I Am Not Myself (Post Apocalypse Stock Market, Book 2)

by Timothy Cox

  I Am Not Myself, Post Apocalypse Stock Market, Book 2

  Copyright © 2013 Kindle Publishing Timothy Cox

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book, all rights reserved.

  Part one out on Amazon US / UK

  “When you are mad, mad like this, you don't know it. Reality is what you see. When what you see shifts, departing from anyone else's reality, it's still reality to you.”

  ― Marya Hornbacher, Madness: A Bipolar Life

  (1)

  It’s been a month since that door went–

  No. It’s been two, maybe three. No, more than four. Maybe five. Yes five months, because five plus five equals ten. And ten was his lucky number; there was a one and a zero next to each other. They were good friends. Best friends.

  He giggled.

  He slapped his face. Why was he thinking about ten when he said five was five? He shook his head at the conundrum. How did math get so hard all of a sudden? This was something that needed sorting out.

  ‘First we need to find my–’ he coughed. The room had too many dust particles floating around. On any other day this would have been fine. On any other day he would have allowed this. The glittery sparkles kept him company. They were fun to watch. Some days he would sit in the corner of the room and watch the sparkly lights all day. Until that dark color came of course. He hated when things colored the sky with a black crayon; so much, that he contemplated leaving the city life for the country side. At least there, people didn’t color the heaven black. Or maybe they did. He had to ponder about this dilemma: was it nighttime everywhere?

  He whacked the drawer open. A few spiders went running. He picked one up and dangled it over his lips. ‘Hello Fred how are you today? Tell me Fred what did I say about living under my underwear? If I catch you again, you’ll enter my cave,’ he pouted his lips and gave it a kiss. The eight legs dancing on his lips felt like tickling grass. He put it down.

  ‘Now where did I put my ID?’ He lifted underwear he didn’t recognize. There was a big brown spot on it. He put it on his nose and whiffed. He knew exactly what that was, and gently put it away to one side. He scraped clothes to the side looking for his–

  ‘Aha!’ He picked up the ID and ran over to the window. Before looking at it he heard things outside. It sounded like someone punching a tire. He pressed his lips not knowing what to do. Should he look at the ID? Or should he look outside? He shook his head and threw the plastic away like a Frisbee. The punching tire sounded more exciting.

  His fingers trembled. He knew he had to be extremely careful. People didn’t like being stared at outside. Once, on a starry night walk, people spat on him for waving. Stupid people.

  First, he brushed the curtains to the side. Second, his head did snaky maneuvers (something he was good at). And then – he hit the latch open and threw the window up. The old wood crashed against the ceiling – the glass almost broke. He craned his neck out from the top floor and began his investigation.

  ‘Hey you!’ He shouted.

  The man stopped whipping and looked up.

  ‘Yeah you! Stop hitting that dog.’

  He stretched the whip. ‘What I doing here is none of your business. Now get back–’

  ‘That dog is bleeding from the neck down why you hurting it?’ The dog looked up at him; its caramel fur painted with red. The dog was crying – he was sure of it.

  ‘Listen pal,’ he looked at the apartment building up and down. ‘I’m just, releasing some energy now why don’t–’ he wobbled backward against a dumpster. The whip fell from his hands. He rolled up his black flannel shirt (matted with dog blood) and revealed his bony arms. ‘I suggest you – you get back in that stinking shithole of yours and let me be.’

  This is why he hated the city life, or Rubble City as he called it. But he didn’t mind. He thought that some of the buildings – the ones that leaned forward as if they were going to topple – had an artistic charm to it. If he was an architect he would have designed a city like this.

  ‘I warn you sir, if you don’t stop–’

  ‘You’ll do what?’

  ‘I will send Fred down.’

  ‘Who the fuck is Fred?’ He stepped forward to the wall. He began touching it like he was going to climb a vertical wall with just his hands.

  ‘Fred is a local killer. He eats things – and I mean literally.’

  ‘Well why don’t you send this local killer down. I’ll whip his ass too just like this–’ the whip fell from his hands. He ripped his oily black/orange hair and screamed.

  From above, the man looked like a crazy farmer gone wild. A farmer that didn’t milk cows anymore, that didn’t pet his loyal dog in the mornings anymore and didn’t ask, “Mornin’ Rex you want foodies?”

  Crazy Farmer looked up with a facial expression that said: you’re going to be my new whip toy. That’s when the window came down.

  He slid down the window sill and laughed. He could hear Crazy Farmer scream outside. Stupid man just lost his toy. Serves him right; hitting animals is bad. He always had a soft spot for animals, especially cats, dogs, frogs, raccoons, but definitely dogs. He had one when he was a little boy, his mother bought him one and said: “You take care of it now and remember to clean up the stinkies.” Oh, he remembers the stinkies.

  He looked around and could still hear the man babbling. He waved him away in secrecy. ‘Yeah yeah, just go home.’ He focused his attention on all the beautiful sparkles around him. The dust particles came alive. He patted the curtains and said thank you. The curtains responded by giving more motes. He watched one hover just above his face, it then disappeared behind shadow.

