Author: Nyltiak PM
Sometimes a random recording, a rambling existence, can help paint a picture.Rated: Fiction T - English - Toad - Words: 433 - Reviews: 6 - Favs: 1 - Follows: 1 - Published: 01-17-08 - id: 4017959
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I woke up with a headache to shake the ages this morning, but at least it's enough to remind me I'm still alive.
Where am I again?
Right. Hotel on 42nd and Main. Raining outside. The dead man's suitcase was open on the floor. I decided to take his clothes—he won't be missing them—and mine are covered in blood. It's upsetting, really. I'd really liked that jacket.
His jeans were too long on me, but almost anything is. I stepped over the body towards the door, hood up, gloves on (even though they are covered in blood, I need them), and I'm ready for the day ahead—after I've scrawl my name on the eastern wall in red ink. An artist always signs his work.
Last night was been hell. Some idiot had gotten mixed in a little too deep where he shouldn't have been. Friends of Humanity—that's a mutant hate group, if you didn't know—but you do if you're reading this. He didn't know anything, of course. He didn't know anything, and he had a family. I know because he kept showing me pictures of them. Saying their names. He asked questions about me too. I think it's a trick they teach you when you're dealing with psycho serial-killer types, to make yourself human and identifiable so it's harder for them to go through with it. But I'm not a serial killer.
I was in the paper again that morning, and I remember reading the article with general disdain. Some shrink's trying to pick my brain. Apparently I'm some sort of psychotic Quasimodo with agoraphobia, fed with demons from my tragic childhood. Mostly tripe. There's an artist's rendering on the side column. I am unimpressed. Fortunately, the subway ride to the wharfs is relatively quick. I take the only good part of the paper (funnies), and take out my mobile. Rings,
"Mystique here." A voice crackles over the line. I frown, staring at the paper.
"I was just wonderin'…what's a seven letter word f' 'tropical fruit'?" a long pause.
"I trust the job is done." She doesn't sound particularly indulgent today.
"Yeah." I say. Silence follows. "Listen, are y'gonna help me or not?"
"Don't fuck with me, Toad." The line goes dead. I stick my tongue out at the receiver and stuff the phone in the dead man's front pants pocket.
And I still have that headache.