A Short Story by F. R. Knight
At the time of writing this there is a high chance that some might believe me mad. In fact, without a doubt many already do. However, I am of sound brain and body. My senses have never been sharper, as keen or as cunning. See how coherent and articulate I am recounting my horrid tale of woe? There is no conceivable way in heaven nor in hell I have given into the madness that silently screams my name. As I am rushed for time I must hurry and etch my story in the stone of history, lest it be lost forever.
The florescent lights of the local pharmacy illuminated the linoleum floor as I began to tap my foot in impatience. To pass the time I matched my tapping with the ticking of the overhead clock, things like that eased the growing anxiety that had, over the years, welled up inside me. Crawling, clawing up my intestines and into my chest cavity; and the only cure was the ticking of the clock and the tapping of my foot. I looked toward my father, who seemed to be talking with the pharmacist, no doubt they were talking about the skinny young man sitting in the chair tapping his foot to cure his shadow. Everyone seemed to be conspiring against me, their hushed whispers haunting me as I lay in bed, awaiting the cold embrace of sleep. I nearly jumped out of my skin, as a cold touch pulled me out of my thoughts. Upon turning around a wave of relief washed over me as a friendly face met mine. My friend Damian smiled as he lightly waved in greetings.
How does one describe him? His outward appearance paled in comparison to his inward philosophy. He didn't really care about what people thought about him, and he looked the part. He often would receive strange looks from onlookers; tonight was no different. However, none of that meant anything to him. I was envious of his ability to attract an audience and ignore it completely. I implored him to stop getting my attention in such a jarring fashion. But before he had a chance to say anything, my father beckoned me to his side, as he was ready to leave the establishment. I simply waved to my friend, who appeared to melt into the cacophony of people we were leaving behind.
The ride home was in silence. I was never one to speak, as few thoughts ever decided to exit my mouth. My entire world was in my head, constantly calculating my environment, carefully planning my next move, however repetitious. Unfortunately, at least in my father's words, my decision to decline engagement with my fellow man had corrupted me. Corrupted in the way that years of seclusion makes the hermit schizophrenic, or how a pattern of behavior is created over years of reaction to one's environment. I simply could not participate in any conversation, no matter the depth. Of course, I gradually grew accustomed to giving short, often one worded answers, but that was the extent of what I was physically able to do. In contrast, as my ability to converse declined, my ability to write excelled. If I wasn't in my head, I was always writing down something. Poetry, journalism, song lyrics...I was my own muse.
Once we were in the apartment, I headed to my room and began to write down the day's happenings and whatnot. I must've had at least three book cases full of finished journals, recounting my unfinished life. I was often compelled to write unnecessarily small and minute details, almost out of habit. Just as tapping to the ticking of the clock, writing in such a fashion was a therapeutic ritual for me. As I began to write about what I could recall earlier that day, something odd began to occur. The ink itself started to melt down the page, disfiguring my precious work. As the panic set in I frantically looked for any sort of remedy; anything to wipe it clean. But when I focused my attention back to what should've been a destroyed journal entry, I was surprised to see everything as it was, not a single line out of place. I assumed I was just tired, and attempted to give the event no further thought.
My stupor was interrupted by my father, who called to me from the kitchen. Dinner was ready, and I was to meet him at the dinner table. I begrudgingly got up from my desk, and made the trip to where dinner was served. I sat down and stared at what had been placed before me. It looked to be some sort of fish, complimented with rice and a garnish. Father began to say grace, and for a moment I closed my eyes. What awaited me filled me with a terror I had never felt before. Instead of what I described earlier, there sat my mother's head, being severed from her body. Maggots crawling in and out of every orifice, insects burrowing into the skull, feasting upon the sector of my mother's corpse that was placed before me. I wanted to scream, but no voice met my attempt. All I could do was remain motionless as I gaped at the gangrenous flesh on my plate, its pungent smell seeped through my nostrils. Surely this must be some joke, some horrid prank that had gone too far. I slowly looked up towards my father, who met my gaze, appearing none the wiser. He seemed confused, as if the concept of cannibalizing what was once my mother was but a normal nightly routine. Did he not see the gray matter pushing through the widening cracks of her skull? Did the eye hanging by a string of tissue not disturb him in the slightest? If not, then this couldn't have been my father; for the man who raised me was neither blind, nor clearly this demented. It must've been an unseen force, trying to deceive me. Yes, that was the answer. It had to have been.
