Short Story - Cessation
The world had seen so many Ages: the Age of Enlightenment; of Reformation; of Reason. Now, at last, the Age of Desire. And after this, an end to Ages; an end, perhaps, to everything.
~ Clive Barker ~
Day 73 - Post-Apocalypse: My reality is changing ~ has changed, still presently unintentionally, evolving. Everything I used to know is gone. I am alone.
Sitting in unexpected solitude for an extended period can be tricky but necessary to grow, to change, to evolve. In addition, when you begin to look deeply within your harsh reality, thinking through your decisions and choices that have cemented your fate, you could get overwhelmed - that is, if you weren’t me. I didn’t regret much, and I loved my old life. I lived without the wants that others desperately needed. I liked being alone. It’s when I do my best plotting and most ingenious work; research for my next prospects.
It’s been seventy-three days since the invasion, and my hunger rages within; I need to refocus. What does one do when they compulsively kill and can’t because everyone is dead? Being labeled a “serial killer” in the papers enthralled me and fueled me to go on - never once coming close to being caught. I am highly calculated and controlled in my descent on my unsuspecting victims. My full attention to detail was labeled a strength. But what do past headlines and the journalists' unknowingly high accolades and opinions of me matter now? I’m a has-been, a product of my current environment.
I’ve had much time to contemplate how to satiate my needs. I’ve had nothing but time to brainstorm how to fill my desires that continuously bubble to the surface - time to obsess that there’s no one left to murder. I was ingenious in my prime but now falling short, slowly losing my grip on reality. I enjoyed feeling the last beat of their ignorant, broken, yet narcissistic hearts. Satiated by smelling their last breath that escaped putrefied, desecrated cracked lips, gasping for air in their final moments. There was pure satisfaction knowing that I was holding them against their will, seeing extreme fright in their eyes, tears cascading down their ugly, scared faces, as the realization set in - that there was no escape. It was in that moment of clarity that I would slit their throats in one smooth, quick stroke. But now what? I’m sitting here eating can after can of expired beans in a bunker - housed in a steel cell, waiting out the explosions or aliens or radiation with no radio outputs, not knowing what’s happening above the surface as I watch the gluttony of the evening tick by slowly.
On my last “regular” day, I was walking down the street at night by her house, stalking, ready to satiate my desires. She was just getting home and out of her car. I was so close - about three feet away from grabbing her, when I saw lights that looked like fireworks exploding above. It looked like the sky was opening up, seeing into the dark expanse of space for a moment. Something felt off, not natural, but very real.
The sounds radiating throughout the stagnant summer air were deafening. I had to cover my ears, shield my eyes, and abandon my mission. I left the woman I was following that evening, figuring we’d catch up another time ~ she was destined to be the next. She was perfect for my collection - my obsession for the moment. I knew everything about her - where she worked, what she wore to bed, even what was under that scarlet-ruffled skirt she had on tonight, complete with white socks and red shoes. She was a sight, and I couldn’t wait to see her again.
But that night, I ran and didn’t stop. I went straight to my underground cellar, a perfectly crafted plan if I needed to escape quickly, still not knowing what was happening outside. That night was pure chaos as I sat safely in my bunker. I heard screaming and high-pitched sounds that I never heard before. There was more anarchy running through the streets above than in my dark, twisted mind. I could not escape the madness, the sounds, the lights coming through the smallest cracks in the foundation, and the feeling that the world was ending until it all stopped at once. Suddenly it was still; there was no movement above and dead silence - but none of what I remember about my past or even that night would help me now; none of it matters anymore.
It’s been quiet since that night, “But now what?” I ask myself again. I am becoming infuriated with my complacency as I sit here contemplating what to do. Do I fight? Do I check out the surface? Or just sit, trying to finish this crossword puzzle as I eat shit, greedily wishing it was a steak, hoping the cable works soon and the age of normalcy rises once again. It wasn’t long before I drifted off to sleep wishing this would all end.
Day 74 - I wake up sweating - thinking, I must get out of here. My thoughts and impatience from the night before have not settled. I rip off my tattered grey blanket in a rage and kick my legs as hard as I can against the wall. One after the other, hammering my feet into the hard surface as I spat obscenities to no one. I have an overwhelming desire to leave. I must dispel this indignation, walk off my looming anxiety, and stop hitting myself in the face just to feel something. The urge to hurt someone, to devour another living creature, is uncontrollable today. I am unable to satiate this deep need, this ultimate desire, which is painful and tearing my insides to pieces. I am hyper-focusing on it. I am obsessive. I am compulsive, and I can’t control it ~ Why the fuck am I like this?
