“What for?”
“I want you to look at yourself,” Doctor Caswell said, passing the mirror over the desk, “and tell me what you see.”
Frowning in confusion, Mark took the handle and stared at his reflection. “I just see me.”
“And how would you describe yourself?”
Mark shrugged. “I don’t know; brown hair, stubble. What’s the point of this?”
“You don’t see anything unusual?”
Mark shook his head. “No.”
“Light-green skin perhaps? Yellow eyes? Razor-sharp teeth?”
Mark snorted. “No. Well, maybe first thing in the morning.”
“Now do you understand?” Doctor Caswell asked with a smile. “You see a normal, everyday person looking back at you. Not some monster. All this is just in your head. A delusion. Nothing more.”
Mark put the mirror down on the desk. “But it’s them.”
“What do you mean them?”
Mark started to massage his tense forehead.
“Take your time,” Doctor Caswell said. “There’s no rush.”
Mark let out a long sigh, and then whispered: “I think something awful has happened to everyone.”
“Awful? Like what?”
“They’re different. Everyone’s changed.”
Doctor Caswell began writing in his notepad again. When he was done, he put the pen down on the desk and leant in close. “Changed into what?”
Mark didn’t reply.
“What’s wrong?” Doctor Caswell asked. “Why do you find it so difficult to answer?”
“Because you’ll only laugh at me.”
Doctor Caswell shook his head. “I’m not here to judge, Mark. I’m here to listen and, if I can, to help you. So tell me, in your own time, in your own words, what you think they’ve changed into.”
Mark braced, but then reluctantly answered. “Have you ever seen that movie Invasion of the Body-Snatchers?”
Doctor Caswell grimaced in confusion. “Yes. Many years ago. Why?”
“In that movie an alien parasite infected the entire population. Or at least tried to anyway.” He glanced anxiously at the closed door again. “I think something like that has actually happened.”
“I see,” Doctor Caswell replied, a tone of scepticism in his voice. “And how long have you had this theory?”
“You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m crazy.”
“No, I don’t think you’re crazy, I’m just trying to get all the facts before I can make any kind of prognosis.”
“What facts? How else could you explain what’s been happening these past few weeks?”
“There could be a whole manner of explanations. Stress. The nausea. Your lack of sleep. Deep paranoia. Lots of things. Don’t you think we should explore those first, instead of blaming it all on some extra-terrestrial parasite?”
Mark stood up angrily, his chair nearly toppling over. “Look, you’re the one who dragged me down here. You’re the one who told me to be honest. And this is me being honest. I’m not crazy. I’m not on drugs. And whatever stress I’m feeling has only been brought on by the world going to Hell…in a matter of days.”
Doctor Caswell held out his hand, gesturing for Mark to return to his chair. “Please, there’s no need to get worked up. Really, Mark, I’m on your side. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of all this.”
Ignoring his gesture, Mark began to pace the room. He stopped at the window, staring out onto the street.
The room went silent for maybe a minute.
“Are you okay?” Doctor Caswell asked. “Do you want a glass of water?”
Mark shook his head, still looking through the window. “Neighbours, shopkeepers, people I’ve known for years, just gawk at me as if I’m filth. No words. No smiles. No usual ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’. Just piercing, cold stares like I’m a fucking monster or a paedophile. It’s horrible.” He ran his hand through his hair and groaned. “There’s something wrong with them.” He turned to Doctor Caswell. “I’m certain of it.”
“And what about me, Mark? Am I one of these infected people?”
Mark shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe. Or maybe you haven’t been turned yet—like me.”
“Then why aren’t they staring at me as well? Why are my family, friends, and neighbours unaffected?”
He didn’t reply.
“What makes you so important?” Doctor Caswell asked.
Mark walked up to the desk and pressed both hands to the surface, glaring at the doctor. “That’s a good point—why aren’t they staring at you?”
“What are you implying? That I’m lying to you? That I’m one of them?”
Mark didn’t answer.
“Please, take a seat,” Doctor Caswell calmly said. “I just want to help you.”
Taking several seconds to decide, Mark finally sat back down. “Look, I’m sorry, Doctor. I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just…I just don’t know who to trust anymore. I feel…I feel so alone.”
“You can trust me. I can promise you that much. And you’re not alone. There are people out there that care about you, that want to help you.”
Mark forced a smile, but felt no joy. “Thank you.”
The two sat in silence for a moment. Doctor Caswell was clearly mulling over his next course of action. “Do you mind if I make a quick call to my receptionist?” The doctor eventually asked.
Mark subtly shook his head, only half-listening; his mind fixed on his crippling dilemma. “No, it’s fine.”
Picking up the phone’s receiver, Doctor Caswell gave a delicate grin, and then pushed a button on the phone. Almost instantaneously, there was the faint sound of a voice on the other end. “Hello, Janet, can you tell my next patient that I’ll be out shortly.”
After hearing a response, he hung up the phone and smiled once again. “Sorry about that, Mark. Now where were we?”
“It’s no problem,” Mark replied. “We were just talking about—”
Suddenly the door burst open.
