Dread the Dark

by A C Utter

  Once I have the items I need, I notice my pizza sitting on the counter. I grab a slice and wolf it down. It’s not the best last meal, but I’m glad that Carrie made the pizza. It’s better than nothing.

  I walk over to my body as I lick the pizza grease off of someone else’s fingers. It’s so strange to see my own dead body. It doesn’t even look like me anymore, it really is just an empty shell. I want to leave a note for my family, but I was very obviously murdered, so it wouldn’t make sense to leave a note. Maybe once I cross over to whatever is on the other side, I will understand how I can help them through losing me.

  I am understanding more and more how Carrie felt about being stuck in this body. It’s like all of the murder and evil committed by it is trying to strangle me. I need to get out as soon as possible. My injured hand has already begun to heal itself, so I’m glad I didn’t try the suicide route.

  Revolver, duct tape, and flashlight in hand, I head out the front door. The pedophile only lives a few doors down, so I decide to walk over. It’s hard enough walking around in this foreign body, let alone trying to drive a car. The fresh air is nice, and for a brief moment it makes me feel almost normal.

  It’s around ten at night, and I’m surprised to see that his house is already dark. His car is in the driveway, so he must be home. This should make it easy. I walk up to the door and use the flashlight to break the small window nearest to the doorknob. This makes it easy for me to reach in and unlock the door. Once I’m inside I stop and listen, but I don’t hear anyone moving around.

  I head upstairs and quickly find the master bedroom. The house is a mirror image of my own, so navigating it is pretty easy. The door to the bedroom is cracked, so I carefully swing the door open and step inside.

  I can hear the steady sound of sleeping breath and notice an orange spot in his left ear. He must be wearing earplugs, it’s like he’s trying to make it easier on me. I can feel instincts kicking in, not my own, but those belonging to the body I’m wearing. It is as if the kill memories are stored in its very cells, in its DNA. This body is a killing machine.

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I’ve jumped onto the bed, straddling him and pinning his arms under my knees. I reach down and rip his left earplug out as his eyes fly open in fright. He seems too stunned to struggle, but he starts yelling immediately.

  “Get off me! Who the fuck are you? Get the FUCK off of me!” he screams.

  I chuckle to myself and lean forward to whisper in his ear, careful not to get close enough for him to bite me. “This is for the children. This is the beginning of your punishment. Whatever happens next, just know that you deserve it. You deserve every single second of it.” And with that, I place the nose of the revolver to his forehead, and with a grin, I pull the trigger.

  The Grey

  Here I stand. Just me. All of me. The smudged mirror smirks back at me, zeroing in on my flaws. Places that used to be firm with muscle, now hang loose with gravity stretched skin, and ice cream comprised fat. There are suspicious lines at the corners of my eyes and mouth. My ample bosom, once full and perky, now requires assistance to be at its best.

  Life is short, but it is long compared to youth. In the blink of an eye I went from eighteen to… well, not eighteen.

  There was a time when my body could filter out a Friday night of parties, liquid libations, and recreational heights, all in time to do it again Saturday night. These days, a few hours out with friends requires a full weekend of recovery.

  I can usually laugh off these signs of age, but today is different. Today something new stares back at me from the mirror. The grey. Lying among the jet black hair that adorns my head, is the grey. It’s just one for now, but how long until there’s a second, then a third?

  All of those youthful days wasted, worried that I was too fat, too ugly, too slow, my teeth too crooked, my skin too freckled. If only that young woman could see herself the way I see her now. Her ambiguous ethnicity allowed her mostly safe passage through any racially charged conversation or situation. Her long, dark hair, healthy and perfect. She learned quickly and easily, putting in a quarter of the effort and reaping the same rewards.

  Staring into the mirror, I understand that things have changed. My arms are mostly rust colored up to my elbows. If I look closely enough, I can almost tell the difference between my freckles and the specs of red across my cheeks. My hair is drenched in sweat, a haphazard ponytail at the base of my neck, my chest decorated in chunks of earth. My skin begging for a shower.

