rust itself gets me. Let me explain.

My name is Oliver Johnson. I’m the captain of the Luckycharm fishing boat. My crew consisted of three people: Bill, Ted, and Dave; all of whom where excellent fishermen if I do say so myself. It was a typically cold day in the fall of 1995 out on the ocean. My crew and I were just getting ready to cast off towards shore after a successful day of fishing. The sky was overcast and the fog had just set in; not unusual for this time of year. The ocean was restless with its high waves and strong winds which almost certainly were blowing in a storm for the night. It was not quite dark yet, but we could tell darkness was not far away. Bill, was the first to spot it. He was bringing in the large fishing net we were using when his eyes fell upon an unusual sight among the other fish in the net.

“Hey guys,” Bill yelled over the sound of the ocean. “Come have a look at this!”

“Have a look at what?” Ted replied as he began to walk across the boat to where Bill was squatting, examining his find.

“Better not be anudder one-a those damn eco-wha’d'ya-call-it’s,” Dave, my first mate shouted, flicking his cigarette butt into the water.

You see, Bill was an ecologist at heart. When it came to keeping the ocean clean, that was one of Bill’s top priorities; only being topped by ridding it of as much fish as he could. Ted, Dave, and I all laughed at Dave’s comment and headed over to see what Bill was fussing about. I slapped Bill on the back.

“What’cha got there, Bill?”

“This,” he said, holding it up for all of us to see. It stained his hand red with residue. When we saw it, all of us stopped laughing. It was a fish alright, but there was definitely something wrong with it. It had a reddish color to it and seemed very…delicate.

“What in God’s name is wrong with that fish?” Dave asked, scratching his balding head.

“I don’t know, but it looks almost like rust,” Bill said with a puzzled look on his face.

“Here, let me have a look at it,” Ted demanded, reaching for it. Bill handed it over to Ted whose big hands put a hole in the side of it, leaving red residue on his fingers.

“What the fuck?” Ted said and dropped the fish on the deck.

We watched it shatter into pieces as it made contact with the hard wood of the deck. No one said anything. We just continued to stare at it, then we looked around at each other.

“Well, let’s get this mess cleaned up and get out of here,” I said. “It looks like a storm’s comin’.”

Ted went to go get the broom and dustpan and Dave went over to help Bill finish getting the net and fish we had caught ready to go. I went into the small office on the ship and got a beer. My mind kept wandering back to that fish. What had been wrong with it? Why had it rusted, if that was really what had happened to it? I didn’t know but would soon find out. I gulped down more beer.

“Jesus Christ!” Dave shouted from outside where he was helping Bill.

I fell over backwards in the chair I was leaning back in, spilling beer all over myself. Quickly scrambling to my feet, I ran outside, almost forgetting to open the office door and stopped. My mouth dropped as i saw what was happening to Bill. Dave was pale and had already backed away from Bill, but continued staring.The red spot left by the fish had grown. It had climbed Bill’s arm and was now working its way up his neck.

“Help me!” Bill hollered. “I can’t move my left arm!”

No one moved.

“Don’t just stand there, you bunch of retards! Help m…” Bill was cut off by the growth of the rust up to his jaw, which was moving even more rapidly now.

Dave ran over to where Bill was and grabbed his arm, which had been entirely rusted like an old car left unattended for many years. It snapped off, covering Dave in red dust.

“Holy fuck!” Dave bellowed, dropping the arm and backing away. An uncontrollable squeak worked its way out of my mouth. Bill’s head was now entirely engulfed by the rust, but he had still managed to get onto his feet and was now running around the deck like a chicken with its head cut off. His face was frozen in an expression of fear and agony. His last arm was now nearly entirely consumed by the reddish augmentation, the final uncovered part still flailing upwards in panic. I watched as the rust finished its work on Bill’s last arm and realized his movement had slowed at an exponential rate as the rust ate its way down to his legs.