Mark turned his head in fright as two men wearing black business suits stormed in. Before Mark could say or do anything, the men managed to secure his arms. Dragged to his feet, Mark began to kick out frantically.
“What’s going on?” Mark struggled to say as he continued to resist. “Who are you? What do you want with me?”
“They’re not going to hurt you, Mark,” Doctor Caswell said as he leapt up from the desk, his back pressed against a filing cabinet, away from the commotion. “They’re here to help you.”
Still tussling to free his arms, Mark managed to kick one of the men in the ankle. The man yelled out in pain, but was still able to hold onto Mark’s arm. “I know what help you mean!” Mark cried out. “They’re here to change me, aren’t they? They’re here to turn me into one of them! Infect me with the parasite! Well I won’t let them! Do you hear me? I won’t let them! They’ll have to kill me first!”
The two men dragged Mark towards the door.
“Please,” Doctor Caswell said. “Don’t fight it. Just go with them. They’ll make you better. They’ll make you one of us. Then everything will be okay again. I promise. Please, Mark. Don’t fight it.”
“I trusted you! You said you’d help me get my life back! You lied to me, you fucking bastard! And now you’re going to let these things turn me into one of them! How can you just stand there and let them do this to me?”
Almost at the door, Mark saw the receptionist standing in the doorway holding a small syringe. “Please! Don’t let them do this! Please, Doctor! I’m begging you! Don’t let them infect me! I just wanna go home! Please. I’m sorry. I won’t tell anyone! I promise!”
Doctor Caswell walked up to him. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mark.”
“Why? Why isn’t it that simple?”
“Because it’s you, Mark… It’s you who’s been infected. Not the rest of the world. It’s you who has the parasite living inside you; running through your body… It’s
always been you.”
“What are you talking about?” Mark asked; sweat and tears now streaming down his face.
“We’ve known for weeks. That’s why the world stares at you. That’s why everyone treats you like a stranger—because you are a stranger. Don’t you see what we see?” Doctor Caswell paraded the mirror in front of Mark’s face. “Tell me what you see!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You don’t see what we see, do you? You can’t. It’s too much to bear. Your mind, it’s masking your condition, keeping you from accepting it. You’re not human, Mark. At least not anymore. But you’re in there somewhere, deep down, fighting to get out. But we can help you. We can protect you. But first we need to remove the parasite and stop anyone else becoming infected.”
Mark’s struggling increased as he took the news in. “I don’t believe you! You’re lying! Now get your fucking hands off me! Right now!
Doctor Caswell shook his head. “That’s not going to happen, Mark. And whether you believe me doesn’t really matter.” Doctor Caswell gave a nod to his receptionist. “We’re going to give you the help you need.”
Mark fought hard to stop the needle piercing his neck. But it was no use. He could feel the sharp pain run down his back, spreading to his limbs. And then the strength in his arms quickly disappeared. Soon his knees began to buckle.
The last thing Mark Lewis saw, as he lay on the hard carpet, was Doctor Caswell, standing over him, mouthing the words: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I had no choice…”
Then darkness.
It’s a Wonderful Death
This hideous creature keeps telling me to jump. But I don’t want to, don’t have to.
Every ounce of my being is telling me—screaming at me—to get down from the railing. But I can’t. Something is stopping me. Some kind of hold over me. Is it coming from the creature? Or demon? Or whatever the hell it likes to call itself. Either way I’m stuck here, on this rusty old bridge, staring out into the deep black water. And all I can think about is Jason. My strong, wonderful Jason. Jesus Christ, what the hell am I doing here? What would he think of me? With everything that I’ve been through—what we’ve been through—how could I be so selfish; so heartless? This is crazy. Why on earth is this demon winning? This can’t be real. It just can’t. This is just a dream. A horrible, vivid, and extremely cold dream. Nothing more.
It has to be.
It is now standing on the ledge next to me, glaring, waiting for me to make the giant leap. The leap that I never thought I could make. But here I am, about to leave the man I love, about to leave my friends, my family, job, because of some figment of my imagination.
It turns to face the water and smiles. “It’s time to make your choice,” it hisses.
Make my choice? What kind of a choice is dying? No one should make that kind of choice. It’s the last surprise of the universe. The last best-kept-secret. No one should have that power. Only God himself.
“If you jump then Jason will not suffer,” it assures me. “Your friends will not mourn you. Your family will never know.” But how can that be? It’s talking rubbish. I am loved. By many. That much I’m certain of. How could they not think of me; mourn me? It would crush them even if they found out I was standing here.
“Not only will your present and future die,” it says, “but also your past. Everything will be erased; every action will be wiped clean. Even your birth.”
But why? Why me? What did I ever do to deserve such punishment? I’m just a woman. An ordinary woman from an ordinary town who married her childhood sweetheart. What makes me so goddamn special?
It reaches out and grasps my wrist. Its touch is cold at first, but then it burns. I almost lose my footing. And then I see what it sees. I see my sister running home, crying. She’s covered in blood. Another nosebleed? No, wait, I remember now. I hit her, square in the nose. But why? Why would I do such a thing? That’s it: she smashed my doll against the rock. I see the road across from our old house. I see Mum sitting in the garden watering the plants, waiting for us to come home.