The world may be ending, and all I can think about is killing off more people. What if I’m the only one left? Then what, kill myself? Now that would be a poetic ending. I could see the headlines . . . (created by me, for no one but me, because I am the only one left).
“THE INFAMOUS SERIAL KILLER BECOMES DELUSIONAL AND OFFS HIMSELF
BECAUSE THERE IS NO ONE LEFT TO KILL”
Wouldn’t that be an interesting, shocking, but dreadfully sad twist?
In a moment of long-overdue courage, I unlock and open the door, taking a necessary risk. Isn’t that what life is about? Risk ~ what would you be willing to try - willing to do, to have it all? To have the ability to experience a moment of eternal glory and grandeur? I’d relish in the spotlight; perhaps it’s destined for another time and another place. I certainly won’t give up. I want everyone to know me, to experience my glorious gifts, and to want to be me. To envy the person I am.
As I slowly emerge, everything appears normal outside, minus the lack of sound ~ there are no birds, no cars, no people ~ from my vantage point, I see no one, hear no one, and as odd as this may sound, the clouds are not moving - they are just holding steady. There are no more blinding lights, so I decide there will be an adventure today.
I walk along the deserted streets, searching for something. I am desperately hungry for a lustful encounter. I need to feed my soul, swallowing all doubts. Maybe the world is as it was, and I have changed. I have become delusional, officially wild, my eyes wide shut but open. It’s been seventy-four days. That’s two and a half months. You would think it’s been years by the intensity of my demonic thoughts and burning sensation to kill coursing through my veins.
It’s been seventy-four days of self-loathing and hiding out, boarding on learned laziness. Maybe I am the problem and made this all up, my mind playing tricks on me. Perhaps I ran for no reason? I am guilty as fuck for a change, but no, definitely not, as I smack my face repeatedly with open palms on my cheeks until those thoughts dwindle away, sinking into a deep abyss of nothingness ~ it is certainly not me. I am a mastermind, and my world is heavily controlled - there are no mistakes, no missteps. It’s always everyone else - I am above that, above them. The pride within me oozes from every pore and leaves no room for self-doubt.
But even I know there is something incredibly wrong. The abandoned streets are already cracking, plants are growing untamed through the concrete, and life is wildly blooming all around, just not the kind I want to dispose of in violent ways. I am on the hunt - my survival depends upon this trip, this day, and this moment. It’s hard to have an inherent need and not be able to expel it. Killing is a need of mine, a desire; it makes me feel good, it makes me whole, and it makes life bearable. Those thoughts are certainly a fucked up contradiction. I essentially take life to feel alive. I don’t even know where to begin or where to go as I wander through this darkened wonderland. I tell myself again it is not me; this is just my new reality, and I need to adjust and adapt to my newfound surroundings. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling a little crazy as I look around, soaking it all in.
I still can’t shake the feeling that this is all a bad nightmare, and everything put in front of me is a prison, and I’m rotting away inside a matrix. The walls of my hell are caving in, suffocating me slowly like I’m traveling through the circles of Dante’s Inferno, internally struggling to gain composure. Is there a way out? Is this a test? And why me? I’m not the guy for this. I was content living in my bubble, complacent with my life, albeit others may not have agreed. They would have labeled me a psychopath, most likely. But here I am, living out the end of times, the end of everything - anticipating what will come next - my neat bubble has popped, and fortunately for me, no one to spew labels.
As I enter the abandoned store in front of me, the shelves are now empty, scavenged ~ forged for whatever was needed by the lingering survivors, I suppose, as anarchy ensued seventy-four days ago. I see something move out of the corner of my eye. After all, I am a hunter ~ of sorts. I have a few survival skills, if that’s what you want to call them. I have eyes for hunting, noticing the most minute details. My eyes are close together and stalk with perfection, to see better, notice movements, hone in, focus, to pounce like a panther on my prey without them even noticing me lurking as I watch them in the dark, night after night.
I quietly approached, but nothing was there, even though I smelled it. I smelled her. I smelled the woman who was about to be my next victim seventy-four days ago. I don’t ever forget a smell. I called out, but no answer.
If she was there, she certainly knew it was me. I stopped for a minute and asked myself, why would she come running? Why run to the man that was about to slit her throat? I certainly wouldn’t. I would avoid me at all costs, even if I were the last man on Earth ~ and it certainly looks like that might be a very good reality at this point. It was getting dark, and I returned to my known safety to turn in for the night. But excitement explodes, knowing a new game has been started now that I know she’s alive.
