By Lachlan B
First it was all black, then came the light. Not a heavenly light, but a cold, stale light, which chilled my bones and made my eyes dry. After the light turned on, I was taken. Yes, I was taken, though many hallways of cold stone, my hands bound. A blindfold denied me sight, yet I could still feel the warm and salty drops running down my dry cheeks, and hear the crowd of people cheering, the sound growing as I am forced through doorways.
Then, I was brought into a room, large, had to be, as the angry shouts and footsteps of my controllers echoed into the corners of the area. Suddenly, I was forced to walk up steps, the creaking of wood beneath me. Gruff hands secured a helmet on my head and locked my wrists and legs to the chair.
The metal was cold and rubbed on my skin, and every chant, every heartbeat, I thought about a moment in my life. One might say I was reminiscing, but it was more like a slideshow of regret and disgust. Maybe I deserve this, but before I plunge into the darkness for the final time, I will go through what happened, what I did, which led to my demise.
***
My name is Morgan, if that’s what they even call me anymore. It’s been a while since I have been in full consciousness, so it is hard to recall my age, yet it is easy to remember that I was out of college, and working at the Italian restaurant next to the park. I worked 9 hours a day, 7 days a week, and was living the dream.
If you couldn’t tell, I am being sarcastic, as I was basically dragged along my life. Life had never been great, but I was surviving. At least, until the problems started. It started with my job. The days grew longer, yet the pay was cut. Every second I worked in that restaurant, it drained me of spirit, until it set me into depression.
I was forced to ask for help with paying my bills, as the lower pay meant not enough money to survive. My parents responded with a voicemail where they said that I was proving that I was a failure, and that I shouldn’t expect support from them. I should have never reached out, I can’t comprehend now why I did, knowing what they thought of me. Oh, to let you know, I was not born normal. I was diagnosed to be mentally “unstable”, as they called me, which was always blamed on yours truly. It didn’t even affect my life, yet every scolding and or beating ended with a reminder that I was a malformation and mistake. I also received a personal hate-mail letter from my father. Speaking of, I don’t have the greatest father. When he was around, he was drunk and would take turns on me and my mom. But, most of the time, he would be out of the house, normally with different women.
But anyways, when I had to start skipping meals and evade my landlord, I became desperate. Every time I missed dinner, every moment of suspense when I hid from my payments, every torn up eviction notice, pushed me a step further into the dark.
It was after a brutal day in the kitchen that they came with an offer.
“Why not,” I had said, oblivious to what was coming.
I didn’t know who they were, and what they wanted, but the only thing that I cared about was money. My tasks became my second job, my nightshift. It breathed action and vigor into my boring life. Not to mention the pay, which gave me the ability to financially breath, and even move into a larger apartment. Life became a bliss, at least compared to what I had been going through.
At least until the assignments became questionable, and started to make me question my loyalty and desire for this job. I’d started to question everything I had accepted before, questioning the motives, and the people in charge. The nights grew longer, and so did my times of silence. But by then, it was too late, as I had accepted the task that had changed my life, and also ended it.
I stepped into the alleyway, my black sneakers squelching on the wet, crumbling concrete, gravel sliding under my soles. I waited at the back door of the structure, leaning on the brick wall. The cold night cooled my body, and I could see my breath in the air, smelling like pasta and garlic from my shift and dinner at the Italian restaurant.
Since I was waiting for a while, my body relaxed, tired from a strenuous shift. The latch of a door breaks the silence, and the entrance swings open. From inside the dimly lit backroom, a man in jeans and a sport coat steps forward, a flickering light illuminating his body, but leaving out his face. He hands me an envelope, per usual, but this time is different. He hands me a burlap sack as well, which weighed down my arm, and also weighed on my mind. After he is gone and I am on my way, I open the envelope, and pull out the paper. Chiefly upon the sight of the text, I freeze, and can hear my heartbeats like a drum, almost like they were prepping me for war.