I see the red car.
That red Devil-car.
And I hear the deafening screech of the tyres as it brakes.
But it’s too late.
Please God not this again. I’ve seen it before. A million times, over and over in my head. Please not again.
And then I’m back in the pharmacy. Jesus. I haven’t seen this place in years. Not since the…incident. Well, accident. It wasn’t exactly my fault. It could have happened to anyone. Those meds were poorly labelled. How was I to know Mrs Stephenson would take so many? And besides, I was cleared of any negligence. Completely innocent. I’ve got nothing to be guilty of. Absolutely nothing.
I just needed to get out of that place. A career change.
That’s all.
And then it shows me Jason. My perfect, handsome, Jason. He’s sitting on the staircase, weeping. Why is he crying? It’s not like him to cry. That’s usually my job. Was it something I said? An argument?
And then I remember. And it kills me inside.
Please don’t let me see this again. Please. I beg you. It was just an accident. It could have happened to anyone. Don’t let me see this again. It was my baby too. And there’s no reason we can’t keep trying. The doctor said there’s always a chance. There’s always hope. I’m still young enough.
I see the water as it stretches out for miles, joining the ocean. And the stunning orange glow as the sun begins to ascend.
The creature takes my hand and smiles again. “It’s time,” it tells me. “Make your choice.”
I see my sister, reading to her children. She loved to read. Always had her head buried in some mystery novel. I see Mrs Stephenson holding her grandson in her arms, her husband next to her in the park. I think of Jason. I imagine him holding a baby high up into the air, swirling it around the living room like a merry-go-round. And he’s happy. So very happy. I don't think I've ever seen him so…content; so whole.
* * *
I see the water…
The Devil’s Apprentice
I never noticed the smell until the day I was exiled from Hell.
Three thousand years living in that shit-hole and that’s the thanks I get. No leaving parade, no gold watch, not even a bloody handshake.
Nothing.
Absolutely bugger all.
You see, for most of Satan’s loyal followers, being his right-hand man—his apprentice—would be absolute bliss. You get to stand up there next to him as he sits on his burning throne of skulls, peering down at the world he created, with pride, with satisfaction. And it was a delight for me—at least for the first thousand years. But after that, well…I guess it kind of sucked.
I remember that morning when I got the message that I’d been shortlisted to be The Devil’s apprentice, like it was yesterday. That feeling of overwhelming excitement and anticipation, that I, out of all the thousands of candidates, might be up there with the Dark Lord himself. Maybe even becoming his successor some day—when he’s done with all the burning, all the senseless violence, torture. That fantasy made me happier than I ever thought I could be.
For a time.
The trials were the toughest, pitting the so-called best of the best against each other in a sort of Battle Royale, a fight to the death. But in Hell, no one really dies. Exile, or an existence stuck inside the void of nothingness; those are the only true deaths here in the Underworld.
Nevertheless, a sword to the chest still hurts like a son of a bitch—dead or alive.
Fighting has never been my strongpoint. Easily my weakest. And I’ve never been good with a sword, or any other weapon for that matter. In fact, whenever there’s a breakout of violence—and in Hell it’s pretty commonplace—I’m always the first to get the fuck out of the way (excuse my language—three thousand years living in this rotter of a world will do that to you). But a fighter or not, I had to man up, summon the courage to take down this b
east that stood before me. I wanted this job more than everything in the world. And no four-horned, hairy moron was going to stand in my way.
The first fifty rounds were definitely in favour of my dim-witted opponent. I thought I had him in the thirty-seventh, but I think that was just a hallucination brought on by the metre-long fingernails, tearing into my stomach. I could tell Satan had his eye on me from the very start of this process; I think he saw something in me, long before the trials began. Maybe he saw himself in me, a younger (more handsome) version. But say what you will about the big red man, rules and regulations are never ignored in Hell, and if beating and tearing shreds out of each other is in the rulebook, then that’s that.
After the two-hundredth round, things got a little hazy. I think Satan, and everyone else was surprised that I was still on my feet—but no more surprised than I was. I was running on sheer willpower and fumes alone. Either way, I wasn’t going down without a fight, even if that meant moving around the ring (of fire, of course), and waiting for this hairy bastard to collapse due to exhaustion.
And that’s what eventually happened. During the four hundred and eighth round, my hairy little friend suddenly fell to his knees and keeled over. The sound of cheering almost brought the place down. Even the Devil himself had a big smile on his face—and that’s a rare sight, I can tell you.
So that was that. I breezed through the coordination assessments, whizzed through the intelligence exams, and powered through the interview. Satan just loved me. I’d never seen him so pleased that he’d found his first apprentice. And who could blame him? Let’s be honest, I got the gig by default. There was no way in Hell that he would have found anyone better than me to take on the role. The four-horned-beast? The two-headed gargoyle? Not bloody likely. I was the only one he could trust, the only one with the brains, and balls, to help run things when he was gone, when he was busy indulging in sick and twisted acts of debauchery. And that was fine. Shit like that doesn’t interest me. Never has. I’m more of a creator, a guide.
That world is his. And this is mine.
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