  It’s not that I hadn’t thought about it before tonight. I thought of it often. Did I plan it? No. Tonight there was something about the sound of her voice, the pure audacity of it. Her silky-smooth voice danced across the kitchen table, landing with a crash on my eardrums, “I’m worried about you. You’re having a mid-life crisis and I want to help you through it in any way I can,” she lied. If anyone was having a crisis, it was her. She didn’t like that I was aging. Her health conscious life was just a facade to get me in shape, to control me.

  Of the ten years we’ve spent together, we have been married for two. In the beginning, everything was great, but isn’t it always? Lately she’s been on this health kick, which has led to a lot of conversations about age and mortality. I’ve tried to get her to leave me out of it, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Her nagging is incessant, her words buzzing against my eardrums, threatening my sanity.

  Last night I was happily eating dinner, but there she sat, glaring at me across her kale salad. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t block it out. I finally caved and asked what was wrong. This resulted in a lecture about how eating mashed potatoes is going to kill me before my fortieth birthday.

  Usually when she starts one of her health lectures, I see red. However this time, the moment she began to speak, a wave of relaxing energy washed over me. It was like a dam broke, washing away my anxiety, fear, and anger, leaving only peace and clarity behind. I excused myself from the table, telling her I would be right back.

  I calmly collected the Louisville Slugger (our cheapo security system) from the closet by the front door. Although it isn’t used anymore, my wife’s name is burned into the end opposite the handle.

  I’ve always felt baseball was the worst of all the sports, second only to golf. Watching a baseball game is akin to waterboarding. My wife, being at times a walking stereotype, had played softball in high school. She thought this meant that I needed to like it too. I had spent many hours in batting cages trying to impress her when we were first dating.

  I walked back to the table with the bat, turning it over to find the perfect grip. The weight of the bat felt at home in my hands. Walking up behind her, I took my position; Feet shoulder width apart, weight resting on the balls of my feet, head down. I took a deep breath, then I swung that bat as hard as I could. The resulting impact at the base of her skull was explosive. I literally saw parts of her that no one has ever seen before. At least now she knows I was paying attention to all of those batting lessons.

  I’m not sure how many times I hit her. She only made a sound on the first hit, it was a sort of muffled grunt of surprise. When I was done, I walked back around to my seat and finished eating my dinner. At least I was able to eat my mashed potatoes in peace.

  After dinner there was quite a bit to do. Before cleaning up the mess in the dining room, I drove her out to a wooded area right outside of town. She was heavy and hard to maneuver, but the strength in my body, the strength she had drained from me over all those years, it had returned. I buried her under a tall pine tree. I left her there in an unmarked grave.

  Here I stand. Just me. All of me. The light of dawn peeks in through the curtains, illuminating the horror splashed across my skin. Looking in the mirror, my reflection is a little worse for wear, however a shower will take care of most of it.

  I’ve turned a corner, started a new chapter, and I’m blazing my own path. Just as I solved last night’s problems, so will I solve my grey problem. Reaching
up with my right hand, I gently grab the end of the grey with my thumb and index finger. Once I have a good grip, I give a fast, hard tug. With a twinge of pain, the hair pulls free immediately.

  After turning on the water, I pick the bat up from the floor, slowly tracing my fingers over Sam’s name. I can feel my wife’s energy pulsing through the bat. It’s only appropriate that I call it Sam.

  Sam and I both show the efforts of our nighttime problem solving, but the shower will soon rinse it all away. Sam in hand, I step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away the knots in my muscles.

  For so long I didn’t know how to solve my wife problem, but then Sam called to me from the closet, offering a quick and easy solution. She’s my little problem-solver. In fact, I think I’ll take Sam to work with me today. I have a few problems I could use some help solving.