Day 75 - It was about noon when I heard a knock at my door. I am slightly startled since yesterday there were no signs of life, just me continuing to go insane on day seventy-five. Except for . . . no, it couldn’t be! I catch myself smirking and laughing to myself, almost giddy. I shelf that thought for a moment as I open the sliding peephole and immediately slam it shut, totally perplexed and caught delightfully off guard. I begin to sweat and smell myself perspiring just at the thought, anticipating the impending interactions this evening.
It's her. Is she really that stupid, or just desperate? She may want some canned beans for dinner or blood served warm for dessert. As that thought passed through my mind, perhaps what others thought was true - I am a psychopath. I joke about this to myself, with no one else finding it funny, but this newfound introspection is intriguing.
But I decided to unlock the door cautiously. She is shaking. She is weak and scared, undoubtedly desperate. There is no other explanation for her knocking on my door except that she had no other choice, no one else to run to, and it was unsafe outside. I know for certain it is not safe for her inside. But yet, here she is, standing there, begging me to let her in. She has to know, right? It was pure luck that she got away seventy-five days ago. If we were not interrupted, she would be six feet under by now, rotting away.
Her / She ~
I need to tread cautiously. The man that tried to kill me, on the other side of the door, maybe the only human left on Earth - aside from me. I have yet to see another person since that night. I have to take a chance. What alternatives do I really have? I can slowly die of starvation or be killed by the madman living in a self-created bunker with food - either way; my future looks bleak. I lasted seventy-five days alone, but I’m starving for food, a human connection, a sound, a conversation. Maybe all this time sitting in solitude changed him, made him appreciate human life after all? I’m just going to do it, so I knock on the door - strongly drawn to this place like I have no option or free will to make another decision. This may be the dumbest thing I have ever done, and I could willingly be walking into my final demise, but I am willing to take the risk.
As I knock on the door, I have a vision, a glimpse of a dream I had, the past or maybe the future. But I realize I’ve been here…knocking on this door. Is my memory betraying me? Is it a glitch in the system, or have I been here before? I feel this is almost like a deja vu moment. He opens the door and invites me in without saying a word. We are both cautious, keeping our distance. He shows me to a room where I can be alone. He brings me a pile of clothes and food. I don't know how this night will play out. For now, I wait and try keeping my distance ~ feeling out the situation, locking the door behind me.
Day 76 - I wake the next morning, drumming my fingers on the hard surface, looking across the table at the girl I want to murder. She sits there eating the Cheerios I poured for her, wearing some of the clothes I gifted her, just staring at me as she laps up the canned milk in the bowl. She looks animalistic, like she hasn’t eaten recently, and is ravenously devouring the stale cereal. I can’t take my eyes off her. I used to have a wall of pictures dedicated to her. She really is a beautiful creature, even with her hair not brushed and in a messy unwashed bun on top of her head. She is still wearing the red skirt she had on that night but has ditched the socks despite me bringing her new clothing I had for emergencies.
I am at a crossroads - do I want company and try my hardest to keep her alive, fighting against every urge within my body and soul - or is my devious nature finally emerging and ready to play? Unfortunately for her, it’s the latter. No doubt about it. No second thoughts or forfeiting this opportunity. I will kill her because that’s what I do, and I will relish in this one last kill. Kill or be killed, right? Darwin? Survival of the fittest? I don’t want to share my food anymore, and she, in my timeline, was supposed to be dead seventy-six days ago anyway. The chase of cat and mouse is about to begin.
I sit staring at her; she is silent, and I think she has given up or has accepted her looming fate. She knows it’s over. She is apparently not clueless, but why is she not running, not scared of the beast within me that is scratching to get out? She has almost taken the fun out of murdering her this morning.
Her / She ~
I woke up today and realized I had been here before, and this situation has occurred many times. There’s no doubt about it. He is calling for me, asking if I want breakfast. I am starving, so I go out to the kitchen, leaving my locked room, confines of safety. In my dream, I am sitting in the same seat at this very table, staring directly into his eyes. I always run, I always fight, always trying to save myself - but today, I’m not. I am giving up. Why extend the brutality of this moment? I don’t even think this situation is real or if I’m real. What a fucking epiphany to have - that I am possibly a program and don’t actually exist. So, I just want him to do it, get it over with, and kill me - yet again. He knows I know something, probably questioning why I’m not running. We have been through this countless times; he just doesn’t know it yet. I am exhausted from fighting. I take one more look at this madman in front of me. He gets up, pulls something from his pocket, and is behind me before I can even comprehend it. I see crimson blood dripping onto the surface of the white table before me. It’s my blood. It’s dark and warm, almost satisfying to watch the colored liquid stain the pristine table. I feel it is running down my neck quickly. It’s over. He killed me again. Finally.
