A Killer In Me Is A Killer In You
Ce Cauchemar Me Hantant
“I need to show you something.”
He follows, as the man takes the lead and walks onto the street.
A shiver runs down his spine, this seems to be a obscure affair.
“Promise me that you won’t tell anyone.”
His suspicions are confirmed, as the man’s face and the look in his eyes darken. He quickly nods. His best friend has never acted like this before. What’s going on?
After about five minutes of walking, they end up in an alley. It reeks of rape, torture, and death.
He looks at his best friend anxiously. He sees the sweat slowly trickling down his face, as the man’s eyes search the place.
“You cannot tell anyone about this.” He warned again. Then, he went further into the alleyway, puts his hands into a hole in a wall, and grunts as he tries to pull something seemingly heavy out of it. The stench gets worse as more of the black bag is revealed. Curiosity takes over his body, and he moves closer to his best friend. The smell makes him gag, but he won’t humiliate himself, so he swallows a couple of times.
His best friend opens the bag, revealing a body already in a rotting state. He can’t stand the smell anymore, and turns away, puts his hand to a wall as his dinner works its way back up his throat, staining the bricks. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he turns back to the bag, ready to see whatever his best friend wants to show. As if his stomach hasn’t suffered enough, it turns again.
The body is quite far from recognisable, but he knows who this is. The woman’s breast were ripped from her body, and placed between her legs. Her heart had been torn out and put into her mouth. Her insides were not in the right place, as they were tangled into her what once used to be beautiful blonde hair.
He squeezes his eyes shut, seen enough of this. Whoever did this was a monster.
Hearing the bag being zipped up again and placed back into the hole, he cannot help but ask “Why did you just show me that?”
“Because I couldn’t bear the guilt of this on my own.”
---
He shoots up, jumps out of his bed and crawls into a corner of his room. Panic attacks stabbing his body, his eyes anxiously scan the space. Only after forty minutes, he feels safe enough to push himself up against the wall and cross the room to shower and get dressed.
Looking into the mirror, he sees a zombie stare back at him. The only real, alive thing about the creature is his dripping wet black hair, and maybe the glistening pieces of metal through his lip and nose. Tattoos covering his body, to hide the real skin underneath. Every single tattoo has its meaning, its memory, its beauty. But the skin underneath, too, has its meaning, its memory. Its reason to be hidden.
Sick of staring at the body he despises, he gets dressed.
Washed off black jeans, kind of baggy, but only because even the smallest size he can find is too big for him. Plain black shirt, plain black sweater. Long sleeves and a roll-collar to hide as much as possible. Plain black socks, of course.
He makes coffee. Drinks it black, pure, no milk, no sugar. He slips on his shoes, dirty, but black, with three dirty white-ish stripes on each side of each shoe. He puts on his black coat, pulls his hood over his head, covering his black hair. Big black shades to finish the look and he takes off to work – in his red car, first colour of the day, worst colour.
Seeing the traffic jam all around him, he sighs. He manages to manoeuvre out of the mass of cars, ignoring the honking and yelling coming from the other vehicles. Arriving at the closest Starbucks a couple of minutes later, he buys three cups of black coffee. This must be the only thing he loves about New York City, every single corner of a block has a coffee house, mainly Starbucks. Savouring the taste of the black caffeine of the second cup – as he has already gulped down the first one – he gets back into his car, hating its colour once again, and shifts into the heavy traffic a second time.
When he arrives at work, he manages to sneak in without anyone noticing. The rant from his boss about getting here in time will be delayed to later today. He sighs again, but this time – for the first time in a long time, it has a sign of relief in it.
“Hey, Frank,” Gerard greets.
Frank flinches, glares at his best friend for a moment as images of that first day flash by again.
“You alright?” his friend asks.
He slowly shakes his head, “It’s driving me insane.”
He follows, as the man takes the lead and walks onto the street.
A shiver runs down his spine, this seems to be a obscure affair.
“Promise me that you won’t tell anyone.”
His suspicions are confirmed, as the man’s face and the look in his eyes darken. He quickly nods. His best friend has never acted like this before. What’s going on?
After about five minutes of walking, they end up in an alley. It reeks of rape, torture, and death.
He looks at his best friend anxiously. He sees the sweat slowly trickling down his face, as the man’s eyes search the place.
“You cannot tell anyone about this.” He warned again. Then, he went further into the alleyway, puts his hands into a hole in a wall, and grunts as he tries to pull something seemingly heavy out of it. The stench gets worse as more of the black bag is revealed. Curiosity takes over his body, and he moves closer to his best friend. The smell makes him gag, but he won’t humiliate himself, so he swallows a couple of times.
His best friend opens the bag, revealing a body already in a rotting state. He can’t stand the smell anymore, and turns away, puts his hand to a wall as his dinner works its way back up his throat, staining the bricks. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he turns back to the bag, ready to see whatever his best friend wants to show. As if his stomach hasn’t suffered enough, it turns again.
The body is quite far from recognisable, but he knows who this is. The woman’s breast were ripped from her body, and placed between her legs. Her heart had been torn out and put into her mouth. Her insides were not in the right place, as they were tangled into her what once used to be beautiful blonde hair.
He squeezes his eyes shut, seen enough of this. Whoever did this was a monster.
Hearing the bag being zipped up again and placed back into the hole, he cannot help but ask “Why did you just show me that?”
“Because I couldn’t bear the guilt of this on my own.”
---
He shoots up, jumps out of his bed and crawls into a corner of his room. Panic attacks stabbing his body, his eyes anxiously scan the space. Only after forty minutes, he feels safe enough to push himself up against the wall and cross the room to shower and get dressed.
Looking into the mirror, he sees a zombie stare back at him. The only real, alive thing about the creature is his dripping wet black hair, and maybe the glistening pieces of metal through his lip and nose. Tattoos covering his body, to hide the real skin underneath. Every single tattoo has its meaning, its memory, its beauty. But the skin underneath, too, has its meaning, its memory. Its reason to be hidden.
Sick of staring at the body he despises, he gets dressed.
Washed off black jeans, kind of baggy, but only because even the smallest size he can find is too big for him. Plain black shirt, plain black sweater. Long sleeves and a roll-collar to hide as much as possible. Plain black socks, of course.
He makes coffee. Drinks it black, pure, no milk, no sugar. He slips on his shoes, dirty, but black, with three dirty white-ish stripes on each side of each shoe. He puts on his black coat, pulls his hood over his head, covering his black hair. Big black shades to finish the look and he takes off to work – in his red car, first colour of the day, worst colour.
Seeing the traffic jam all around him, he sighs. He manages to manoeuvre out of the mass of cars, ignoring the honking and yelling coming from the other vehicles. Arriving at the closest Starbucks a couple of minutes later, he buys three cups of black coffee. This must be the only thing he loves about New York City, every single corner of a block has a coffee house, mainly Starbucks. Savouring the taste of the black caffeine of the second cup – as he has already gulped down the first one – he gets back into his car, hating its colour once again, and shifts into the heavy traffic a second time.
When he arrives at work, he manages to sneak in without anyone noticing. The rant from his boss about getting here in time will be delayed to later today. He sighs again, but this time – for the first time in a long time, it has a sign of relief in it.
“Hey, Frank,” Gerard greets.
Frank flinches, glares at his best friend for a moment as images of that first day flash by again.
“You alright?” his friend asks.
He slowly shakes his head, “It’s driving me insane.”