3.

 

The sun was no longer visible, although the sky still retained a shade of its former brightness that slowly faded into the night sky. No stars this close to the centre of the city, but the moon was half visible behind the cover of cloud and smog. Between the honking of traffic returning from work and the noise from the bars and shops, the city felt lively and busy.

The diner we were in shared none of that liveliness. It was shabby, with simple decoration on its walls and table booths, only a few of which had customers nursing their coffees or quietly eating dinner. What little conversation there was happened in polite, hushed tones, half-drowned by the noise of the city outside.

“You really should try it,” said the thing in yellow, pointing with its fork at my untouched plate. “It’s really good. What’s the last time you ate anyways?”

I remained silent, looking down and gathering my thoughts, bridging the gaps in my memory and slowly coming to terms with what was happening right now. The monster shrugged and took another bite of her omlet, closing her – no, it’s – eyes to better enjoy the taste.

“Who – or what – are you?” I asked, ignoring the food in front of me.

“I have many names,” she shrugged dismissively. “The Unspeakable One, The Feaster from Afar, Him Who is Not to be Named…”

“Oh, very nice names,” I frowned and rolled my eyes impatiently. “But what do I call you? Can’t just say ‘Good morning, Mrs. Unspeakable One!’ every time, can I? That sounds stupid.”

She seemed unperturbed by my sarcasm. “How about King in Yellow?” She asked in between forkfuls.

“King?” I looked at her up and down. She might not have a pink bow on her head or massive breasts, but she was undeniably a woman – or at least, that’s what it looked like.

“Queen then. I can be flexible,” she smiled sweetly. “I consider myself genderfluid.”

“This isn’t a joke,” I growled, narrowing my eyes.

“I was not joking,” she replied mildly. “I know humans place a lot of value on their genitals, but if you’re bothered that a creature from the deepest confines of space and time, an eldritch abomination beyond your comprehension, doesn’t have a single gender then your priorities are REALLY weird.”

I remembered our encounter at the theater, the thing in a yellow robe, with a mask as white as bone. How it spoke with a symphony of howls, screams and whispers. How it seemed more landscape than living creature, and more nightmare than either.

“What happened in the theater. That night. It wasn’t a dream, was it?” I asked.

“No,” she replied promptly, not even looking at me. She calmly took another bite.

“But… I was hurt. I almost died,” I said, looking at my left hand. I could still remember it being split in half by the axe. A bleeding, broken thing. How I lay on the stage, watching her die…”

“Easily fixed,” she replied dismissively. “You’re as good as new.”

“My girlfriend, all those people on stage… They really died. The actors… The people I… The people I killed. And all because of you.” I muttered, as the memories trickled back, like blood seeping under a door. “I just stood there and watched them die. You did something. To our minds. Oh god… ”

“I think you’re getting the wrong idea.” she looked up and narrowed her eyes at me, “That play was a sacred ritual. I would never sully it by using puppets. It was your girlfriend and the other actors who decided to sacrifice their loved ones under my name.” She moved closer, her eyes boring into mine, as she whispered, “and it was you who decided to kill them. Not me.”

She spoke with absolute certainty, which made me pause. “No, you’re lying.” I said, trying to convince myself as much as her. “You tricked them or… Or forced them. And to me… You did something! My life feels all wrong…”

“Ah, I did mess with your memory a little, recently,” she nodded with a thoughtful expression. “Only enough for you to accept your new role, though, which obviously didn’t take…”

“New role?” I muttered weakly, remembering how anguished I had felt throughout the day, how out of place and distorted everything felt.

“By the way, throwing yourself from the balcony, just because a hot girl confessed her love? A teensy bit of an overreaction there, don’t you think?” She chuckled, teeth showing in a predatory grin. “Just a teensy bit? Maybe?”

My hands ran through my hair as I searched my memories. Of how I was living in that apartment, with my two gorgeous roommates. Happy memories, right out of an advertisement ad or a comforting dream. “Talia. And Akiko. Were they really my roommates?” I shook my head, as more memories poured in. “No, I had a girlfriend, before. That doesn’t mesh with the bachelor fantasy. What… What was real then?”

“Meh,” The thing in yellow shrugged. “You rented a shitty apartment an hour away from college and struggled with debt and family issues. I think my version is an improvement, personally.”

She then approached, leaning in on me with a conspiratory grin, her elbows propped on the table. “Seriously though, what went wrong there?” She asked. “Girls not to your liking? Was the redhead too sassy? Because that can be fixed!”

“You sound like a pimp.” I said, edging away in disgust. Her grin grew wider and even more manic, which made me back away further. “Why are you so interested in throwing girls at me in the first place?‘

“You can blame that on your weird and ill-defined final wish. ‘Love’, if I remember right,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her voice. She made a heart shape with her fingers while grinning. “Romantic, maybe, but a teensy, itsy bit on the vague side. So pardon me for taking a loose interpretation.”

My mind returned to that moment, as I lay broken and dying on the stage, my last thoughts fixed on my girlfriend. How she had plunged her own knife so deep into her chest I could not see the blade. She lay there, dying, and I could not comfort her or understand her. I could not even remember her face. Even now, no matter how hard I tried, it vanished from my memories.

“Why can’t I remember her face?” I asked, quietly, afraid of the answer.

She stopped grinning immediately, and answered me with a serious expression. “She is no more. During the ritual I subsumed her. Now her existence is a part of me.”

“You what?” I scoffed, wondering if she was making another joke at my expense. She rolled her eyes.

“Oh boy, this will be a tricky one. Maybe this will help you understand.” With those words she took a sock puppet from one of her pockets and slipped it on her hand.

The puppet was hand stitched and not very well-made at that. One if its googly eyes was missing and the ears had different colours. It looked like some sort of fox or wolf, but was impossible to tell from the lack of detail. It was yellow, of course. The puppet pantomimed a bow before saying, “Hello kids! It’s me, Wolfy! Are you ready to learn about the the impermanence of the self  today?”

I frowned as I looked at the puppet, then back at her.

“Seriously?” I asked. Strangely, nobody looked twice at the grown woman with a sock puppet performing at the diner, right in front of me.

“I’ll take that as a yes!” The puppet bounced excitedly in place while the woman – the King in Yellow? – calmly took another bite of her food and ignored us both. What made it most unnerving was how the puppet’s voice sounded as if it came from the puppet itself, and I could see no sign of ventriloquism from the woman.

“Alright, first things first!” She lifted her hand and the puppet approached me. “What makes you who you are?” It asked me.

“My charming personality,” I said sarcastically.

“Ha! Yes! Well… maybe. It’s a bit more than that, isn’t it?” The puppet tilted its head inquisitively, staring at me with its one googly eye.

I looked back at the woman in yellow instead. “Can’t we skip the theatrics and you give me a straight answer instead…?”

“Memories!” The puppet shouted, interrupting me. “Personality! A name, a face! Things that tell apart what is you, from what is not you. At the end of the ritual those are all taken from all the players, the faithful actors and actresses that night, including your girlfriend. Payment for services rendered, you see.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, which I broke. “You what?! I don’t… How?!”

“Your girlfriend is one among many. Billions and billions. Countless lives and selves all part of a new whole,” the puppet spoke in reverential tones. “Including me.”

“Wait, so you mean my girlfriend is now your prisoner?” I got up from my seat in the heat of the moment, staring down as the woman slowly chewed her food. She looked at me and smiled, but continued chewing.

“Prisoner?” Asked the puppet, then it turned back and gestured at the arm that held it. “Kid, look at me. I have this lady’s hand up my ass, and can’t do a single thing without her say-so.” It turned back to look at me and waved its head back and forth in an awkward dance, while stretching its mouth into a facsimile of a grin, quite an accomplishment for a puppet without teeth. “Would you say that I’m her prisoner?”

“It’s… Just you and your arm,” I scoffed at the woman, ignoring the puppet.

“Exactly! Very good!” The puppet nodded. “You’re a smart boy, I can see that! Yes, all part of the whole. Your girlfriend is not a prisoner of Carcossa in the same way that your arm is not a prisoner of your body.”

“”What? Part of…?” I let out an impatient snort, as my patience ran out. “Enough with the word games. Tell me what happened to her, now!”

The puppet stared at me, slack-jawed, then turned back to the woman and said. “I take it back. He’s dumb as a bag of bricks.”

“Don’t be mean,” the woman replied to her own puppet, smiling. “He’s having a hard time due to personal issues. Denial is one of the stages…”

“Just! Just… Give me an answer. Please?” I said, looking down and swallowing hard. My voice cracked towards the end, making me feel pathetic and desperate. She seemed to consider me.