Before I drift into the darkness, I question how many more times I will have to endure this delusional man's self-righteous nature because I have no choice. I was created for him. My programming is for his . . . benefit, his enjoyment, his redemption - depending on how you look at the situation. I was expertly crafted to replicate his last interaction and our last day on Earth. I, well, she, was his latest attempt at killing an innocent. I was written to feed his needs and potentially change his desires. I was put here to help him. It’s been years. It is not working. He is not savable at this point - why are they still trying? My world goes black for now until the next time.
I did it. I couldn’t control myself any longer, and for a moment after, I could breathe deeply - filling my lungs with the needed air that I was missing, inhaling through my nose, and exhaling through my mouth. I was proud, and it happened so quickly. She didn’t even fight. I think she was internally petrified and didn’t want to extend the lingering intensity of the moment. I would have liked a fight, though. The moment was pretty anti-climactic, and if she is, in fact, the last human here, now what? I licked the knife, tasting this one’s sweet blood finally. I have been anticipating her taste, her smell wafting through my small space for seventy-six days. I look over at the pool of blood seeping out of her lifeless body, and satisfaction washes over my senses, a high coursing through my veins from the most potent drug. I am untouchable at this moment, elation exploding.
My grandiose thoughts and visions were interrupted when a bright light blinded my eyes, and a loud sound crashed into me like a tsunami. It is vaguely familiar, like that night seventy-six days ago. I am violently wrenched from my safe bunker, my insides twisting like I am being pulled in a thousand different directions. The woman disappears right before my eyes, and my environment transforms.
I am now strapped heavily into a metal chair. I can’t see much, but I am alone in a circular white room like nothing I have seen before. The chair is in the center of the room, and eyes are looking at me from above in all different directions, pulling tubes from my body. The beings before me are not human. What is going on? I could feel my heart quicken, which excited me a bit but also caused anxiety because I had no control over this situation, which is highly atypical. I couldn’t even speak or get a word out when a voice interrupted my thoughts, my mind shifting into a different dimension I didn’t know as I rethought my decisions. How did I get here?
THEM << “Do not be alarmed. Focus on breathing, and please STOP struggling. You failed again. We have been at this for fifteen years. Every day, the same sequence. Every day you end with the same outcome. When you are ready, we will begin again.
This is your sentence, your chance at redemption and reintegration into your dreadful society. It is up to you. If you can’t control yourself, we will continue this cycle, moving through levels of hell you haven’t even fathomed. Are you ready?” >>
“Who are you? What is this? Get me out of these restraints, or just kill me! It’s useless anyway. I don’t think I’m capable of changing or bringing about any redemption, as you put it. I don’t want to change. I love what I do and how I do it. I will continue to bring despair to this woman. I will go on killing her.”
In a moment of lucidity and clarity, which is rare, I realize this is a never-ending cycle of hell for her and me. It’s torture that I don’t want to keep enduring even though I don’t even know it is happening at the time. It feels genuine and authentic, like I am actually there and have been in that bunker for months. I just want my old life back. I will admit I saw the sadness, a moment of recognition of what would transpire. It flashed before her eyes in the morning before I attacked, and I killed her anyway without hesitation.
“I don’t even know how she could have thoughts and an understanding or how that is even possible if she doesn’t exist. She is a sim and AI, right? How does she recognize she has done this over and over? She is a program unless that is part of your torture now. I am selfish, yes, and I brought on my own apocalypse in a sense, I suppose. There’s no hope. Just end it here. End me here. I am the top of the fucking food chain, the lion in the jungle. I will not be afraid. End me, and we both will be satiated; one more fulfilled desire in my life.”
THEM << “That’s impossible at this point ~ all prisoners fifteen years ago were transferred to this ship to live out their life. We do not kill and are far advanced from anything you can even comprehend. We wrote this program just for you. It will change as you change, but you must learn to control yourself.
We saw you about to kill that girl as we were conducting research. We thought Earth was a dream environment. However, we have been very wrong. Earth may be the perfect location for life, but the inhabitants fell below our expectations. You were imploding as a species. Our first encounter was watching you attempt to murder another human. We usually do not intervene, but you left us no option. We were there to observe, but you pushed up our timeline and invaded shortly after plucking you from that situation.
We housed you in one of our ships to study you to see if the human race was worth investing our energy in. In the past fifteen years, you have proven that the answer to that question is an emphatic no.
We crafted and created your own personal living hell designed just for you. This is your new world, your existence, your payment for years of evil and ignorance of other human life, only caring about your needs. You still have not learned, you still have not been able to control your impulses, and the redemption of your soul is ongoing. So, you ask, who are we? And what is this? Well, we are your worst nightmare.
And so I ask again, are you ready?” >>
. . . To be continued.
©Tegan Matthews, 2023