  The Waiting Room

  There are times when gazing out my window, I feel like I could fly. If only my legs could carry me outside, I would simply take in a deep breath and lift off towards the blue. I would soar through the clouds, dipping in and out of them, dancing my way through the sky. Maybe I would find a friendly flock of birds heading south for the winter. I would drop into formation, relieving myself of the need to plan and make decisions. I would follow my winged leader as far as they will go. When my flock was ready to fly north again, I would simply continue on my own. I would fly so very far away from here.

  My thoughts are interrupted by the beeping of my IV machine. I’m out of juice. I try to be polite as my caregiver comes in to switch the bag, but I just want to be left alone. I’ve been trapped here for three years. My body has wasted away, I can’t even get up anymore. My once vibrant spirit is stuck in this bony, pale, dying, vessel.

  It doesn’t matter what disease I have, all that matters is that it will kill me. I often wish I could close my eyes and never open them again. I imagine that death would scoop me up into its arms, carry me through the veil, away from this hell, and onto whatever is next.

  It’s not that I want to die, I want to live, but that isn’t an option for me. This disease has left me stuck in between life and death. I’m not dead, but I’m not really alive either. This existence isn’t life, it’s purgatory. If medical science could transplant my consciousness into a working body, I would do anything to make that happen. Unfortunately, even if I somehow lived to be ninety years old, the technology still wouldn’t exist, not yet anyway.

  I thought at thirty-two that I would be somewhere else in life, that I would be happy. I imagined a career I enjoyed, a partner I loved, dogs, maybe even children. Instead I have this room, this bed, this window, and my consciousness. The days all blend together, each one exactly like the one before it. This is my waiting room. I’m waiting for the end, for the end of me.

  My parents died young and I am an only child. What little extended family I have live over a state, and can’t be bothered to go see their dying cousin. My friends stopped visiting after the first year. I think it makes them too sad to see me, or maybe they never loved me at all. In the end, it really doesn’t matter. I’m alone. I’m going to live out the rest of my life alone. I’m going to die alone.

  I used to pray. Getting sick does that to a person, makes them remember their religion, or find it if they didn’t have it in the first place. I prayed constantly. I prayed for the doctors to have the knowledge to help me. I prayed for the researchers. I prayed for my family, for my friends. Each night I prayed for a cure until the tears streamed down my face.

  I don’t pray anymore.

  Whether my plea for a cure fell upon apathetic ears, or whether I was shouting into the wind, either way I’m still dying.

  People used to ask if was angry at God. I never really knew what to say to that question. By the time I figured out my answer, people had stopped asking.

  If there was a God, I would be angry with Him.

  Medical science, western medicine, eastern medicine, holistic medicine, psychotherapy, physical therapy, friends, family, God, they’ve all failed me. A few days ago my caretaker thought I was asleep, and I heard her telling someone she thought I would be gone within the month. That was the final nail in the coffin. I’m out of options. I am cursed to lie here waiting to die, feeling my body rot around me. There is only one thing left I can try. I haven’t done it yet because the mere thought of it makes me feel insane. I might as well ask for a ticket to Hogwarts. However, desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s not like my situation can get any worse.

  It’s time to make a deal with the Devil.

  They say that in each lie there is a speck of truth. I have come to believe that religion is the lie, God is the lie, but the Devil, he is the speck of truth. The world is a dark place. If only God or the Devil are real, my bets are on the Devil.

  Growing up Christian, I had this idea that the Devil was hiding around every corner. I think this idea was placed there by the Christian elementary and middle school I attended. A middle school teacher once told us deja vu was a sin. He said it wasn’t a big sin, more like dust on a tabletop. The longer you go without dealing with it without repenting, the worse it would get. I also knew people didn’t have any control over deja vu. This meant that if a misfire in my brain could be a sin, then I could be sinning all the time and I would never know it.