“Sorry, Wolfy, but I think he needs someone else to explain it to him,” she said at last.

“Everyone’s a critic,” grumbled Wolfy. The other woman beckoned someone to our table, and when I saw who it was my heart froze in pure shock.

Walking towards our table was another woman, modestly dressed with long, brown hair and a worn leather coat. Her name slipped from my mind, but I still recognized her.

“Hi, Cody.” Said my girlfriend.

“Oh… Oh my god,” I stammered, incoherent in my shock. “It’s you? You’re alive?” I gripped her hand tightly, feeling the warmth and smoothness of her skin as my mind still refused to believe my eyes.

She lowered her eyes. “Cody, it’s not me. Not exactly.”

“This girl there,” said Wolfy, gesturing at the woman I had had dated for two years, the one who died in front of my eyes. “She’s the same as me, kid.”

My girlfriend looked up at me, with concern and sadness, as she said, “we’re all puppets, parts of a whole.”

“We’re all puppets, parts of a whole,” said Wolfy.

“We’re all puppets, parts of a whole,” said the Queen in Yellow, and her voice was a chorus of everyone in the diner. Patrons and staff, from the old waitress bringing the coffee to the burly cashier. From the old man nursing a coffee in a corner booth to the trendy couple eating dinner together. All of them were now staring at me as they said it, with perfect, uncanny synchronicity.

They all tilted their heads, at the same time, at the same angle, not taking their eyes from me, including the sock puppet staring with its one good eye. The effect was creepy beyond words.

“You’re… Some sort of hive mind,” I spoke at last, breaking the silence that had settled over the diner like a shroud.

The woman in yellow chuckled quietly. “That’s a crude way to explain it. Wrong, of course. But it’s close enough.”

I squeezed my girlfriend’s hand, looking at her. Our eyes met and there was there was recognition, yet it wasn’t her. I closed my eyes.

“Can you bring her back?” I asked, my voice wavering with fear. I had to ask her, but the answer terrified me. With eyes closed, I heard the woman seated in front of me shift her weight, audible in the complete silence of the diner.

“More or less,” said my girlfriend. “I could pretend, act out in similar way to how she would. I have her memories and can simulate her behavior, that is not beyond my power.”

“However,” continued the King in Yellow, “she will never grow as a person. I could change her however I wish, but she will always be guided by my hand, and my personality. Not hers. Her original self has become one with the choir…”

“… Part of the whole,” said another voice, from one of the patrons in the crowd.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and opened my eyes to see my girlfriend was close to me. Her eyes were sad, but not unkind. “The woman you once knew is gone,” she said. “There is no way to truly bring her back.”

“I am sorry,” whispered the King in Yellow.

2.

 

Now, walking on my way home I might not have been on my best frame of mind. My hand was bleeding and my sense of reality was crumbling. Both of which annoyed me, but strangely not as much as other people on campus staring at my bleeding hand. Many immediately came up to me and asked what had happened, tried to direct me to the on-campus clinic or otherwise attempted to help.

I thanked, ignored and ultimately fled these well-meaning helpers and started hiding my hand behind me as I walked in an attempt to appear more normal. So now I was a man with blood stains on his shirt and pants hiding one hand behind me as I walked. People I passed by were suitably creeped out, which was a small improvement, but hardly ideal. I saw people whispering to each other and trying not to stare as they walked by, one girl even reached for her cell phone and started dialing.

I did NOT look forward to explaining this to the police, nor the bits that preceded this, which is why I started avoiding people altogether. Taking alleys and unused routes, sneaking while watching my surroundings as well as hiding whenever someone passed by, which naturally only made me look extra suspicious.

It was in this state that I arrived home, wounded and wary, with dried blood on my hand and some of it staining my shirt and pants. My hand throbbed with dull pain and my legs were tired from all the walking, sneaking and crouching.

It was with exhausted relief that I entered my apartment, fumbling with the keys to avoid using my left hand. Grateful that somehow I had avoided the attention of the police, or any people I knew. I went in and closed the door behind me. Safe haven.

But then I noticed the lights were on, which meant at least one of my roommates was here. And with them came the sensation of mysterious familiarity; the eerie recognition of the unseen and unremembered. I paused for a moment, unsure of what to do.

“Cody?”

Talia’s head appeared from the hall that led to the bedrooms. She was not smiling this time. My hand went behind my back, but she had noticed it, and immediately hurried towards me.

“Oh, shit! What happened?” She asked.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m fine.” I looked at my bloody hand again and reconsidered my lie. “I’ll be fine,” I corrected.

She ignored me, looking at my hand with a worried expression, biting her lip. “Go sit on the table, I’ll be right there,” she said, hurrying to the bathroom. I heard sounds of her rummaging on the cabinet as I stood on the threshold to the room, feeling numb. “It’s ok…” I started to say

“Sit,” Talia insisted, cutting me off as she returned carrying with a first aid. She did not take no for an answer, gently pushing me onto a chair at the table. She sat next to me and started cleaning my hand, first with disinfectant, then with face wipes. She did not say a word, quietly concentrating on what she was doing, and I had no idea how to react. The complete silence, her serious, unwavering expression. It only added to the strange feeling within me, that I could neither name nor explain. I felt unsettled and confused.

“I’m worried about you,” she said at last. She didn’t look at me as she said it, concentrating on my hand. There was another awkward silence, which she broke again. “How did this happen?”

I shrugged. “Why are you so worried?” I asked. “This makes no sense, I mean… I’m just your roommate, right? Why do you care so much?”

“It’s my choice whether to care about you or not,” she replied, frowning. “And why does that bother you so much anyway?”

I shook my head, gathering together all the thoughts that had been slowly coalescing throughout the day, trying to make them into something coherent. “There’s something wrong. People are not acting right! It’s… It’s fake.”

“Fake?” Her frown turned into a scowl and she stopped cleaning my hand, looking upset. I paused, trying to think of a different way to explain.

“You know… The teacher that gave me a test today, Mrs Higgins? It’s funny, but… I’ve always had sort of a crush on her.” I paused for a moment, feeling self-conscious before forcing myself to continue. “Not anything serious, I obviously knew it was never going anywhere… More like one of those idle flights of fancy you sometimes get. Harmless daydreaming.”

“And you’re telling me this because…?” She left the question hanging, looking at me with a serious and displeased expression.

“She came on to me today,” I said, looking away. “And I mean REALLY tried to make a pass. Straight out of a porno. It’s why I did this,” I waved my hurt hand, now wrapped in bandages.

“Do you always rip out your hand when someone proposes to you?,” she raised one perfect eyebrow. “Sorry, but I don’t see how any of these relate.”

“It doesn’t feel real,” I muttered as my self-control slacked its grip. “Beautiful women throwing themselves at me? Perfect house, perfect life… This is ridiculous! And I don’t deserve this. This is not real I know it… An illusion, a dream, something… I’ve forgotten something. But the time to wake up is coming closer, I know it. Creeping up on me, unavoidable. And when I wake up… There will be something horrible at the other side. Waiting for me to wake up. Something terrible and painful and…”

I swallowed hard and shivered, growing suddenly silent. Blood rushed through my ears as I fidgeted and rubbed my wounded hand, unconsciously, assembling my thoughts again. Talia kept staring at me from her seat. She quietly held my hand and prevented me from rubbing it. “So… You think this all a dream?” she asked quietly.

“Yeah. Umm. And if I wake up, I’ll wish I was dead,” I finished, looking away.

Another clumsy silence settled on the apartment, filled with the distant noises of the city and the other apartments, as if coming from a faraway world. Then, very carefully and deliberately, Talia got up and slapped my face, hard enough to almost knock me from my seat.

I lifted my hand to my face in shock, and saw she was trembling, with anger or some strong emotion, and tears blossomed from the corner of her eyes, refusing to fall despite her furious blinking. She would not look away, choking a sob before she whispered, “no.”

“Why did you…” I started before being interrupted by her suddenly shouting.

“NO! You don’t get to do that.” She stopped, taking a deep breath that did little to calm her down. “This morning I woke you up before your test, I tried my best to cheer you up… When you come home with your hand bleeding I take care of you, and now you spit on my face? ” Her hands grabbed at my shoulders, pulling me face to face with her. “You think I’m nothing but a fake bimbo worshipping at your feet? Some sort of doll with no thought of my own?”

“I didn’t mean it like that…” I defended myself, but her grip on my shoulders tightened and she interrupted me again.