Ears pounding, I pull into the parking lot of the apartment complex. I turn off my car, the absence of the engine sounds leaving me in silence. I just sit there, my body shaking from my shallow breaths, until I gather the will to open the door, and step onto the asphalt. Just to almost reassure my fate, I reach into my pocket, and run my hands on the cool metal of the firearm.
“Holy shit”, I say, my horse voice cutting the silence.
I snatch my hands out of my pockets, and try to continue walking. Each step I take, I can hear my heart beating even louder. Suddenly my stomach lurches, and I barely bend down before my dinner displays itself on the sidewalk, just less appetizing than before. I am able to stumble for a few feet before I collapse against the wall of the complex. I begin to cry, but realize that warm tears have already been rolling down my face. I can’t go through with this, my brain tells me, and I want to comply. But what about my bills, expectations? My life is on the line, and failure isn’t an option. With that thought, a sudden cool calmness rests over me. I stand up, and walk into the complex, ignoring the fogginess that begins to cloud my mind.
It’s almost as if I leave my past ideals behind, and am blinded to anything but my task. I walk up the stairs and down the balcony in a trance, yet still in perfect awareness of everything. I can hear the crickets chirping, the wind in the leaves of the tree, my soft footsteps on the concrete, and the breaths of the people resting, unaware that the population of the building would be declining soon.
First, I found the door, which was at the end of the hall, and had the number displayed on the front. Pulling the gun from my pocket, a bullet makes quick work of the deadbolt. The door swings open, and I step inside the threshold.
The apartment is mostly in darkness, yet a beam of light from the outside hallway shines through the opening. Since the shot was quite loud, the victim-my victim, was already gathered. I begin to walk through the apartment, following the sound of the person’s voice and footsteps. My hearing was acute and tuned, my footsteps quite against the hardwood floor. Ha, just a minute ago, I was crying. I actually let out a small chuckle, amused by the thought, and on how different I am, than the person breaking down on the floor earlier.
Once I found the bedroom, I entered with no hesitation. My feet met carpet when-”BANG! BANG!”, the sound of a gun echoed in the tiny space. But it wasn’t my own. Looking up, I saw him. I know this man. The two bullets still lodged in my shoulder and side, I walked across the room. “BANG!”, another shot, clipping me in the forearm. But I felt no pain, only rage. Every shot made me just more motivated, by the end of the room, I was limping to him. And finally, I won. I raised the firearm with my non-injured arm, aiming the barrel to his face. But when I looked upon his face, I found fear, but on my own complexion.
“BANG!”,
the deed was done. Was it really over? Was he really dead? I dropped the gun to the floor, and it thudded on the carpet. Kneeling, I examined the scene. The body was propped up against the wall, and one look told me all I needed, as I could easily see the victim’s blood painting the wall. Suddenly, I hunched over, and vomited. And again. And Again. And until I was curled up heaving nothing but air.
I had finally realized what had happened. What I had done. It was like I woke up, but too late, as the life of the man had already been taken. I had also just started to feel all the bullet wounds that I had ignored before. Once I had felt one, each started to sear, as if a hot poking iron had been stuck into my skin. I took off my sweater and looked down at my shirt, which was blotting with blood. As the blood seeped, so did my eyes. What have I done? By that time I had been losing quite a lot of blood, and lastly, passed out and bled on the ground, next to my deceased father.
***
The rest was kind of a blur. I remember the screams of the neighbors, and walking up in a hospital bed. Now why was my father in an apartment without my mom? Glad you asked. It is (was) his secret from her, probably where he went the times that he was gone. Up to where I am at the moment wasn’t anything major, and that brings us to where I left off. I can’t move my limbs, and am strapped to the chair with metal and leather cuffs, which lock to the frame. I close my eyes and wait for death, yet before it happens, something catches my eye in the small view I possess. I can see many people in the crowd, many, I can’t remember who. But through my already closing eyelids, I can see my father in the crowd. Uh, my disgusting father, standing there pale but still hateful at my dying moment. And yet, I still felt no remorse. But it was bad, because this was not what I wanted to see in my last moment on earth. Yet even worse, was that I’m not sure that he was even real.