I looked over to where Dave was standing. He was staring down at his hand in horror. The red dust which he had gotten on his hands when he grabbed Bill’s arm had taken root in his hands and was now starting to work its way up his own arm like a vine you see working its way gracefully up a tree trunk. Then you realize the vine is actually sucking the very life out of the tree it is climbing as it dries up the inside and turns the tree into a solid dead being; much like the rust seemed to be doing to whatever it touched.

Now in a total state of shock, I peeled my eyes away from Dave and saw that Bill had become entirely inanimate. Despite my best efforts, I could not keep from staring at the tortured look on his face. I watched this terrorized face as the rusty statue that used to be Bill fell onto the deck and shattered. My heart sank. Bill was gone for good.

“Do something, dammit!” Dave screamed from across the deck.

My attention snapped away from the shattered bits and pieces left of Bill to Dave. Both of his arms were entrapped by the rust and it was working its way up his neck and down his legs at an increasingly rapid speed.

“What the hell do you want me to do?” I yelled.

“I don’t give a damn!” Dave replied. “Anything! Just make it stop! It hurts like a …” he was cut off by the rust, which had locked his jaw.

As the rust climbed its way up his face, his eyes were darting back and forth as though he was looking for something. They too then froze as the red agony performed its duty. Dave’s expression was not any better than Bill’s had been.

“Shit! Ted!” I exclaimed to myself in sudden realization that I had entirely forgotten about him.

I stopped staring at the new, rusted statue of Dave and ran around to the side of this office where the broom was kept. I saw Ted there and my eyes grew large. Not because Ted was entirely rusted, but because he had leaned against the side wall of the office and the rust was now spreading rapidly along it. I also noticed that on the ground on which Ted’s rusted body was standing, more rust was on the move. And it was heading directly for me. I turned around and looked at where Bill’s remains were and saw to my absolute horror that it was spreading there as well.

I ran back into the office, carefully picking my path along the unrusted parts of the deck. The door slammed shut behind me. Instinctively, I turned around and locked it as soon as it was closed. I leaned against the door, my heart pounding, and slid down it to the floor. I put my head in my cupped hands and began to cry. Bill, Ted, Dave, and I had been partners in the fishing business for thirty-two years. Then for it to all end, not only all at once, but it a seemingly impossible manner like this was unbelievable.

Two hours passed as I sat and bawled as though I was six years old again. The door began to creak. I jumped and scurried on my hands and knees across the room. On the window, I could see the rust growing outside of it. My eyes were glued to it. My heart began to beat faster and harder even though the rust was not coming into the small office. It finally covered the entire window, blocking whatever light that was coming in from the gray sky outside. I was trapped.

When you are imprisoned in a small room such as this one alone, the time never seems to go by. Although I feel this happened years ago, in reality, it was only yesterday. My food supply has run out, not to mention my water supply and I fear that I will not survive much longer.

I’m writing this account to whomever may find it in my empty wine bottle by the last stretch of battery life in my flashlight. Please do not come looking for me as I will most likely be dead. My flashlight has grown quite dim and is beginning to flicker, so I’ll finish up what I have to say.

All I ask of whomever may find this is that they tell my wife and daughter how much I love them. And to always remember what happened to the crew of the Luckycharm.

Sincerely,
Oliver Johnson
The Captain of the Luckycharm

“What are these strange things you see, Mr. McLeod?” Dr. Willis asked his patient, who was sitting on a red leather couch directly in front of him.

“I don’t really know. They are…well…they float, anyway.” Seth said, moving his blind eyes as though he was looking at the patterns engraved in the white ceiling tiles of the doctor’s office. “They float around in the air like clouds in the sky.”

“Where do they appear to float?” Dr. Willis continued, taking notes on the yellow legal pad he had purchased at a local convenience store. “Can you be more specific?”

“There, there, there, there, there,” Seth answered, pointing to various locations around the cherry-panelled office with his pale finger. “and everywhere, really. They’re all around us; even between you and me as we speak.”

“How long have you been seeing these floating things?”