“You don’t get to do that!” She insisted, her lip quivering as she paused. “You don’t get to treat me like shit. And your really don’t get to talk like this… This talk of death and of… Of wanting to die. No!”

A pang of guilt rang through me before burying itself in my heart. “Sorry,” I muttered. She shook her head, looking down at her feet as her grip weakened.

“Is it so hard to believe that I like you?” Talia rubbed her eyes and looked back at me, unflinching, with eyes that were red, wet and full of earnest worry and indignation. “I DO care for you, Cody. And I don’t want… I’m not going to let you hurt yourself! No matter what you think, I… I don’t want to see you hurt. Or worse.”

Her words faltered now, and she looked away, her emotion subsiding as her shoulders sagged as she let go of my shoulders, hands balled into fists. I saw a lot in her at that moment of vulnerability: impotent anger, worry and need. It was so different from the Talia I knew, and it was because of me.

I put my hand on her shoulder in a clumsy attempt to comfort her, as I said, “Look, I didn’t want to hurt you like that. I’m sorry I feel this way. I.. I didn’t think things through.”

“I’m worried about you…” she spoke, looking up tentatively at me. Her body language was still hunched down and dejected, only her eyes had a spark of hope.

“Sorry.”

Her reply was to envelop me in a tight hug, her warm body pressing against mine, although any erotic effect was nullified by her wet cheek pressing against my neck. I gingerly embraced her back. “All I want is to make you happy,” she said.

Those words made me feel even sadder than before. “Why?” I asked, before I could stop myself. “Why is it you want so much for me to be happy?”

She hugged me tighter before speaking . “Why, why, why, that’s all you ask. Sometimes things just are, you know?” She let go of me and took a step back, collecting herself mentally before giving a small, embarrassed shrug. “I think you’re hot, did ever since I first saw you. And I also feel like there’s a big sadness in you, that makes me want to wrap you in a hug and protect you as hard as I could. I like teasing you and making you mad. Or happy. Or flustered. Whenever I get a reaction out of you my heart beats a little faster. It makes me feel happy, even when you get mad at me, and I know it’s dumb but I can’t help myself and… Ugh. Am I coming off too strong?” She glanced at me, before looking away quickly, her face flushed red. “This is lame. I had such a better plan to seduce you, but… Guess, I can kiss my chances goodbye now.”

“No,” I shook my head, slowly, not taking my eyes off her despite my fidgeting. “I mean… I’m flattered. Thanks.”

She smiled a little, growing a sliver more confident. “My cards are on the table now,” she said. Then she bit her lip, hesitating before playfully asking, “your move?”

“Umm… Wow,” I looked around nervously, until I found what I wanted. “I think I’ll go to the balcony to get some fresh air. I need to digest this.”

She looked uncertain for a moment, before accepting it with a nod. Her expression turned first into resignation, then a playful smile. She suddenly drew me close and, kissed my lips. It was brief, warm and just a little moist. When she drew her head back I could still feel that gentle warmth on my lips before my mind caught up with what was happening. “To help you decide,” she said. And her mischievous smile was back, just like always. It was Talia again, playfully winking at me.

I waited in the balcony for a moment or two, considering my options. Below me the city settled for the evening as the sun sank in the horizon. A few lights were popping up here and there as people returned from home and day turned into night. Unsure, I wavered on my plan, but no other alternative crossed my mind. So, with a final sigh of acceptance, I climbed over the balcony rail and threw myself off the building. Fifteen floors until the final stop on the pavement below. A fitting end.

“This isn’t real, this isn’t real thisisn’treal…” I muttered like a mantra on my way down. But it as real as anything in my life. What shitty last words these were.

My mind went to the moment I would hit the ground. While falling there was nothing but adrenaline, and after I landed there would not be much of me in a state to feel or think anything. But, in between those two, there must be one terrible moment, exactly as my soft flesh and bone met the hard concrete at terminal velocity. One brief moment of violent pain, of terrible realization of how fragile I was before the hard world and the constants of gravity. A final clarity between life and death.

I never experienced that moment. My fall was abruptly slowed in the last few feet, allowing me to hit the ground as softly as an astronaut on the moon. So much for the constants of gravity.

“Alright, that’s enough. I get it.” Said the woman in front of me, on the ground floor. “No need to throw a tantrum. Let’s talk this out over dinner.”

The woman was dressed in yellow. A yellow hoodie zipped up, over a simple beige skirt that went down to her knees and sneakers on her feet. Her face, half-covered from the hood, was caked in elaborate stage makeup to look like a doll’s, and had long, dishevelled blond hair that clumped in knots like it hadn’t showered in a long time. She gave a lopsided grin as it approached me.

The thing from the theater. The creature from my nightmares, causing and embodying all I feared. I understood at once that it was responsible for what I had gone through. The monster that had broken my psyche with its very existence.

“I know a place around here that makes a great omelet,” it said, looking around and getting its bearings. Then it looked back at me with a wild grin. “I don’t know about you, but I could kill for a good omelet right now.”

1.

“Come on, sleepyhead. Time to wake up!” Her voice was so full of energy I could feel it even through three layers of blankets and pillows covering my head. I did not share her enthusiasm.

“Five more minutes…” is what I try to say, but between the aforementioned pillows and a raging hangover, it comes out as a slurred jumble of muttered nonsense.

“Let’s try that again,” she said while pulling the covers off me. I could feel the light, even through my closed eyes, enough to feel blinded by it as I pointlessly tried to block the light with my hands.

“What the hell…?” I grumbled, rubbing my eyes furiously to chase away the afterimages of the dream I was having. Images still lingered on the edge of my mind, like flotsam of a shipwreck, floating on the water’s surface.

Theater. Blood. Pain. Struggle.

“Rise and shine, roomie!” said Talia. “It’s a beautiful day out there, begging to be wasted in a drab college classroom.” She sat on the bed beside me and flashed a cheerful smile. She was already fully dressed, with a skirt over stockings and a fashionable vest over her shirt that did nothing to hide her attractive figure. Between that and her beautiful face, with just enough makeup to enhance it, she could easily pass for a supermodel or Hollywood actress. And now she was sitting inches away from me, on my bed, while I was wearing boxers and nothing else.

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” I asked, frowning in confusion.

“Wow, someone woke up grumpy,” she chuckled. “You know, for someone who sleeps so much it’s amazing how you still manage to look like a bear waking up from hibernation every day.” She patted my leg affectionately. “It’s impressive, in a way.”

“There is literally nothing impressive with being a late-riser,” I replied, pulling the covers over my bottom half. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

“Waking you up! Duh!” She rolled her eyes.

“I don’t remember asking for your services as an alarm clock.” I scoffed, bewildered that this was even happening. “Seriously, what if I slept in the nude?”

“What, do you?” Her eyes darted downwards at that question with half-scandalized and half-amused grin. I instinctively pulled on my bed covers to hide more.

“Get out,” I said.

“Cody, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!” She said, smiling playfully. “You see, when a boy likes a girl he sometimes gets…”

“Get out!”

“Alright, I get the message,” she raised her hands up in defeat, finally getting off the bed and walking to the door before pausing. “You’re probably the only guy that complains about getting woken up by a cute girl,” she pouted.

“Out!”

She hurried out of the room, only to pop her head back in. “You know, if you need any help getting up…”

“OUT!”

And she was gone, leaving me alone in my messy bedroom, wondering what the hell had just happened.

---

By the time I found some clothes that weren’t too dirty and left my bedroom Talia was sitting by the table eating some cereal. She saluted me with her spoon as I walked into the room, but kept chewing. She was still smiling, even now. Beside her sat Akiko who politely waved at me, while adjusting her glasses. “Good morning! I made extra pancakes today, so help yourself to a couple if you like,” she said.

I sat gingerly on the chair, as if afraid it would blow up, before looking around. The open kitchen was spacious and well-lit, connecting to an equally impressive living room. There was a couch, some chairs, a large HD TV and a console, along with furniture seemingly made of actual wood, rather than IKEA plastic.

“Thanks, uh… I’ll have some,” I said, looking around the room nervously.

“Might grab a cup of coffee while you’re at it,” said Talia. “Seems like you need it.” She gestured to the coffee maker in the kitchen, half-full of coffee so fresh I could see steam coming from the jug. The pancakes sitting on a plate beside it were toasted to perfection, golden brown, fluffy and moist. The perfect kitchen with the perfect breakfast.

“Something feels off,” I said. My fingers drumming nervously on the table.

“Oh? Is there something wrong?” Asked Akiko, looking nervously at the pancakes.

