"Just a Chat"

So the old man I was running from visits me last night and asks to talk. It was in a warehouse, old and unused, while I was trying to catch some shuteye.

And he walks up to me and asks me to listen to him for a while. Says he isn't going to hurt me cause he doesn't need to.

And I'm tired and a little drunk and I say yeah, fine, whatever.

And he just sits there and he tells me about people. He's got our number, alright -- he's got all the numbers we've written down filed away.

I thought he was just some old guy who eats memories, but he's not; he is the memories and the history and the writing.

So he tells me about all of the bad stuff people have done. And how it all keeps happening, over and over again. And then he tells me my whole life story.

And he points out all the bad shit I've done, and all the mistakes I've made. I don't have to remember them, now. And then he shows me how stupid it is to fight him. And I agree, because what else is there to do?

So then he makes me an offer.

This morning, when the sun came up, I got up and I didn't remember anything before the last few weeks. I have a clean slate, and an employer. And I'm going to kill some more people, except now I’m going to do it for the right reasons.

You can't fight history.

"Bad Medicine"

A tourist bolts down an unfamiliar alleyway. The metal box is biting into his chest, the liquid inside sloshing everywhere, but he clutches it regardless.

This man doesn't know where he is, or the majority of what happened after he drank what was apparently a spiked cocktail. Escaping a total stupor and a medical gurney in the absence of his host, he'd only had a moment to arm himself and run.

The box, which is now his only possession, was once painted white, but now the paint has chipped, and the latch rattles as he runs. Bits of it have been peeled away, revealing black-red rust. It’s decorated with a series of stickers with pictures of skulls and biohazard warnings.

He rounds a corner and tries to open the box quietly. He smashes the lock against the brick of a nearby wall, and the box creaks open.

The sound of clogs tapping stone nears him. The air suddenly smells of uncooked chicken and ashtrays.

Inside of the box is a murky, colorless liquid. It's strong-smelling, and he steels himself against it.

Another man, masked, cloaked and carrying a bonesaw, turns the corner. The tourist throws the liquid onto him and runs, not daring to look back. He hears the sizzling of acid grow quiet behind him.

He keeps running, but he's getting lost. Graffiti litters the walls, and all of the legible pieces are of corpses and medicine. The clogs continue behind him, methodically. He refuses to believe that his pursuer is still alive.

But the truth doesn't care what you believe. It's precise and surgical, and eventually his body will fail him. It’s already starting to. He supports himself on a wall and listens to the beating on the ground.

Then, the saw is upon him.

The mask burned away minutes ago, but the skin is untouched. He sees a face malformed by imprecise stitches and a dozen untreated infections, milky eyes wide with glee.

He falls, bleeding, as his assailant prepares for another surgery.

"Count the Faces in the Dark"

You lay at night, and you stare into the darkness around your bed. And, for once, you see their faces.

One, your mother. She was smiling at you from up on high, but now she’s grinning widely at you and you don’t know what to do.

Two, your best friend, gone since childhood. You heard he died, but couldn't look at the body. In hindsight, the cuts are minor.

Three, your college sweetheart. You never could find her. You didn't even know she’d died. Maybe she didn't.

Four, your wife. You turn to check that she's still next to you, but you’re not in your bed any more. Your bed is against the far wall, and it lies empty. There isn't a single crease on the sheets.

Fifth, your boyhood hero, the plastic face of a nameless action figure which you tried to forget in the shame of teenagerdom. It stares at you with perverse, static glee, and you notice that the walls are wrong.

Sixth, a childhood crush. You don’t even remember her name. She’s older now, but equally appealing. You stagger away from her and find the distance to the door is growing.

Seventh, your own. You stare at your own terror and confusion, all wreathed in darkness, and you feel long fingers, ones which aren't wholly there, reach through your skin and tug at your insides.

As you come apart, the shadows look on with neutral expressions.

"Heartstrings"

All you have to do is raise one arm.

Raise one arm, and the crowd, the bungling, mindless crowd of plebians, goes wild.

That's all it takes in this mindless world. It's as if there is a puppet master guiding the people, one cold, stick-like arm to tug the fool sheeple into action. It is all a matter of tugging the heart strings.

With that power, you could take those heart strings, pull them out, move on. Move on to more venues. You could control a crowd, you could control a nation. It's all a matter of tugging at the heart strings.

You can control how they feel. You can control it by a simple mending of the words, or you could just take it by force. And going from that, it is so much simpler to go on. To take a world by storm. To be hailed as a messiah of the people.

It is all a matter of tugging at the heart strings.

"Disease"

In all my years of practice, I have only seen fools. Fools who gallantly enter, waste their money, and leave. What have they to gain? Nothing. They simply want the symptoms gone, so they can go, go to die in vain, never minding the sickness still within them.

A disease -- a virus -- it gets into your body. It starts assimilating what it can. Taking the cells, sapping the nutrients, and moving on. Humanity is like that, in a sense.

What is a cure? Is a cure a great serum that purifies the mind, the body, the soul? No. A cure is a cheap twenty dollar mixture of chemicals that covers up the disease.

That is why I am sending a message. A message to people, a warning of their futile efforts, a warning of their vain, useless attempts.

My message is disease.

"Eaten"

What has my life become?

My life is nothing, just means to support my love for writing.

I don't even live anymore, my body is just a vessel there to observe, to exist within my obsession for my work.

Do you know what I do at work every day? I write, constantly clinging onto this habit of mine. I haven't properly paid attention to my work in months, ever since I started the whole ordeal.

This isn't life, I almost feel inhuman how little attention I pay to life.

I've been eaten.

"Cold-Hearted Boy"

On a regular winter day in Iceland, nothing but snow.

I sit in my room, cooped up in my computer.

Near my room, I hear laughter. Something I used to partake in, but has grown obsolete. Everyone knows how I feel about people, they intimidate me.

It's easier to stay away from people, than to get hurt.

With every hour, every day my heart starts to break a little more.

My room feels cold.

I am but a cold-hearted boy.