“I started seeing them when I was about twelve years old; when I was first told I was going blind, I think. At first, they were faint. I told my mom who took me to the eye doctor. The doctor just told her that it was odd, but that it was not at all uncommon for people going blind to see strange things like this. The problem is, is that they haven’t gone away. It’s been 20 years, you know.”

“I see. And can you tell me what they look like?”

“Not really,” Seth said, as his eyes continued darting back and forth. “There are various shapes and sizes and they’re all very colorful. There are red ones and green ones and blue ones and yellow ones and, oh, there are so many colors!”

“Alright. What else do they do other than float?” Dr. Willis asked with the professional calmness his costly degree from Stanford had given him.

“Nothing,” Seth replied without hesitation. “They just float. That is, the colorful ones do.”

“Oh, they aren’t all colorful?” Dr. Willis questioned with a puzzled look on his face.

“Well, not the scary ones,” Seth murmured. “They’re black.”

“And do these scary ones ever do anything or say anything to you, Mr. McLeod?”

“Yes. They come for me. When I am sleeping.”

“Come for you in your sleep?”

“Yes, they come for me. At night when I’m sleeping, I dream. I have nightmares. Colorful nightmares,” Seth said as the expression on his face tightened. “In the dream, I float in the colors like I was one of them. I look down at my left hand and it’s yellow. My right one’s red. I never look at my feet, but I’m sure they’d be colorful too. Then, in the distance, a darkness begins to break apart the colors. Slowly, one by one, each floating thing is devoured by this blackness, until they’re all gone.”

“What happens then?” Dr. Willis inquired, furiously jotting down notes on his yellow legal pad.

“I wake up,” Seth stated blatantly.

“I see. Do you wake up every time?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. Does this darkness every come after you when you’re not sleeping?”

“It has once before,” Seth replied, closing his blind eyes.

“What happened then?”

“I got scared and fainted,” Seth murmured in a very low, embarrassed voice.

“I see. And what do you think would happen if you were to, say, let the ‘darkness’ overtake you while you’re awake like it does the floating colors you see?”

“I don’t know,” Seth answered.

“You can’t tell me anything, Mr. McLeod?”

“No, I’m afraid I can’t,” Seth said. His face twisted in horror.

“I see,” Dr. Willis said, cocking his head a little to the right and tightening his brow as he noticed the expression on Seth’s face change. “What are you seeing now?”

“It’s…it’s…the darkness.”

“What’s it doing?”

“It’s…growing! The colors! The wonderful colors! They are…they’re being eaten by the darkness! The same as in my dreams!”

“I see. Why don’t you try to…” Dr. Willis stopped cold mid-sentence as he watched Seth begin to shake violently. “Mr. McLeod?”

“I see it! It came! The darkness! It’s here!” Seth began to yell from a voice seemingly distant and not the one belonging to the patient who had just been laying calmly on Dr. Willis’s red leather couch. His body’s shake had begun to turn into a flop like a fish out of water. “It’s here! I see it! You want to know? Do you want to know about the darkness? I want to tell! Yes, I want to tell you! Come here, doctor!” Seth’s flopping body said. His eyes continued to bolt back and forth, but with an unnatural speed.

“Hell no,” Dr. Willis answered, picking up his phone and punching in the numbers nine-one-one.

Seth’s body ceased to flop. He was dead.

There I sat. In the darkness. Alone. My child had just died and I sat near his grave. I lifted my head and looked at the stars. There was a light breeze which I could feel in my hair. The sky was clear and all of the stars were bright and wonderful. They were so beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous.

On the child’s grave, the words

The breeze got stronger and a shabby tree caught my attention. I could hear a melody in the wind which I used to play for my child when I put him to bed. I began to smell a rotten smell rising from the ground. I shuttered.

Next to the tree I could see something. It was white, but not very bright in the dark graveyard. It stood there. It looked at me. I looked up. The stars were so beautiful.

Couldn’t you see it?

I was walking alone. From the endless black road on which I travelled, you could see nothing but the enormous desert. The sun was hot and the head was dry. A dead lizard was lying on the road.