“No, no,” feeling a pang of guilt, I hurried to the pancakes and put them on my own plate, taking a quick bite. “They’re really good, thanks for… Uh, thanks for that.”

“Aww, you’re welcome. Glad someone appreciates homemade cooking,” said Akiko, looking pointedly at Talia who just grinned back at her and swallowed another spoonful of her garishly colorful cereal.

“Maybe it’s the crappy nightmare I had…” I mumbled between mouthfuls of delicious pancake.

“Was it the one with the cannibal carrots who overrun the world?” Asked Talia. “I always liked that one. You have the best nightmares.”

“Don’t make fun of him,” Akiko protested, before turning to me with an encouraging smile. “Nightmares can be pretty rough, even if other people don’t understand it.”

“I was in a theater…” I struggled, trying to remember. Another memory, kept floating on the edge of my conscious mind, infuriatingly close but not quite making its way to my thoughts. Was it something? Someone? I couldn’t remember. I could not remember her face.

“My girlfriend…” I whispered, frozen in sudden realization. The two girls perked up when they heard me.

“Oh, you have a girlfriend? That’s new,” said Talia, for once not smiling. She seemed genuinely surprised. Akiko seemed also taken aback, but hid it better.

I rubbed my temples, trying to force myself to remember more, but it was pointless. “No,” I said. “In my dream, I had a girlfriend.”

“Oh. In the dream.” Akiko looked slightly relieved. She smiled and asked, “so, who was the lucky girl?”

I closed my eyes, willing myself to recall, but her name slipped from my memory as water from a net. “I… I don’t remember her name,” I said.

“Alright…?” Said Talia. “So, what did she look like?”

I hesitated. “Well… Huh. Can’t remember what she looked like either.”

There’s another awkward pause, longer. I squeezed my hands into fists, pointlessly, as if it could do anything with that damned gap in my memories. Whatever happened in that dream, it felt important.

Talia broke the silence. “So… What? You had a girlfriend from Canada in your dreams?” She chuckled in sheer disbelief. “Are things that bad, Cody?.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I crossed my arms, frowning again. “She was there. She meant something to me for… A long time?” There was a growing sense of unease within me, refusing to let go. I drummed my fingers on the table, but it didn’t help. The anxious feeling only grew.

“You.” Talia pointed at me, trying her best to keep a straight face. “Need to get laid.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” said Akiko, looking exasperated. “You did not just say that, did you?”

“I’m 100% serious,” the other girl protested, although a cheeky smile crept on her face, as she continued. “Even in his dreams he has an imaginary girlfriend now. If this continues he will reach critical levels of loneliness. We gotta intervene and…”

“This feels wrong,” I interrupted. My eyes darted around the room, taking it all in. My sense of unease only grew.

Talia stopped mid-pantomime and looked at Akiko with a confused expression, which the other girl returned. “Is there something wrong?” Akiko asked, eventually.

“I am sharing a really fancy apartment with two pretty girls as roommates, one who could be a model and constantly flirts with me, the other one who makes me breakfast…” I paused, searching for a way to put my unease into words, struggling. “Why?”

“I object to that,” said Talia, with mock seriousness, pointing her spoon at me. “I actually AM a model. Part-time, but it still counts. ”

Akiko was more obviously bothered by it. She looked at her friend nervously before looking back at me. “Are you ok, Cody? Is something wrong?”

I looked back at her. “Why all of this?”

“Well…” She fumbled for words. “We needed another roommate to split the bill and help me move here, and when we, um… Put the ad, you just showed up.” She chuckled, remembering that day. “You didn’t notice that we asked only for girls. Boy, were you surprised! But in the end we decided to just…”

“That’s how I got in this situation, but not why,” I pointed out. It felt ridiculous to complain in the first place, but I couldn’t stop myself. It all felt wrong.  “What did I do to deserve any of this?”

She looked confused now, hesitating over her words, which bothered me. Whatever my feelings were, she did not deserve this. Neither did Talia, for the matter. I looked away.

“You don’t have to deserve things, to get them,” she spoke quietly. “It’s… It’s not about deserving things in the first place… I think? This is how things turned out. I mean… Are you unhappy here?”

It was wrong to be unhappy in this situation. I should have been leaping for joy at living with two beautiful girls who obviously cared about me, each in their own way. I should embrace the well-lit, modern apartment with open kitchen, three seat sofa, mahogany table, coffee maker and automatic orange squeezer. Embrace the comfortable bed I slept on and was woken up by my attractive roommate I had never seen before in my life. But we knew each other for six months, so it was fine for her to tease me, but not to propose me directly, dancing the razor’s edge between friendship, romance and sex that gave courtship all its awkward charms. Akiko was kind, caring and demure, the perfect housewife without being a wife, even her pancakes were perfect. Too perfect. The kind of perfect you see in advertisements and magazines, where they’re trying to sell you something, next to an idyllic beach unmarred by civilization and maybe an attractive model with a plastic smile. All frozen until the end of time in ink and paper for all to see.

“Yeah, is there something wrong?” Asked Talia, showing genuine concern for the first time. “You don’t look well, man.”

My train of thought was disrupted, and ideas slipped off my mind, failing to gain purchase before falling into the dark pit of the subconscious mind. I shook my head, trying to remember. Why was I questioning all this? “Maybe I’m sick,” I muttered as a weak excuse.

“Oh, that could be serious,” Akiko chimed anxiously. “Maybe you should rest for a bit, take the day off.”

“Not to dampen the party or anything,” Talia interjected, “but weren’t you talking about a big test coming up today?”

“I’m sure if he explains it, your professor will let you re-take the test, right?” Akiko gave me an encouraging and optimistic smile, which was the complete opposite of my own.  Even in my current confused state, the words “Mrs. Higgins” and “test” brought a reflexive response from me.

“Shit!” I said.

---

From the moment Mrs. Higgins’ test was mentioned to the moment I arrived in the college it was all a blur. Fortunately I had remembered to bring my wallet and a pen; unfortunately I could not remember what the subject of the test would be. The fact I made it on time at all was a miracle. Now all I needed is a second miracle to do well on the exam despite my brain feeling like it was made out of swiss cheese.

As I skimmed past whatever notes or info I could find on my phone, Mrs. Higgins walked into the room. She must have been ten years older than me, and looking the part too in a business shirt and elegant skirt. She carried the test papers under one arm and after putting them on her desk she smiled at the class.

“I’m sure everyone’s ready to ace this exam, right?”

The class replied in groans and whispers, although at least one person cheered. She seemed to be expecting this response, as her smile only widened as she looked around the class  before focusing on getting settled. I took a last peek at my phone before shutting it off and putting it away. It hadn’t done me much good.

Before she gave me my test, my teacher winked at me. “Expecting great things from you, Cody,” she joked.

I did not accomplish great things. I did not even accomplish mediocre things. Unless by ‘great things’ she meant ‘spectacularly bomb the test’, if so then I accomplished VERY great things.

Despite the result, I didn’t dwell on it too much. Best thing to do after flunking a test was to take the bus home and worry about it later. I was about to do that when my escape plan was foiled by my arch-nemesis.

“Hey! Sorry but can you come with me to my office?” Asked Mrs. Higgins while putting all the test papers together in a big pile. The last people to finish the test were trickling out of the room so there weren’t many people around, but I still looked behind me to see if she was addressing someone else. “Yes. You, Cody,” she told me directly, smiling.

After a few more minutes packing up she handed me half of the tests to carry and grabbed her bag. Already the next class was trickling in, and she smiled politely at the other teacher before calling me. “It’s not far,” she said while walking briskly, “I just want to have a little chat.”

“Am I in trouble?” I asked, with a guilty face that already provided the answer to my own question.

“No, no! Well… I DO have something important to talk with you, but…” She paused, looking at me and giving another reassuring smile. “You’ll be alright.”

We walked through the hallways until reaching a faculty staff area, where she greeted a few people while walking by until we reached the door to her office. It had Lillian Higgins’ name, along with another, listed on the door, but when we went inside there was nobody there.

“Put the tests here and then close the door, please,” she asked, dumping her share of the tests onto one of the two desks. It was cluttered with books, different papers and letters, as well as a computer, a coffee mug with a stain on the side and a single picture of her holding a cat and smiling.

I did as she told and then sat on the chair, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She took her sweet time too, arranging the tests as neatly as she could and clearing some of the clutter before moving her chair so it was facing mine, without the desk in the way.

“So,” she spoke, leaning back slightly. “Do you know why I called you here.”

“… Is it because of the assignment I delivered late?” I ventured, wincing. She couldn’t have known so early I had flunked the test.

