The Killer Before Me: Part Two

Warren Daniels LogoMarcus looks at the man sitting across from him, his wet eyes sparkling in the sun light. He wipes his face clear, and a manic smile replaces the prior devastation. “Okay, Pete. I am here aren’t I? But Wait…” he holds up a finger to put emphasis upon his words “you will have to really listen to understand, really listen. You got me?” Peter looks back as if trying to determine some future result “Okay, Marcus, I won’t say anything until you give me the go ahead.” Marcus nodded his head in reply and settled on the edge of his seat. Looking out the window to his left, he began to speak.

“Pete, you aren’t real. None of this is real.” Marcus uses his hands and head to further his point by waving at Pete and the room about him. “But it’s no matter; I will tell you what happened anyway. I must tell you where I really am.”

Some hidden emotion flows through Peter, his eyes betray him for a moment, but Marcus is already telling his tale and notices nothing. Peter leans back in his chair, studying his friend and patient. He pushes his wire rimmed glasses upward to rest in focus with his eyes, and he waits as Marcus speaks.

“Sometimes, if you let it, you can feel mindlessness and madness ripping at you in tandem. It’s like hail and fire falling from the sky that crashes into your chest, and exposes your heart to the ash filled air. I feel like that now. So empty and lost. I no longer know how I ended up here, and the bed I lay upon is cold as stone. The window is open and it is letting in a mist from the rain outside. It wets my body a little. I hear the slight rush of water, possibly the tap from the sink.

Strangely, the lights were on when I woke. I never sleep with the light on, and I’m bleeding again. I look down to see the small lines of red flowing freely down my chest from tiny holes and slits of flesh. On the side table, rests a rust colored wood block with a smiling rag doll sprawled across it in the manner of a sacrificial process. A blue button up hangs upon the back of a tiny chair and black one stars rest on the seat itself. There is no reason to pretend, they are just like my own on the chair next to me. Like me, the doll is also wearing blue jeans and white sport socks. I find it more than a little distressing that its clothes are so much like my own, and I notice, as well, that it has a pin sticking from its body with holes and slits upon its chest area that match my own.

I have been here before, I know I have. Some distant memory is calling from inside but I just can’t place it. From the corner of my eye, a dark shadow crawls from the floor to stand upright by the doll. It is phasing in and out. I can’t make out any true features, but somehow I am sure it is a man and I am terrified. I am more scared than I have ever been in my life. I want to speak. I want to call out to the fear in front of me, but my mouth is dry and the taste of iron almost gags me to the point of vomiting.

I try to get up but as I do so, the man thing pulls the pin from the doll and stabs it in the shoulder. I am instantly thrown back in pain. A new slit opens in my shoulder area and fresh red liquid dribbles down. The man thing walks away and out of sight. There is the faint smell of Clive Christian No. 1 hanging in the air and I know that he, or it, whatever, is close enough to watch me. I let myself relax a little, even though I am now feeling the pain build in every part of my body, and I try to hide my fear.

There is water rushing again. I hear a women laughing but it seems so far away. I can’t scream. I can’t move. I am starting to feel a chill creep onto my exposed parts. I must close my eyes. I’m so tired. I open them and a shift in the shadows tells me he isn’t done with me. I feel a brush of air and he is at the doll again, a tiny pebble rests between his fingers. I can almost see a smile through the phasing particles before me. He lets it fall. The pebble lands upon the cheek of the doll. A sudden rush of pain smacks me, as something smashes into the side of my face. I can’t see. The pain is too much.  Everything is dark.

“And now, here you are. Do you see it now, Pete? Why you’re not real?”

“No, Marcus. No, I do not.”

The Killer Before Me: Part One

Warren Daniels LogoTwo men sit in a softly lit office on the third floor of an office building, an office building which is named after some benefactor that only few remember. It is connected to the medical campus across the road by an enclosed bridge, which allows the non-medical bureaucrats (who complain about customer service rather than saving lives), the doctors for the psychiatric ward patients and general population, as well as the financial officers, quick access to the inner workings of the hospital and by default by-passing the general public.  

The first man sits behind a maple desk in a nice tailored light gray suit with a white collared shirt, solid red tie and a pair of brown Allen Edmond university wingtips. His neatly combed brown hair is speckled with white and shows no sign of hair loss. His matching beard is just as neatly kept, rounding around his sharp jaw line and connecting with his defining chin and mustache. His eyes, which peer through a pair of vintage, light gold, round shaped, wire rimmed eyeglasses, are slightly wrinkled in question. His hands are placed, palm down in a triangle position, upon a closed notebook, and a look of genuine concern and worry rests upon his stern face.

“Marcus, it has been two years now, since the passing of your daughter Jenna. You have made great strides to deal with your grief and move on with your life, but I have seen an increase in restlessness since you and your wife decided to part. Now, I know anger and sadness are natural reactions when losing someone dear to you, and with the pain, however dull it has become, from losing your daughter, it must be even more of a burden. That is why I am asking you to please confide in me and your loved ones so we can help you through this.”

Marcus sits with his face in his hands as tears run freely from his eyes, he looks up, his hazel eyes are distant and painful to look at. His clean-shaven face is red from crying, and his dark blonde hair falls a little to the right side covering his eye a little. He is dressed in a light blue collared shirt with a Rodd & Gunn sport coat, brown pants and a pair of Vince, graphite, ‘Manny’ Suede Buck Shoes. Marcus, now thirty-four, is the founder and CEO of a local digital marketing firm, which he started at twenty-five years old. He came out of college and started his firm with a dream and no money. By the end of the first year, he had secured contracts with five of the major players in his city. By thirty years old, he was married, had a two-year old daughter, his firm was being publicly traded and he was a multi-millionaire. But none of this matters now, because in the end he was broken.

His daughter was four years old when she was kidnapped, sexually abused, held for ransom and then murdered. Marcus provided the ransom but the police were unable to save his daughter. The man suspected was able to get away and made it out of the country. Marcus had a friend in the CIA who said he would help find the killer, and after two years of searching, the man was found in Australia. Without waiting to tell his wife he was leaving, Marcus took a plane to Sydney. He called her during the flight, and told her he had to hurry off on business. He tracked the killer to Denmark, and after a week of following him, kidnapped him and drove to William Bay National Park. The man struggled, but for all his effort, he was tied, gagged, kicked in the face, punched in the throat and tossed in the trunk for good measure. When night came, Marcus dragged the man from the trunk of his car to some rock faces away from the common visitor and tourist areas. The man pleaded for his life in frantic screams, which were barely audible due to the rope and cloth covering his mouth. Marcus just stared at him, a cold stillness taking him over, and said “You are going to die, not just yet, but you are going to die.”