One rarely has the intention or knowledge of how to dispose beings from hell. There were no clergymen at my disposal, no Bible to depend on. I never indulged in theology, or any religious sect for that matter. All I had to rely on was my wit, and the tools that lay before me. I slowly wrapped my fingers around the knife that had been previously laid out in awaiting my arrival, and stared the demon down. If there was a way to expose a demonic presence, then the fleshy shell it possessed surely must be eliminated. Such was my thought process as I willed my body to cautiously stand up. As I looked upon whatever was sitting in the seat across from mine, a wicked smile crept upon its face. It knew what it had done, and was mocking me. Tormenting me, trying to make light of my thirst for vengeance. I could almost hear the whispers taunting me, making me sick to my stomach. I would have retched, had I not willed every muscle to move me forward. I staggered towards the monstrosity, determined to quell the whispers flooding the ear canal, reverberating on the ear drums themselves.
I shook my head, trying to gather myself in order to slay the beast. He, or it (I should say) stood up, feigning alarm and panic, as I realized the knife was pressing into my shoulder. A warm sensation filled the affected area, but I did not feel pain. I used this to my advantage, as the empty husk of what was once my father tried to embrace me (no doubt a ploy to gain the upper hand). As soon as it was close enough, I told every bone in my body, every tissue, every cell of my being to thrust the tool of destruction forward. And no sooner had I done so that I saw the knife glisten, protruding from the neck of the demon. Blood soon spilled onto the shirt that was once my old man's. A strange gurgling sound welled up from within the throat. Perhaps the being desired to speak with me, or maybe it was the body's way of saying farewell to this plane of existence. To me it was neither here nor there, as the deed had been done, and the whispers silenced. What was left of my father slumped to the ground, devoid of life. I could not help but feel a sense of pride. That in the face of the devil himself, I prevailed.
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But what to do with the remains? I shall not waste time with the minute details of what I had to do, as to describe in detail would not only be obscene, but also discourteous to whoever finds this. The haphazard butchering of the carcass was quite satisfying, but a daunting and difficult task. After properly disposing the meat, I walked again upstairs to wash off the blood and remnants of visceral material. No sooner had I put on a fresh set of clothes, that the doorbell rang, and a series of loud knocks came from the front door. I changed my demeanor to the best of my abilities, and went to express my greetings to whomever was at the door. As soon as I stepped off the bottom stair, all the hair on my neck stood at attention.
I knew what had to be done. The evil had not yet been vanquished, and it possessed yet another form. I deftly lifted the knife, unwashed from the event that transpired not even an hour ago. Concealing it behind my back, I cautiously opened the door, just enough for the whispers to slip through. Oh the relief I felt to see Damian, smiling as he always did. Surely he would understand my plight. Surely he would take pity on a victim of circumstance such as I. Inviting him into the house, I quickly summarized the situation to him. A cautious look fell upon him, but in the end he agreed that it would be best to rest a while as he gathered the necessary materials to nurse my wound.
As the minutes ticked by I sat on the couch, restlessness and paranoia plaguing every fiber of my being. Where was my friend, and why was it taking so long for him to return? Had he too been taken from me? Was it my curse to exterminate those dearest to me? Shaking my head I steadied myself, making rationalization after rationalization. Of course it would take time to find the medical supplies, and even longer to distinguish the correct tools needed to mend my shoulder. I tried to focus my attention on the ticking of the clock above me, as I always had. I needed to remedy my mind before anything else. Suddenly a loud knocking was heard from the front door, and once again I found myself unable to cope with the anxiety ripping at my innards. Alone and vulnerable, I managed to pick myself up and I staggered towards the sickening sound of knuckles rapping against wood.
Barely able to keep down the contents of my stomach and against every instinct I turned the knob and cracked the door open once more. Weakly I forced out a greeting, and was met with a commanding but friendly sound, undoubtedly the voice of someone with authority. Opening the door wider, I was face to face with two large men, the shine of badges penetrating the darkness. I was told that an anonymous caller had informed the authorities that there had been a domestic disturbance coming from my dwelling. I cursed under my breath. No doubt Damian's doing. I would deal with him later. I told the officers that there must have been some mistake, and that to come in would be a waste of their time. They assured me that everything would be fine, but that they needed to make a quick inspection, per protocol. Reluctantly, I let them in, covering my shoulder with a jacket from the coat rack. As I followed these men into the depths of my own home, I nearly gasped in shameful horror from what I saw. My father, partly dismembered, lying on the table in his own blood. My heart began to race, as did my mind. I had made sure to dispose of the body properly, no doubt crossed my mind.