“Well, I know you didn’t do well on the test…” I stand corrected. She gave me a sympathetic smile and a shrug. “I saw some of your answers. Sorry. Between today’s test and your general performance in class… I’d say you’re dangerously close to failing my class.”

“Oh…” I hesitated, reflecting on my past performance; embarrassed that things had come to this point. While I fucked up now and then, rarely did my grades get as bad as this.

“Now, I now you’re a smart guy. The way you talk in class shows me you understand the material, and your essay was good! I had to take away points, because you handed it to me five days late, but it was still good!” She moved closer to me, staring straight at into my eyes now. “Why, Cody?”

“I’ve uh… Not been feeling well lately,” I said, darting my eyes away. I wasn’t sure how true that was, and neither could I explain why I felt this way. But, when in doubt, intertwining truth and lies into a single strand from which you craft a web of deceit is good method of getting away with shit. “Maybe it’s stress, I don’t know.”

She considered me for a moment, looking up and down. “Are you under a lot of stress right now?” She asked.

“Didn’t sleep well last night,” I muttered, trying to be vague. But the self pity grated me, so I looked back at her and said, “I’m sorry though, I know it’s not a good excuse. Next time I will do better.” And I meant it, surprisingly enough.

She smiled in response, putting a hand carefully on my shoulder. “Something keeping you up at night?” She asked, looking concerned.

The nightmare. But I couldn’t say it out loud; it sounded childish. Monster in my closet. I felt ridiculous for even considering it a problem, never mind saying it out loud. “Nothing specifically,” I said. “Just trouble sleeping.”

“Sleep is important,” said Mrs. Higgins, patting gently my shoulder. “If stress is preventing you from getting sleep, you need to address that.”

This conversation was getting more awkward by the minute, as the more concerned and solicitous she was, the more embarrassed I got. I desperately wanted to leave the room, but her helpfulness made it impossible to politely do so. I decided to wait until she had finished her pep talk.

“I know a way to help,” she said, after a moment of silence. I imagined suggestions of seeing a psychiatrist, correction of my daily habits or even a food to eat more or avoid. Instead she took her hand off my shoulder and gently put it on my crotch, looking straight at me with a smile.

Have to admit I wasn’t expecting that.

“What…?” Is all I could muster as an answer, straightening my back and staring at her with my eyes wide open. Slack-jawed.

“Relax, honey. Leave it to me,” she said, looking playfully down before her eyes darted up at me. Her expression said she liked what she saw, as she purred, “I’ll help you relieve that stress.”

“I… What?!” Let’s just say I was not fast on the uptake.

As a reply her hand rubbed against me, eliciting the usual shiver of warm, intimate contact that made the heart beat faster. I looked down, then back up, but there was no way to deny it. This was really happening. This woman ten years my senior, and all the more beautiful for it, was rubbing my penis through my pants while smiling seductively. And she was doing it in her own office. It wasn’t even night yet, I could still see sunlight peeking through the blinds of her window, conveniently closed. But it was happening! My body responded to her warm touch. My mind could only think of a single thing.

“This is SO unprofessional…” I said, in utter disbelief. Just running through all the possible ways this could go wrong. I started to speak again but her other hand  went to my lips, gently silencing them.

“Shh… It’s ok. Nobody comes here,” her smile enigmatic as a sphynx as she traced the edges of my lips with her finger. “Just relax and… enjoy.”

As she moved her hands away from me and started slowly unbuttoning her blouse, I looked around desperately for anything I could use to get out of this situation. I found a pencil on her desk.

So the only rational thing to do was to grab it firmly with my right hand and, with one sudden movement, stab my left palm with the pencil tip as hard as I could. In a movie that would have ran the pencil through my hand and out the other side. But either I wasn’t strong or the pencil was not sharp enough, because it only went halfway in, making a hole that generously spewed blood while I doubled in pain, fighting both tears and the urge to scream.

If you’ve never stabbed your hand here’s a pro tip: it really hurts.

“My god… Your hand!” She shouted in alarm and jumped back. It was her turn to look at me in disbelief. She opened her mouth to say something, only to close it again, still not taking her eyes off my bleeding hand. “Why?!” she shouted at last.

“Oh no,” I mumbled, utterly unconvincing in my dismay. At least I didn’t have to fake the pain, that was real. “It looks like I hurt myself. By accident. Uh… Permission to see a nurse?”

She continued to stare at me, unable to say a word. Her blouse still half-unbuttoned with a few drops of blood staining its cuff. I clutched at my bloody hand and got up, shuffling awkwardly towards the door.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. And fled before she could regain her composure.

5

 

I hopped and hobbled forward to meet the actor with the axe, one arm up defensively while the other held onto the safety rail for support, carefully approaching my enemy. I had no plan, no idea of how I might survive this fight. I was hurt, exhausted and emotionally broken. But I could not back down, even if I wanted to.

When we were within reach there was a brief, tense standoff, which I broke by lunging at him. It was a weak attack, one-legged as I was, and he avoided my clumsy punch with ease before grabbing at my neck. He missed, but grabbed my collar, pulling me off-balance.

I tried one more desperate attack,shoving him sideways with all my strength. He was heavy though, and it was not enough to push him off. With one hand holding my collar, he lifted his axe with the other, aiming the blow at my neck. I had no chance to avoid him.

There was only a way to survive this, and it would not be pretty.

I lifted my left arm as the axe went down, and my hand managed to block the blade moments before it hit my neck. And by block, I mean the axe cleaved through my hand, splitting it in half like a tree stump before the blade got stuck halfway through my wrist.

I closed my eyes and howled in pain, which perhaps might have been what prevented me from being blinded by the warm blood that spurted out of my bisected hand, splattering my face. A wave of vertigo swept over me, as my body dealt with the sudden loss of blood. My knees buckled and I collapsed on the iron floor of the walkway. When I forced my eyes open, I saw blood. So much blood.

It had sprayed everywhere, painting the axe and my shirt with crimson while the killer’s mask was covered in it. Blinded, he pulled at his axe causing another wave of pain to cripple me, but even as he tugged at the axe stuck to my bloody arm, it would not pull away. The blade had gotten stuck deep in cartilage and bone, and refused to leave. He then pulled me closer and his other hand wrapped around my throat. He might have been disarmed, but he was still strong, and his hand squeezed, blocking all my breathing.

Gasping, I struggled. My remaining hand clawed at his neck and arms, knocking the mask askew, but he continued squeezing, blindly, while pulling at the axe with his other hand. Between the pain and the blood loss, my punches were weak and barely fazed the murderous actor. I tried to free my neck instead, to no avail. I could feel the sweat in his hands against my neck as I frantically gasped for air. My eyes, blinking through the tears and pain, searched for anything I could do or use to escape. Anything at all.

That is when I noticed the rope used to hang the other actor, a foot away from my face. It was firmly tied to the rafters, but the rope was within reach, and it led all the way down to the stage. I reached out for the rope and, while holding it as hard as I could, I threw all my weight over the rail guard and off the walkway.

But even put off-balance and blinded, the man still did not let go. As my body went down, my hand gripping at the rope to prevent me from falling, his grip refused to relent. Pulled by my weight, his body followed mine in falling off the walkway. I held tight as he pulled at my neck as he fell, yanking it down, but his fingers failed to gain purchase as they scraped my neck. He gouged my neck, but failed to hold onto it. So he plunged to his death with a horrible scream, breaking the table below as he fell onto the stage. A pool of his own blood spread beneath the body.

I hardly did much better though, sliding down the rope with only one hand, which I gripped tightly as I could. While I managed to slow my fall, my hand was painfully burned and scraped raw by the rope on its way down. My grip weakened from the pain and abuse, releasing me while still ten feet in the air. I fell onto the remnants of the table and rolled off the corpse of my attacker, causing my world to explode in pain, before blacking out.

---

I do not know how long I was out. When I came to, the first thing I felt was pain. The second, fear. I opened my eyes.

I was on my back amidst broken furniture and a spreading pool of my own blood. The last actress stared down at my broken body. She had a Little Bo Peep mask and held a butcher knife in her hand as she gazed, with no visible expression. It took me a moment to realize that was my girlfriend, and the realization brought me horror, relief and despair, incongruously together in a cocktail of grief and fear.

“——–,” I called her name. I don’t remember what her name was, but I remember calling it, looking at her, pleading. She did not respond.

“Please… Why?” I asked, tears sliding down my cheeks and blurring my vision. I struggled to wipe my face, and my hand came back grimy with blood and sweat. I could only imagine what I looked like.

