Art never smiled. Though he wasn’t a fan of frowning either. At his mother’s funeral his lip never moved. Even as the rain tried to coax a tear from his eye, on that gloomy day in front of a grave, with his relatives’ hands trembling in their faces, he could only let himself feel the rain roll down his skin.
One day, he simply stopped feeling, as though his soul had fled his body. He couldn’t place when it happened, he couldn’t find reason to care about the when or why. Art found himself taking life one step at a time. He had his office job, keeping track of finances for a fast-food chain, and thought that it was suddenly much less of a hassle.
Monotony was good, safety was good, he kept in excellent shape; there were less bills that way. Eating the same food every day was cheap and easy. Why didn’t he live like this before? He was sub-optimal, but now everything was reasoned and logical.
Why waste time talking to people, looking out a window, breathing a lungful of crisp mountain air? The air was much the same everywhere, and he had no use for people. When he lay in his bed unthinking, his apartment ever spotless, why did he feel like he was screaming?
But inexplicable things started happening, he felt a dull urge to look behind after hearing a commotion on the streets, even if he’d estimated it to be far-off. When he stared at spreadsheets for hours on hours, he felt his eyes wanting to stray from his monitor. Art couldn’t believe he might need to get glasses.
Smog hung low over the city; the lampposts cast an orange glow over discarded nothings as they were bullied by the breeze. The constant din of engines lulled New Yorkers to sleep. The walk back from the office was long. Art walked at a brisk pace. His slender frame was wrapped in a dark waistcoat, with matching suit pants and shoes. His buzzed black hair was covered by an unembroidered top hat.
The notions had grown over the years, and were incessant now; look here, do this, talk to them. Art couldn’t hear these whispers, but somehow, he felt them begging, demanding, always. He paid no heed to them and kept walking when a cry reached his ears.
Close, he thought, and turned his head. The brick-walled alley was unlit, the lights from the main road only cutting so far into its darkness. A whimper echoed towards him from somewhere out of sight. He paused to think but realized he was walking down the alley already. Odd.
Art’s long legs carried him lightly into the darkness, his hands had left his pockets and swung by his side. Art peered around dumpsters and debris blocking his sight. His nimble steps led him to the end of the backstreet, with nothing but a side door in front of him.
He considered the door and found it uninteresting, why had he wasted his time? What was he doing? He had to quell these thoughts, these notions, these curses. Dismissing the door, he went to turn when his nose twitched, his brow furrowed, his thoughts died as he recognized...
Blood.
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Before he could think he had pushed the door open. Glancing quickly around he noticed a trail of blood starting a few meters from where he stood. He paced forward, taking note of his surroundings; high ceilings and bare cement from the floor to the walls, with steel supports visible above. The light from the street bled into the room and Art thought it looked like a basement storage space, but thoughts were interrupted by a shuffling sound ahead.
He kept his eyes forward in the direction of the sound, there seemed to be a hallway up ahead. Crossing the baren room quickly, he noticed more and more blood pooled on the floor. Art found his hair starting to rise, and his breathing becoming deeper unintentionally. He hugged the wall and peered down the dimply lit corridor. A man knelt over a quivering girl who sobbed quietly whilst gliding a kitchen knife over her eyes, as though enchanted by them. “I’m sorry”, he said with a wavering tone.
“It has to. It... I’m the one who kills you. A... And it's not your fault. I need... I need to do this, I...”. The man’s voice dropped as he started mumbling to himself and grabbed her head. As the girl’s sobbing loudened Art acted before he could think. He dashed forwards, and as the man whipped his head around, Art’s boot smashed into his face.
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The attacker was flung off the woman and into the wall and Art wasted no more time on him and moved to the girl. Art noticed blood bleeding through her coat in many places as he bent over and picked her up. She looked at him with wide eyes and ran back the way he came, turning the corner he sprinted forward towards; nothing.
The door had shut, the lights were off, and the glow of the hallway couldn’t penetrate more than a few feet in any direction. Art tried to retrace his steps and move in a straight line towards the door, but he couldn’t make it out. The girl was shaking in his arms, another urge told him to comfort her, but he had had enough with urges guiding him tonight and kept silent. Art reached the other side of the room when he heard footsteps behind him. He shushed the girl and crouched down, eyeing the attacker as he turned the corner.
Art steadied his breathing and looked left and right for the door but had no luck. The man started walking forward still mumbling but stopped after a few steps and shouted; “You! You, you RUINED IT!”. The crazed man slammed a foot against the floor over and over in anger before looking back up with a glare. “I guess... you’ll just have to die too then”, he said.
As the man stumbled around to search for them, Art looked away and leaned over to whisper in the girl’s ear, “I don’t know if the door is to the left or right of us, I’m going left first, stay here and yell if he gets close”, with that Art went rose to leave but the girl’s had grabbed him at the last second. Leaning back over to her he whispered; “What is it?”. Voice shaking, she replied “I can’t... see him”. Art paused to look towards the corridor and saw she was right.
He could be anywhere I need to go now. Art sprang into action, dragging his hand against the wall, he moved as quickly and quietly as he could. I can’t be too far off the door if I went close to a straight line. The seconds ticked by. It’s already too far, I need to-
The girl screamed like a banshee out of nowhere, but Art turned around as soon as he heard it. The man started laughing but was interrupted by Art’s heavy figure crashing into him. “The door is to the right!”, he shouted. He could only hope she started moving as his attention was torn from the girl to the man that he had pinned under him as plain erupted in his stomach.
Art registered the pain, tried to grab the man’s knife from him but the darkness aided the attacker as he stabbed up towards Art once again. More pain, unimaginable pain, but Art was unaffected. In a split-second Art knew he couldn’t grab the knife hand and started smashing down on the man’s head with his fists.
He felt skin giving way, blood rushing and spewing out. The man kept stabbing. Art felt his body weakening but kept pushing through, finding the man’s face repeatedly by grabbing a clump of hair to guide his fist. Skin gave way to bone. The man groaned but Art stayed silent. He continued, over and over, punching out with as much strength as he could muster. The light of the streetlamps flooded into the room, but Art hardly noticed. As lightheadedness came over him, he redoubled his efforts, guiding his fists with precision now.
Bone finally gave way and the attacker’s knife clattered to the ground, with his arm going limp and chest falling still. Art rose and stood, feeling queasy. He stumbled towards the exit. And stood in front of the door, with his arms around his gut.
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On death’s door, his eyes lit up, as something he lost returned to him. His monochrome world faded away, as tears fell down his cheeks. He cried; each sob torturous, and heaven itself as he felt again. His heart broke for his mother, his friends who he had simply stopped speaking to, the life he had lost. But most of all, his rage burned for all his years festering in nothingness. Whatever it was that made him an emotional invalid, uninterested in anything besides existing. Everything else was drowned out by fury. Art hardly noticed his body succumbing to his wounds. He wanted to live life! As he fell forward time seemed to slow down. All that he had deigned to ignore, what loves might he have had! Where were the sweet nothings? The hardships? The memories? His soul decried an injustice, blasphemy against life itself!
When he died, he never expected to wake up again.
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