  He remembered his ID mission. He found it on the floor. He scooped it up and plunged into a chair; legs dangling over the side.

  ‘Billy Snippens,’ he flicked the card. ‘Billy…Snippens. Yes, my name is Billy, Snippens.’ He agreed with himself by nodding. But he didn’t feel right. His stomach ached. His heart ached. He remembers the silly chanting:

  Billy Billy a finger on his Willy Nilly.

  Billy Billy a finger on his Willy Nilly.

  Those stupid kids. If only they knew who they were chanting. He looked around the room. The upside down fridge (with the red bucket inside), the painting he had turned around, the TV with bullet holes inside, and the wallpaper, a project that took him four days. He called it: Toilet Paper la Wall. The proudest moment of his entire day.

  ‘I want to change my name,’ he said. ‘I don’t like Billy.’ He wrapped his face with both hands and thought hard. ‘Rhino.’ He jumped up and raised his hands in the air. ‘Yes Rhino Snippens!’

  He wondered if Crazy Farmer was still outside. He went to check. The window opened and he craned his neck out. Before looking down he took a deep breath. The city air never used to be this fresh. Not until it all started. He shudders at the thought. The explosions, the people, the breaking in. All because of the stock market crash. People are crazy he thought. Now there aren’t cars or planes – trains or boats – or those big bad factories. No more global warming problems. He nodded. Just good old fresh air in a city with few people.

  Crazy farmer was gone. He did however leave something behind – something that Rhino wanted.

  (2)

  He stood outside his door contemplating if he should leave the door open. He was only going to be a few minutes. He looked down the hallway. Wind came i
n from somewhere; sweeping trash towards him. He closed it.

  He could hear a lot of movement upstairs. It sounded like big rats walking around, but he knew what it was. People. New people moved in every day. There was no need for landlords anymore – he chuckled at the thought. No more rent. Stupid rent.

  He walked down a few stairs when he heard a voice. He looked up. It was a black woman that looked like she was asleep.

  ‘Heya darlin’,’ she said, ‘I don’t ‘pose you got any goodies.’

  ‘My name’s not darling,’ he murmured.

  ‘Whatadat baby, these ears ain’ what it used to be.’

  ‘I said my name’s Rhino!’ He shook his head.

  ‘Oh Mister Rhino that a nice name. It sounds all big and strong.’ She took a step down. ‘Mister Rhino, I don’t–’ her legs gave way. She slid down – each thump sounded like thunder.

  ‘Stupid bitch.’ Rhino said. The woman was probably drunk. He didn’t like drunk people. It reminded him of his dad, and he really didn’t want to think of him right now.

  He had to walk down ten flights of stairs. He didn’t know how many there were; the apartment building was tall. Maybe twenty. When he moved in a few years ago, he chose a room right in the middle. The middle is what he liked. It was the safest. If he lived on the first floor – new people could terrorize him. If he lived on the last floor – he was afraid of falling out.

  Downstairs, the mailboxes were full of green molded letters. He walked over and chose one at random. He took it over to the desk (where the apartment guard once idled), and sat in the chair. He was surprised to find the chair still there. He twirled a few times and opened the letter. The paper was all mushy and damp, but readable.

  Dear Mother,

  I hope with sore heart that this will get to you in time. I’m absolutely devastated at what’s going on. No doubt you have heard the news. People are going mad, and I mean…really mad. What the hell is going on? The other night random people just broke into my neighbor’s house. They threatened to kill her with a knife. She complied all the way through – but they just kept threatening her. She came to mine the next day with tears streaming, I thought at first she had lost her family, but thanks to God, this was not the case. Apparently she tried phoning the police and guess what? They just put her on hold. This is what made her cry the most, the confusion. I don’t blame her mother, something is wrong, and I can feel it. She’s coming to mine later. We are going to go for a coffee in town, hopefully things will be–

  He crumpled the paper into a little ball. He aimed for an imaginary hoop and missed.

  As far as the eye could see – cars littered the city streets. Most of them were black steel; remnants of the great fire. Weeds forced themselves through tar and at some places even a flower. Nature was slowly taking back what was rightfully hers, and it wasn’t going to stop. She had all the time in the world.

  Rhino scanned the roads for any people. He knew danger lurked around every corner and wasn’t going to take any chances. He didn’t see any people, just a few cans rustling down the road. There was one particular person he was looking for and he wasn’t in sight. It was the man that looked at him with his eyebrows up and his cheeks puffed. It was the man that wanted a new whip toy. It was the man he now knew as Crazy Farmer.

  The streets were empty today. There was always someone wondering around. At least one. He looked at the buildings around him. Most of them had no glass. This is the way he liked it. He didn’t like people staring at him behind glass – he had bad dreams about it. Like the other night when he wanted to buy some groceries. The old woman behind it waved her finger no-no, told him that he couldn’t go in.