She said nothing, but moved closer to me and her grip on the knife tightened. Briefly I struggled to get up, but the pain forced me back down. I could not even sit up as she approach me.

“I guess that’s it,” I croaked. Shit. My voice cracked and my lip quivered at the sight of her. It was embarrassing, after so much fight and struggle, to come apart like a schoolgirl in front of the principal. Pathetic. I forced myself to look away from my girlfriend, but it didn’t help. The sense of monstrous betrayal, of incomprehensible madness, was overwhelming me. “I… Damn it. I give up…” I muttered. “Go. Do it.”

She knelt beside me, so close I could touch her, and stared at me through that blank mask. Then she fumbled with something in her coat pocket. I could hear the sound of parchment paper crumpling before I saw what she had retrieved.

It was a sandwich from the closest fast food joint, the grease making its wrapping shiny and transparent. She opened the wrapping and offered it to me. It was a cheeseburger.

“No…” I shook my head, holding back more tears, refusing to accept what she had done, and what it implied. I remembered our conversation before the play, and more tears came out. “No… Stop. Please, don’t… Don’t do this…” My voice was only a stunned whisper now, as I repeated these words over and over again. I could not accept it.

To accept that the thing behind that mask was still my girlfriend, the person I had known and loved? To consider that, all this time, she might have planned this? ‘If this was your last day,’ she would ask me. ‘If the world was going to end tomorrow? What would you do?’ And she said those words with the tone of causal, hokey conversation, trying to convince me to go out with her or do something daring, like when I fingered her in a park one misty morning. Barely a few seconds, but we felt like naughty teenagers while getting away with it. Why was I remembering this now? My left hand is gone, a bleeding mess of broken bones split in half, all the way down to the wrist. ‘If this was your last day, what would you do?’ She asked me. And I answered “I would eat a cheeseburger!” Silly joke. Did she know? Had she planned this all along, this entire time? Even while we joked and argued and fucked and spent lazy afternoons watching TV? Did she always plan on killing me? Did she plan for me to die here, broken and alone and in pain, the moment she walked in that door?

I could not fit such thoughts in my mind. It was too large, too terrible and incomprehensible of an idea. The mind is not meant to think of such things.

Yet she still offered that cheap-looking cheeseburger, meekly, almost shy. Like she was offering a gift and was afraid of being rejected.”Fuck this… Just… Get the fuck away…” I turned my head away, blinking furiously. She seemed desolated. Her arm dropped down and the cheeseburger tumbled onto the floor. Now she only held her knife.

She gripped it firmly, two hands at the handle, edge pointing down, and raised it above her head. I looked back at her, not daring to look away. I wanted to stare her in the eye as she did it, see it through to the bitter end. After all we had been through, I could not look away or close my eyes. Behind the plastic smile of her mask, her expression was unreadable. There was no way to understand what was behind that mask.

“For the memory of Carcosa,” she whispered. I braced for the impact of the knife.

So when she plunged the knife deep in her own chest, I could only stare, dumbfounded. She curled up in pain and nearly fell, blood staining her shirt and pooling on the floor beneath her. Her own blood. She shivered once, then finally collapsed on the floor beside me. I could only watch, too weak to move, while she curled in pain, before slowly turning to face me while a dark pool of blood spread from under her body.

And so my girlfriend is now dying in front of me, bleeding and coughing. Drowning in her own blood. I run my mind again through the events that led up to this point. The evening walk, theater, the play, the stranger, the murders I watched passively in my seat, my own attempted sacrifice, how I fought and fought and fought and fought, the look of terror on that actress’ face before I killed her, the cheeseburger…

My girlfriend is dying before my eyes, and I can’t see her face. It’s covered by the cheap mask, now stained with blood. But I cannot remember what her face looks like. Not even her name, nothing that identifies her sticks in my mind. Her presence, our memories together, those I can still recall. I can see those moments as clearly in my mind as I can see her blood seeping from under her collapsed body, spreading on the hardwood stage. I can hear the sound of her voice, our old jokes and conversations, and I can hear her choking and gurgling on her own blood as her breathing slows and grows more and more quiet.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she stops breathing.

The curtains come down.

The King in Yellow enters the stage, with the same yellow hoodie and white, featureless mask as always. Softly it steps into my view, looking down at me as I lie there, too broken to move. Now, I am only waiting for the end.

“The play is finished,” speaks the King, and its voice is legion, thousands of voices softly whispering every word. More than thousands, millions. Billions. I instinctively shudder with every word, to hear it whispered and echoed unto infinity. “And so I grant an audience to my final actor.”

The King in Yellow looks at me expectantly. However, in my stunned state, it takes a few moments before I realize it was addressing me. “Request your boon,” it commanded. I blink, catatonic with despair. I feel empty of all drive or emotion, anything that makes me care about what is happening. As far as I am concerned, I am adrift in a world where I want nothing, not even to live, not even to die.

But the King does not accept my silence. It approaches, hissing and singing in choir innumerable as its presence crumples me like paper on open flame. I am dying with every word it speaks.

“This is your final day,” it said. “What is your wish?” It forced me to answer.

I cough before drawing one last breath. Finally, I whisper:

“Love…”

Before all goes dark.

4.

 

They paced below me like a pack of wolves, never straying too far from one of the two ladders. Their only way up, my only way down. I heard muttering and arguing as they paced, but could not catch the words, nor discern what they meant. It was as if they belonged in a different world. A nightmare from which I had escaped and could now watch, curiously, like a TV show on a boring Sunday afternoon.

After the high caused by the adrenaline and pain, I was sinking into exhausted narcosis, two steps away from a coma. The pain was at the same time intense and detached, as if it was happening to someone else. My mind, my emotions, all were all numb from shock and horror. A mercy, all things considered.

One of the actors looked up, its plastic, inhuman face eyeing me hungrily. They were coming for me, there was no doubting that. I forced myself up, holding to the rail for support, and slowly made my way to the door on the opposite end of the walkway. It could be my escape. My only chance to leave this crazed, ridiculous nightmare.

The doorknob didn’t even budge. I tried to turn it again, but it felt stuck. Was it locked? Or perhaps the door was too old and had jammed shut, fallen into disrepair. Impossible to know. My way out was another dead end.

In my dissociative state I couldn’t even process that my hopes of survival had been dashed. It was still just like a TV show you half-watch while preparing dinner, some cliffhanger blaring in the kitchen. ‘How will our hero escape? Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion!’

I had no idea how I was going to escape this alive.

Another actor sneaked close to the other ladder, taking a few tentative steps, maybe hoping I wouldn’t notice. I started hobbling back to the cans of paint and the actor quickly went back down and moved away from the ladder. They were scared of me.

Perhaps I could stay here all night? Wait until someone noticed all the disappearances and the cavalry broke down the doors and charged to my rescue. All I had to do was hold the fort, keep them away and survive the night. Like the Alamo. Did anyone know I was in the theater? I wracked my brain, trying to piece together what had happened between my invitation and when I walked into the theater. Did I tell anyone? No, of course not. Nobody knew except my girlfriend.

Although that was wishful thinking, I patted my pockets absentmindedly, as if hoping I was remembering wrong. But no, the cell phone was not with me. Left at home in its charger. Of course.

All left for me to do was wait. I didn’t know what time it was or when someone would even notice I was gone, let alone try to rescue me. So I sat next to the cans, nervously looking down at the ladder now and then while trying to ignore the pain in my leg. Five minutes in those circumstances would have felt like five hours.

So I had no idea how much time had passed until I noticed the stranger sitting on the rafter in front of me.

It was the same stranger from the play, dressed in a yellow hoodie with a featureless, white mask covering their face. Their gender was impossible to tell under the hoodie; all I could see was that the stranger had skin as pale as a corpse and long, dishevelled blonde hair. The plastic mask was what disturbed me the most. It was the only part of the thing that seemed alive.

In my surprise, I stumbled and fell on the floor of the walkway, hands gripping tightly at the rail to avoid falling off. The stranger didn’t react, not even turning its head in my direction, yet I felt it staring at me, drinking every gasp of breath and every drop of cold sweat inching down my scalp.

“What the fu…? How…?” I stuttered in disbelief. “How the fuck did you get here? Wh… When?”

“I’ve always been here,” said the stranger.

I felt my heart pounding as my anger rose. I remembered what happened when the stranger entered the play, the others’ reactions. I remembered the one playing Gonzalo, weeping before they pushed him off the table and let him strangle to death on the noose. I remembered the veins in his neck bulging as his tongue popped from his mouth, swollen as a well-fed leech. It had all started with the appearance of this yellow figure.