I was completely alone and I wondered if I would survive the walk to the next city. Then the thing came. I first heard the awful noise of the wings and turned around calmly. It then seized me in its large legs. It grabbed my head and picked me up into the air. We went higher and higher until the road looked like nothing more than a small line.

Then the thing let me go. The sound of it slowly faded and I could only here the quiet air. Everything was peaceful. I closed my eyes and waited for the inevitable.

I saw the man. I leaned over the coffin and saw his pale face. It looked very peaceful, but I knew better. I knew the torment that comes with death.

On the day of the funeral, a lot more people came than I had expected. All of the people wore black clothing. I looked for a seat and sat down. The funeral would begin soon. I waited. No one came to talk to me. That didn’t surprise me though. I didn’t expect anyone would.

When the burial ceremony began, everyone went to the graveyard. Six of the guests carried the casket on which there were flowers placed. All of the guests were quiet. No birds sang. No breeze blew. You could hear nothing but your own heart beat. I sat and waited.

The preacher’s voice broke the silence. He began reading the Last Rites which floated through the air. I stood up and went to where the ceremony was being held. There I saw the coffin which held the corpse again.

I watched the ceremony until it had ended and the coffin had been buried. Everyone left one after the other and I continued to stand there. When everyone had left, I went over to the gravestone. I sat down on the ground and touched the words which were engraved in the headstone. I knew the name very well. Too well. I closed my eyes whilst a tear ran down my cheek. Everything was quiet. Not even a bird sang.

With teary eyes, I read the name again. It was my own name. I leaned on the gravestone and began to weep.

I want to die. But I can’t do that. I’m sure I’ll die of dehydration before this damn rope kills me.

The desert is very very hot and expansive. I can’t see anything. I don’t want to see anything. I’m here entirely alone and I’m waiting for death. My hands are tied and my feet reach for the ground. They’re out of reach though.

I’m thirsty but I continue to cry. I’m sure there’s only one tree tree in the entire desert. And I’m still hanging from it; waiting for death.

I’ve lived here for a long time. My family before me also lived here. But I’m the last one that will live here. I have no kids; no wife.

No one comes here and I don’t go out. Why would I? I need no food; no water.

I’ve been dead for a long time and yet, I continue to live. I was born 150 years ago and died 132 years ago. My house is empty and there isn’t anything to do. I have no friends; no desire to be.

She’s sleeping so peacefully. Her hair feels so soft and she smells so good. I can’t wait until I can sink my fangs through her skin. I’m already drooling. I can feel a drop of spit on my chin.

I bend over and turn the virgin’s head. Her vein looks so good. I lower my head and open my mouth. A drop of spit falls onto the neck of the woman, but I don’t notice.

I can taste her warm blood as I sink my fangs into her. It tastes so good. The moon is still shining in the sky. But it’s turning crimson.

You wouldn’t want to be me. My friends are gone, but I’m still laying here. They are the people who have put me in this place.

I’m laying here and am watching the darkness. The air is old and I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to breathe soon.

I’m only thinking about why I’m here. How? Who shoveled the first dirt? I thought this should have been a very quick experiment. I believed that I could have trusted my friends. But I was wrong.

The air is becoming unbreathable. I’m falling asleep and I will soon sleep where the dead sleep.

My mother is dead. She shot herself on the cold winter night of my birthday. That happened only two years ago. When the phone call came, my family and I were eating breakfast. My three year old daughter had just learned the word “suicide.”

It was on this cursed day that I heard my daughter say the word for the first time. She said it, then laughed. The laugh of a little girl.

A year later, we were eating dinner when my daughter said something. I couldn’t hear very well because a loud bang echoed through the house. But I knew right away was she had said. With the table between us, my wife laid with her face in her plate. In her lap sat my pistol. My daughter continued eating.

I’ve just heard my daughter say “suicide.” She’s watching me, as I have my pistol to my head and my finger is pulling the trigger.