Strangely, the officers seemed unaware of the butchered carcass of my guardian. There was absolutely no possible way one could miss it. Surely in a matter of moments, they would discover the body, thus incriminating me forever. As I racked my brain to devise a plan of escape, I beheld a rather disturbing detail I had somehow neglected to see earlier. The eyes of these men lacked humanity, just as my fathers did before his unfortunately necessary death. I slowed my breath and calmly walked to the kitchen sink. If I could deal with the demon once before, I had no issue dealing with it again. Gripping the same knife as before, I sauntered over to them, poised and ready to strike.
The sinking of the knife into flesh felt all too natural as a scream came out of the officer's mouth. An ear-piercing noise and a searing pain in my chest forced me onto the ground, blood pooling around me. Unable to register what transpired, I was surprised to find a hole below my sternum, undoubtedly an attempt at my life. Feeling a warm liquid spilling out of my mouth, I coughed as I cursed the demons and the devil himself. As my vision gave way to the encroaching blackness, I overheard the damned requesting an ambulance, no doubt in response to my heroic deed.
When I awoke, I found myself strapped in what appeared to be a hospital bed. An intense pain enveloped me as I tried to free myself. Unable to loosen the bonds of my captors, I groaned in a pathetic mixture of defeat and disappointment. Examining the condemning lights and the sterility around me, I concluded that I was indeed in an emergency room. Difficult as it was, I tried my best to fight against the call of the unconscious, and in doing so I ended up focusing on the footsteps that approached my cell. A doctor introduced herself, and asked how I was feeling, if there was anything I needed, and various other questions. As she droned on, I found it difficult to pay her any mind and I began to grow impatient. I softly yet curtly asked the woman to remove the bed straps, to which she agreed to, on the grounds that I be constantly under surveillance. And if I were to try anything rash, the straps would be put back on indefinitely. I assured her that I was comfortable with those demands, and I found myself free at last.
Sitting up, I looked around the dimly lit emergency room, and eyed the various patients and medical personnel. Confident that my troubles were over (for the moment) and that my dealings with the unholiest of deities had passed, I settled into the bed and closed my eyes. I took a deep breath and relaxed for what seemed like the first time in eons. It was hard to believe, but the uneasiness that had once filled my bones with despair had dissipated, along with the choir of voices in my head. I allowed myself to get lost among the white noise of the establishment. The hurried footsteps of staff members, the hushed voices of worried family members, the various sounds of the equipment by my side, the ticking of the clock.
The ticking of the clock. My ambrosia, my remedy, my cure. But alas, dear reader, it was not meant to be. For you see, the depths of hell were not finished with my tortured soul. Every tick was a knife in my amygdala; every tock was a bullet in my hippocampus. As I leaned forward holding my head in agony, an unknown liquid dripped onto the back of my hand, causing me to peer upward. Not even the devil himself could concoct such a nightmare. What was once brick and iron had now become bulbous, pulsating flesh connected by sinew and tendon. Puss oozed out of withered pores, mixing with the blood that trickled slowly down the viscera and onto the tile. And the eye. By the Almighty, the eyes.
As a scream curdled my blood, each tick and every tock brought new horrors alongside it. Figures covered by shadow whispered heinous atrocities. Faceless human carcasses hung by chains, garnished with their various exposed organs and other visceral material. Disfigured beasts wandered the halls, salivating mouth and sharpened tooth holding the hunger prisoner. The wails of the damned filled my ears with terror as the scraping of metal on metal brought forth tortured visions. My vision began to give as I heard a cry of despondency undoubtedly from me, for I was done being the puppet of these wicked circumstances.
As the servants of the underworld rushed to the flaming altar upon which I stood, I formulated a plan. A plan perfect in nature, and easy in execution. I could never allow myself to be overpowered by the devil, and I would never give the clock the satisfaction of driving me past the brink of insanity. As the unclean drew near, I grabbed my target, my proverbial Sword of Gabriel: an unattended scalpel. Staring into their cold, dead, unwavering eyes, I raised my weapon and dove it into my flesh. As warm fluids spurted from my throat, I could still hear that unholy sound. Gurgling and gasping for air and with my last ounce of strength, I bashed my head on the metal railings of the hospital bed over and over. I had to rid myself of that blasted noise. Even as the demons dragged me away I fought tooth and nail to finally obtain the cold embrace of silence. And yet still the last thing I heard was the ticking of the clock.
That damned clock.
Tick tock
Tick
Tock.