“Why the fucking fuck are you doing this?” I whispered, not daring to take my eyes away from the stranger clad in yellow. “What in the hell… Why?!”

“Every play needs an audience,” was the reply I got. Not angry, nor guilty, the voice had a slightly bored drawl, as if commenting on the weather.

“Wha…?” I asked. But the stranger was no longer there. My brain was not ready for cryptic shit. So I ignored the King in Yellow and looked back down, checking the ladders to see if the other actors were sneaking up on me while I was engaged.

They weren’t. Instead they all huddled together and seemed to be having a spirited argument, punctuated by gestures and fierce nodding. There were only three of them. This surprised me more than anything, the sudden realization that I had cut their active numbers by half, all alone. Two corpses under each ladder and one still alive, but clutching his leg, next to the stage.

But I had no time to rejoice. The three seemed to reach an agreement, and then my heart lurched as I realized their plan. The actors split up and took position, one on each ladder, while the third stayed behind. They began slowly climbing the ladders on each side, carefully this time, with weapons tucked away and using both hands, always staring upwards.

I groaned as I forced myself up, dragging a can of paint with me to the end of the walkway, with the ladder. When I got there, I stopped to catch my breath as my heart pounded furiously. But I could not afford to rest. No time.

So I aimed and threw the can at the man climbing to kill me. It was a decent throw, but he had time to anticipate it. He jumped to the side and clung to only one side of the ladder, avoiding the can entirely as it fell and hit the floor below, bouncing with a clatter.

“Shit!” I hesitated, but there was nothing I could do. The two of them were still climbing, and there were only two cans of paint left. There was no way to hit someone, drag a heavy can to the opposite end of the walkway and hit the other one in time. It was already over. I was going to die.

My stomach knotted in dread, almost pushing back more bile before I took a deep breath. I would not survive the night. It was a good show, I managed longer than I thought possible. But with every enemy I took down, I received another wound, got a bit more tired, a bit weaker. And there was only so much I could give before I was too weak to fight back.

I was hurt, tired and they still outnumbered me three to one.

Even as my mind despaired, my body raised itself upright and hobbled to the other side, where the two remaining cans rested, right beside the other ladder. What made me struggle so much, despite feeling so hopeless, I could barely understand. Blind and primal will to live, no more and no less. It happened almost independent of thought, automatic, deep in the beating heart of the unconscious mind. Such was the strength of my survival instinct that I reached the cans before any semblance of a plan formed in my brain.

Grabbing hold of another can, I hefted it and looked down, trying to aim it better. The actress climbing slowed down, preparing to dodge just like the other one. We stood in that tableau for a long, interminable moment, before I hurled the can down with as much force as I could. I nearly fell from the momentum of the throw, holding onto the rail for dear life, but I still saw the killer jump to the side again, and the can hitting her on the left shoulder. She buckled, with a grunt of pain, but looked upwards and steeled herself, continuing to slowly climb the ladder.

I had one last paint can. She was hurt, but still climbing, and there was no way to stop them both. Yet still I waited patiently for her to climb higher, enough that dodging my throw would be impossible. The masked actress must have realized, as she was climbing, that she was getting closer and closer to her own death. With every rung of that ladder climbed, she was closer and easier to hit. Yet she continued to climb and I still held onto the last can, my hand trembling from emotional exhaustion and the weight of the can.

She was two steps away when I judged it right and raised the can above me, I was ready for her to jump aside. I was ready for her to try blocking the can with her arm or jumping to clear the last few steps. I was ready to fake a throw, or even hit her with the can.

I was not ready when she tore the mask away from her face, red and puffy from crying, and shouted “PLEASE! Please… Don’t kill me!”

I recognized her. Not her face, nor her name, but she used to be my friend. Our friend, me and my girlfriend’s. A wave of nausea hit me like a blow to the chest as I thought of my girlfriend. Had she been one of my victims? Had I unknowingly killed her while struggling to survive?

“Please,” she begged, her eyes wide with fear, not daring look away. “Please, don’t kill me…”

Without the mask, pleading like that, she was a human being. Another person, like you or me. And her life was in my hands. I hesitated for a terrible moment, until I saw out of the corner of my eye the other actor, still masked, climbing onto the walkway.

So I threw the can at her before my mind finished processing my choice. I saw her surprise, her fear, instants before the can hit her face. The bloody impact knocked her off the ladder and she landed on the broken stage with a sickening splat. She did not get up again.

I had killed someone. I had done it before, but this felt worst. Her expression before being hit was still engraved in my mind, every last detail. Worst of all, I did not feel angry or sad, all I felt was afraid. The fear of death cloyed over me, overcoming any other emotions under its stench. The man on the other side of the walkway turned to face me, all expression hidden behind a cheap mantis mask, and he took out the axe hooked on his belt. There was no way to escape now. I had killed that woman for nothing.

3.

 

After a brief, terrible moment, as I stiffened in terror, they pulled me roughly and started dragging me to the blood-soaked stage. My thoughts were racing, confused and frantic. No, this was impossible. Couldn’t be happening. Here, now? Why?

No! Pointless to hope it was different. I ran the last moments through my mind again, now that I was thinking clearly. Pointless to shout either. No one was within hearing range. The exit was locked or closed-off. Fighting them? Six people, and all were armed in some way. I needed to get away from them. Time to think, away from their crappy masks and blood-soaked weapons.

I needed an opportunity.

There would only be one chance. They were watching me for any tells, and I knew they were watching. The first move was key. They didn’t know what I was going to do, how I would react. I had to surprise them, somehow. Although it was difficult, I forced my body to go limp, to not betray the furious, desperate energy boiling in the pit of my stomach. If they thought they could carry me to that blood soaked table – that sacrificial altar – like a lamb to the slaughter, I would not give them reason to think otherwise.

It was only when they were dragging me up the short stairs to the stage that I moved, suddenly throwing all my weight on one side. My feet were not as firm on the ground as I hoped. I was desperate and outnumbered. It might not have done anything, if not for the fact the one dragging me on my right had a limp. Still, I only moved a step.

However, when you are on the edge of the stage, a step is all you need. The man holding on to me fell off, and as he held on tightly to me, so did I. The ones on the other side, trying to prevent me from falling off, were pulled down instead. Like silly, murderous dominoes.

We all fell off the stage in a tangled heap. As I landed on the player with the limp, I heard a gruesome snap, followed by a howl of pain. No time to realize what had happened; this was my only chance. I jumped free, twisted out of the way of the fallen players and made it a few more steps before a firm hand grabbed my arm and pulled back, almost making me fall.

One of the players who had not fallen down. She had jumped over her fallen companions to grab me. She was not strong, but the others were recovering and I could not run while she held onto me. I was out of time.

In a lot of horror movies, especially recent ones, there’s a killer with a creepy mask killing the closest teenagers available. While masks were creepy, with the added bonus of making you harder to recognize, I’d like to note a serious disadvantage they have: in a grapple, they’re an easy target.

Desperate, I clawed at the mask of the player grabbing me, and the cheap mask went askew, covering her eyes. She had a hammer in one hand, which she flailed blindly, scoring a glancing blow at my shoulder before I managed to drive my elbow into her stomach. That forced her to release her grip, but the other players were already upright. All I could do was push the woman in front of the others, so I could turn and run as fast as I could to the other end of the theater.

You’ve never truly ran, until the moment you’ve ran with your life on the balance. I crossed the entire length of the auditorium before I even realized it, and hit into the wall and stumbled back, wide-eyed, my heart pumping with adrenaline as I readied for the next attack.

There was no one close to me. They had not chased. In fact they were all close to the stage, surrounding one of the actors still on the ground. I could hear a steady stream of pained cursing coming from the one I had landed on. He wasn’t getting up.

It offended me, somehow, that they were not paying attention to me. Irrational, I know. The mind does strange things when threatened with death. But at that moment I felt genuinely aggrieved that they were not chasing after me. No, instead they were worrying over a fallen member of their murdergroup, fussing on him because he was hurt. How many people had died tonight? They were killing people, and they were going to kill me, and yet they could barely stand when one of their own got hurt?

“FUCK YOU!” I shouted at them, heart racing and hands trembling with emotion. “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKERS! FUCK! YOU!”

Not the wittiest of one-liners.

They all turned to face me, eyeless masks staring in my direction with nothing but fixed, plastic expressions. Then, as if in private agreement, they all moved silently in my direction. The rows and rows of seats separated us, so they split into two groups and each walked down an aisle as they approached, a group on each side, intent on surrounding me.