  This experience left me with a constant fear of accidentally stumbling across sin, and even the Devil himself. Why did all of the Bible lessons translate this way into my little brain? I have no idea. I do clearly remember being worried if I thought about the Devil too much, he would just appear in my room to take my soul.

  After lying in this bed for three years, I’ve finally gathered the courage to try to call, or pray, or whatever it’s called when you’re fishing for the Devil. I will wait until tonight, once all the lights are out. Why at night? Because that’s how they do it in the movies, that and I don’t want anyone to hear me talking to myself.

  ~

  The time has finally come. My room is dark. The floor is silent except the occasional soft footfalls of the night staff as they pass my door. This is my last shot. I never thought I would be wishing so hard that the Devil has good hearing.

  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and say out loud to an empty room, “I give up. I want to live, but my body is dying. I’m asking for help, from anyone, from anything. I’ve called out to God, but he’s not home right now. It’s time now for me to call out to another that he betrayed.” I pause, unable to believe what I’m about to do.

  “Lu... Lucifer. I call to you. Please, I beg you, help me live. Tell me what I need to do to live.”

  The silent minutes pass as years, each moment an eternity. Every sound startles me. I would have jumped out of my skin several times over if I was strong enough to do so. Yet here I lay, in the dark, in the silence, all alone.

  “Please. Help me live. If you can’t... or you won’t... let me live, then help me die. Put me out of my misery, please end my suffering.”

  Nothing but silence. I was prepared for the worst, demons crawling out from under my bed, dark shadows blacker than black, watching me as I sleep. I had even prepared myself for Amityville-style bleeding walls, but silence? I hadn’t prepared for silence.

  “I’ll trade anything. My soul. Just name your price. I can’t live another day in this dying shell. Please.”

  Hours pass, each blending into the next. My only company is the heavy, pressing silence that surrounds me.

  As the reality of my situation sets in, I feel laughter building at the back of my throat. Before I know it, laughter is exploding from me, making it hard to breathe. Nothing is funny about the situation I find myself in, but there’s that laughter, relentless and uncontrollable.

  The staff has arrived, hearing my laughter from down the hall. I can hear them asking me if I’m okay, asking me what is wrong, trying to get me to calm down. But for me, there is only the laughter, and the torturous realization of my situation.

  He d
idn’t come. I called all night and he didn’t come. I offered my soul and he didn’t come. He didn’t even send a henchman. I didn’t necessarily expect Lucifer himself to show up, but I thought maybe he would send a demon.

  Nope.

  I understand now that I was wrong. Things can get worse for me. They just did. My last resort was calling on Lucifer to either save me or kill me, but he didn’t come. I don’t have the strength to get better. I don’t have the strength to end my own suffering. There’s no way out, I’m stuck like this. Alone doesn’t mean anything until not even the Devil will keep you company.

  The lunacy of my laughter is making the staff uneasy, but I can’t stop. I hear one of the nurses yell for a sedative. It’s probably for the best.

  If only I could tell my younger self that the Devil is nothing to be afraid of, the Devil doesn’t exist. The true terror comes from the place you least suspect. The true terror lies sleeping in each of us.

  The nurse has pushed some clear liquid into my IV. It won’t be long until lights out. The drug-induced sleep will be a sweet relief. The nurse leans down, right as the edges of my sight begin to falter. “You’re okay, everything’s alright,” she whispers in my ear. I try to respond, but between my weakening laughter and the effects of the drugs, words are hard to come by.

  Before the darkness envelopes my vision I manage to squeak out one last message, “Kill. Me.”

  The Park

  Today started like any other day. I woke up in the park, cold and damp. I got up, took a quick inventory of my stuff. Even though I sleep touching my possessions, sometimes people still manage to steal things in the night. Before I lived on the streets I would’ve thought it impossible to sleep the night away exposed on a park bench. The first time I was faced with the reality of it, exhaustion won out in the end, finally sending me off to a very unsafe and very cold sleep under some bushes.