  Someone screamed in the distance. Rhino stopped and looked around. He reckoned it came a few blocks down. He felt like yelling back. Sometimes he did stuff like that – because it was fun. He always wanted to see how far his voice could travel. The buildings made it echo which was fun. But he doesn’t do it that much anymore. The last time he did it (from his window), it attracted some weird people. They came walking out from buildings with their heads down; attracted to the sound like insects. Rhino knew about zombies, he didn’t believe it them, but he was pretty sure they were zombies. Stupid people.

  He peeked around the corner. He saw the dumpster, the blood, the thing he wanted, and his window far up (the one with the trophy sticker). He went over to the pool of blood and picked up his quest item: Crazy Farmer’s whip. It was still a little wet. He squeezed the dirt from the shirt and opened it up. It must’ve been another shirt of his.

  (3)

  Back on the way up, he checked if that drunk woman was still there. She was gone. She did however break a few wooden beams when she fell.

  He peered a few times making sure no was looking and went inside his room.

  The dust particles were gone. It was now replaced by dark shadow that crept along the floor. Sunlight was going to be gone soon, and Rhino didn’t like the night. He heard things walk around at night. Especially outside his apartment. It made him think of those zombie people. That’s how they walked: heads down, shoulders slumped, and eyes fixed on their feet.

  He felt his stomach and knew what he needed to do. But first, he needed to put his new trophy somewhere. He ran over to a box in the corner and rummaged. He got out another smaller container. He opened it up. There was a ring inside and a few dusty photos. He stuffed the shirt in it. It was his newest accomplishment: the day he saved the dog.

  It was time for that other thing. He touched his stomach again and looked at the fridge. He slowly opened it. There weren’t many insects in there today. The other day he had to clean the fridge out. He didn’t understand how things could grow inside when he had the door shut. He even sat up all night and wrote in a journal about his findings. He pinched his nose and took out the red bucket. He looked inside and realized it needed cleaning – but that could wait. What he wanted to do now was something his mother once referred to as stinkies.

  He sat the bucket down near the window. He used to put the bucket far away from the window, but it caused some problems. So now, he puts the bucket near the window where there’s ventilation. As he sat down and released his bowel, he thought of the night ahead. There were a few important things he had to do. He had to write a few things in his journal. Crazy Farmer was definitely one thing. The dog the other. His new trophy. And the newest drunk member in the building – that crazy woman that wants something from him. Stupid woman.

  He pinched his nose and picked up the bucket. It sloshed around but he kept it steady. He could go dump it at the usual spot or just keep it in the fridge. He chose the fridge; he felt too lazy to walk out.

  Living alone in a world that was very different had its low points. Rhino knew what the worst was. Loneliness. But when he thinks about it, it wasn’t that bad anymore. He doesn’t know why but it used to bother him; a long time ago, a time that he can’t remember. It did get easier for some reason. As the years went by he forgot all about being alone. And a few years after that – he soon realized that there were friends all around him. It made him so happy.

  Rhino got his chair: a box he picked up from outside, and put it at the door. He sat down and closed his eyes. Nighttime was coming so he began his ritual. He would sit at the door with everything dark around him (eyes closed), and focus on his hearing. He would listen to all the little things: the thumping above, rats running behind walls, sounds from outside, wind blowing, and screaming.

  He needed to know what was going on in his apartment building. The apartment building with no landlord. He giggled at the thought and slapped his face.

  (4)

  He told his mother to go away. He didn’t want to go take a bath. She kept coming at him. For a few seconds Rhino saw who she really was, that stupid woman from the stairs. She wanted something from him. He told her no. She fell from the stairs and he laughed.

  He woke up startled. He still sat on his chair at the door but just a bit more skew. He scratched
his chin and laughed at the funny dream he just had. That’s when he heard the noise. He looked at the window. He wished the dust mutes were still there.

  He stumbled getting up from the box. He scratched his head a few times and walked over. He peered behind the curtains and saw nothing. This is why he hated nighttime. No vision. He raised his hand in front of his face and could barely see his fingers. He couldn’t remember if the city had lights once, but he’s sure it did. He opened the window.

  He saw one or two candles in other apartment buildings. He knew it were candle light; the walls gently washed a warm orange color and then disappeared. He looked at the sky and saw no stars – just black.

  The noise was coming from the road. It was a can rolling around. Stupid wind. The window came down.

  He walked over to the fridge and sat on it. He didn’t smell anything from the down deep which was good. He was going to clean that bucket out tomorrow he thought. While staring at the black, he remembered about his journal. He slapped his face. He had forgotten all about it. How could he? It was the most important thing of his life. He slapped his face again. He felt stupid for not doing it. Someone had to document life – and he knew that someone was him. Rhino Snippens. The more he thought about it the more his stomach ached. He rolled into a fetus position and began to cry. There wasn’t a single day that went by when he didn’t record his adventure.

  ‘Rhino calm down,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s just the new name that’s been confusing you.’ He sat back up and wiped a few tears. He knew then he was right. It was his new name that brought all this confusion. The solution was simple: he had to go write in his journal–

  His door bobbed. A long pause fell. He looked at the door and was sure that–

  The door bobbed. It wasn’t his imagination. He had to check – he pinched his skin. Check.