I stopped to catch my breath, looking desperately around me. Nothing. Nothing I could work with. There were no convenient items that could be used as weapons, no windows leading out. The actors approached me from each aisle, carefully, stalking their prey. Clothes and weapons splattered with blood. Silent and unyielding. My Girlfriend was among them.

My vision blurred, and I furiously wiped my eyes, panicked. For a moment I wondered what happened to my eyes, before I realized. Tears. I was crying without even noticing. I wiped my eyes furiously then looked from side to side, trying to keep all of them in my field of vision. I couldn’t afford to be blinded, not now. Not by involuntary, traitorous tears. Betraying my body. Ignoring my self-control.

There were rows and rows of seats acting as a barrier between me and the other side of the auditorium, with the stage at the end. The only path were two aisles on each side of the chairs, and the actors occupied both sides. Three on the right, two on the left. All armed. The chairs were too tall to easily jump. Progress would be too slow.

But there was no other way.

I waited until they approached me, coming from the different aisles and surrounding me, before I took a running start and then jumped onto the row of chairs. I did not land on the seat of the chairs, instead aiming for the top, where someone would rest their head. It was unstable footing, but I did not hesitate, jumping to the next row immediately. If I had tried to do this more carefully, or tried to stay balanced on the top of a chair, it would not have worked. The top was narrow and rounded, ill-suited to balance on.

The only thing allowing me to carry forward was pure momentum. The chairs were too tall to jump over easily, but jumping from one to the next? As long as I did not stop, I could cross the entire theater that way, quickly hopping and stumbling from one row of chairs to the next.

The actors were shouting in alarm and running back down the aisles, confusedly trying to prevent me from escaping but too far behind to make a difference. My heart pounded furiously as I laughed at my triumph. I did it! I escaped them! They were too stupid to follow me! Too slow and weak to match my desperation!

My victorious euphoria lasted until my feet slipped sideways on one of the seats and sent me tumbling down, my chin hit hitting another chair on the way. My vision swam with pain and adrenaline as I lay on the floor for what felt like minutes, until I forced myself upright. Stupid mistake. Stupid euphoria. Stupid plan.

The murderers were closing in. Learning from their mistake, they were spread out and approaching me from all sides, clearly attempting to prevent me from doing the same thing. One even had tried hopping from one chair to the next like I had. But then he stumbled and fell a few rows before me, yelling a brief – “Shit!” – Before breaking the fall with his face.

That’s when I realized these murderers were a bunch of clowns.

They were not stronger or more capable than the average person, at least two were very out of shape, in fact. The only reason they had killed so many people was because they outnumbered them, killing one by one, and they were all armed. They didn’t even know how to fight.

“Why the fuck are you doing this?” I gasped, hopping over one of the row of chairs in front of me. The only area not surrounded by the actors. My leg hurt with every movement, a numb pain that made my whole foot seize up in dull, throbbing agony. I must have hurt it when I fell.

“Why is this happening?” I whimpered, more to myself than anything. It was ridiculous, being hunted down and killed like an animal by a bunch of amateurs. For no reason. No explanation. No connection between a relaxing, even slightly boring, evening in the theater and the fear and pain I felt as I hopped over the rows, avoiding the use of my hurt foot.

“WHY?!” I screamed.

They did not respond as they carefully approached me.

I finally jumped over the last row and hopped my way to the stage, the only area unoccupied by the killers. There I could see up close the strangled corpse of Gonzalo, the thing that started all of this. He swung lightly in the noose, the rope disappearing into the rafters of the ceiling. Below him the table was slick with blood, to the point it dripped and stained the floorboards below. The handiwork of the masked people was just beside it, a mound of blood-soaked corpses. Their throats sporting bloody grins while their faces ashen in mute horror.

I had no time to catch my breath, the other actors were already rallying around the stage. I couldn’t even outrun them in my current state, which made my capture only a matter of time. Was there an escape or a weapon backstage I could use?

But all I saw were a few chairs, with costume pieces strung over them. There was an old CD player in a corner and many pipes and switches attached to the wall. Nothing I could use. There was an exit door on the far wall, but when I desperately tugged on the doorknob the door would not budge. Locked. Even if it wasn’t, I could not hope to outrun the masked killers while limping and hopping on one leg.

I was surrounded, hurt and running out of options. Was this the best I could do? Nothing but give them a bit of exercise before being killed? No, there had to be some way. It couldn’t end like this. There’s no way I could be gutted and added as another corpse to the pile.I couldn’t accept that. Not dying on stage as part of some demented play like the corpse hanging from the noose…

And the noose was tied to the loft rafters on the ceiling.

I looked up and saw that the noose was tied to a narrow walkway high up, amidst the rafters and the mechanism holding the curtains. There were two ladders on either side of the stage, hidden from the audience, leading to the rafters and the walkways. It wasn’t much as far as an escape route, but the masked killers were closing in. I was out of time.

So I threw myself at the narrow steel ladder and frantically climbed and pulled myself up its steps. My left leg was still tender and stiff, forcing me to use my arms more than normal, while my other good leg hopped from one rung to the next. This climb was exhausting on my arms, out of shape and straining in protest of such abuse. Despite my terrified drive, I felt myself slow down as I climbed higher.

That’s when my hurt leg exploded in pain. It was such that my entire body seized up, hands clinging to the rungs of the ladder as I convulsed. Again my body betrayed me, ignoring any semblance of control my mind tried to exert as tears welled in my eyes.

Looking down I saw one of the masked actresses staring back at me, a few rungs below. She had a hammer raised above her head, which she swung again. The hammer struck my leg for a second time, causing it to crack and flare with even more pain, enough to make me scream. I couldn’t even feel my leg anymore, amidst a haze of pain.

What I did next was more instinct than plan, as I let go of the rung I was holding on and caught the next ones below, while pushing hard with my one good leg. I fell on the woman as much as I kicked her, and with one hand holding the hammer, her grip on the ladder was weak. She shouted in alarm, as her hand left the ladder, then flailed for a handhold. All useless. She fell.

We were higher than I thought, I realized, as I looked at her flailing as she fell. When she hit the floor of the stage below, it was with enough force to break and crack the hardwood floor. Her body spurted blood like an overripe fruit being suddenly squeezed, and she did not move again. All was still for a moment.

I was forcing myself to climb the ladder again before I even realized I had killed someone.

My arms had been hurt by the sudden drop, my whole body felt tired and I was blubbering and sniffling, despite trying my best to hold it in. While pausing to catch my breath I looked down to see what the other actors were doing, and a chill ran through my body. There was another actor climbing the ladder on the other side. He was further below me, but steadily climbing towards the loft walkway just above me. I could not rest, even for a moment.

So I forced myself to climb the rest of the ladder, all my limbs aching and exhausted from the fight. When I finally pulled myself up to stand on the walkway, the other man was halfway there. He held a pair of large garden shears in his left hand, and I had no hope of fighting him while broken as I was. I needed to find some way to stop him; to prevent him from reaching me.

Ignoring my tired body, I looked around for anything I could use. The walkway was made of steel, scuffed and rusty from age and use. There were stage lights perched in periodic intervals pointing down, all of them turned off. One side of the walkway led to a sturdy-looking metal door that looked very old-fashioned and had a keyhole below the handle. Locked? I had no way to know.

I almost ran to that possible exit, when I noticed on the other side of the walkway, close to where the actor was climbing, were some old metal cans of… Something. Paint, or wax? I couldn’t tell in the dark, but my heart leaped when I noticed them. I had to hold onto the rails on either side of the walkway to keep myself steady as I hopped on one foot towards the cans at the other end of the walkway. The floor beneath me groaned and creaked, but I ignored it, sparing only a glance at the climbing murderer. He was almost finished climbing.

When I reached the cans, it was with the last sparks of my energy that I grabbed one of the cans, pulled it up and threw it down. The masked man had only a moment’s notice to look up before a heavy metal can hit him on the head, thrown full force in his face from a short distance. If he had been a few seconds early, he would have climbed up before I could reach him.

The can bounced off his face and fell onto the stage below with a deafening clatter. He barely let out a grunt, but his head lolled backwards and blood seeped from under the mask, pushed askew by the blow. He held onto the ladder, but barely; blinded and stunned by my attack. He couldn’t even dodge as I dragged another can, aimed and threw it down at him. He fell and struck the ground with a sickening splat. The can had completely crushed his skull, spilling its contents on the broken hardwood floor.

I had survived. Despite them chasing and trying to surround me, I had managed to survive, to strike back even. Killed two of them. And now I held a defensible position. Safe.

I commemorated by throwing up.