"Suppose you were to die tonight, what would you say . . ?"

Clocks

Brain Dissolve and a Ticking Time Bomb

"Mr. Vargas."

Mrs. Crepe, his most recent guardian, waving to him sadly as they cart him back to the hospital . . .

"Edgar."

His first friend outside of the confines of white washed walls and therapy sessions, lying in a broken heap. Edgar's own hands folded uncomfortably under his body. Dead weight on his back, blood leaking into his right eye, a sharp and piercing pain in his left hip. Being unable to move, being unable to help. The others were laughing, yelling, shrieking into the cold night air. One of the boys aimed a kick at his friend's stomach and Edgar winced at the crunch of gravel as he went skidding across the ground . . .

"You can't sleep on the floor, Edgar, get up."

'Get up!'

'Fucking losers.'

Edgar watching as his friend's body when abruptly still. They poked at him a few times before one of the girls, still laughing, turned the heavy body onto its back. Her screams echoing and then chaos . . .

'Oh fuck!'

'We fucking killed him!'

'What are we gonna do? I'm not going to prison.'

He could hear running feet, engines roaring to life, skidding tires on rough asphalt and then sweet silence. Quiet, echoing, painful, agonizing silence.

Those eyes, staring dully at the sky . . . like marble or glass cracked from the head of a doll and Edgar's heart racing as the longest night of his life went on and on . . .

Bright lights, shining harshly in his face, waving back and forth. He was impersonating his friend, body going still, final breath leaving his lungs . . . didn't they understand? Edgar knew he needed to do this, for him, the only one who didn't think he was messed up. He wanted to let him know he remembered, Edgar wouldn't let the hospital make him forget. He stared quietly at the ceiling and prayed to God that he was in a better place.

Air was being forced into him, his head was screaming and a nurse called for help. Little flashes of white and with the prick of a needle he was spiraling into black, white sheets parting to plunge him into unconsciousness.

"Let's get him on the bed. We'll find out what happened when he wakes up."

The dream again, that very same one. Always coming back to him, always repeating.

"I need a little love to ease the pain . . . I need a little love to ease the pain. It's easy to remember when it came . . ."

He'd heard a strange booming sound and when he ran out of his room and looked over the stair railing he saw his father on the ground and a his killer lowering a gun to her side. She looked up at the sound of him, curly brown hair falling in a stringy, greasy mop around her smiling face.

"Cause it feels like I've been . . ."

She grabbed one of their fire pokers in her left hand and examined it, her crackly voice echoing loudly in Edgar's ears. She looked up at him with a smile.

"I've been here before."

She was climbing the stairs, her familiar face filling his vision. His father's killer was all he could see, her voice, the sound of the cold cast iron rod scraping the wooden railing of their staircase as she came closer and closer. The gun was still in her hand and the smile still stretched across her mouth.

"You are not my savoir but I still don't go . . ." she trailed off, her own eyes glued to something over his shoulder.

Mr. Icadin looked at his patient's left wrist and winced, the thick strap was rubbing so hard at his old scars that blood was leaking through the gauze. He called a nurse over and she started to prepare new bandages.

"What did you dream about Edgar?" But the other man just stared at his lap, brows furrowed in concentration. He smiled at the elderly nurse who held up new wrappings for the Edgar's counselor to see. He nodded and she undid the restraint on his left wrist. As she was fixing him up, Mr. Icadin prepared another mild sedative to give to Edgar in a few hours, once the drugs they'd given him earlier had left his system entirely.

Icadin didn't seem offended or irritated when his patient remained silent, instead he patted Edgar's shoulder and nodded for everyone to leave the room. The nurse secured his left arm before she left and he was once again alone in his tiny cell to remember every laugh, every smile, every stupid joke, and every quiet conversation.

Hours upon hours later he was screaming, his left arm was throbbing and he could distinctly feel the slamming of boots and sneakers into his side. He remembered every second that one of those boys had sat on his back, pressing him into gravel and bits of glass as they beat his friend until he stopped fighting back, until he stopped struggling, and until he stopped breathing.

A Roof with No Walls

The Basement

[The white behind my eyes is so blinding sometimes . . . I want to fall into clean white sheets and dream of nothing. I want to hear silence when I'm alone and see people when I'm surrounded by shit. I know that there are decent human beings out there somewhere and as sure as I want to find them, I'm also positive I'm afraid of going on a search and finding no one.]

[If the world worked that way Johnny, nothing would get done and no one would do anything. Everyone would be suspended in a state of fear. I'm afraid to do this and I'm afraid to do that.]

[The disappointment isn't worth it.]

[And if you aren't disappointed?]

[I'm always disappointed.]

[That's so pessimistic of you.]

They are in the basement again, except this time there is no death machine. Edgar is shackled to an old wooden chair suspended high above the draining grate by chains that disappear into a circular crater in the ceiling above him. He is not moving or speaking but Johnny and his voice can be heard echoing through the room.

[Pessimism is a concept for people.]

[I think we discussed this once before.]

The chair leans forward slightly as it rocks back and forth in a nonexistent breeze. Edgar's eyes are closed and in the dark distance above him loud echoing creaks and shifts can be heard, like the footsteps of an approaching metal monster.

[People?]

[You being a person.]

[I know I'm a person, but something about me is different.]

[Now you sound conceited.]

There is a loud metal CLANG above him and the chain drops the chair a few feet, jerking Edgar awake when it stops again. He is still high above the floor. His glasses clatter to the floor.

[Vanity is a concept for people who enjoy being who they are.]

He looks up, craning his neck to follow the chains that keep the chair suspended. Another sound below him, long tentacles twisting through the draining grate and reaching for him. The moose growls at the teasing display of food above it. Edgar's eyes go wide as it reaches higher and higher up.

[And self-loathing isn't?]

[It's a contradiction. People who like themselves can't hate themselves as well.]

[No one is satisfied with who they are.]

One of the slimy appendages wraps around the foot of his chair and tugs, when nothing happens it reaches higher. It grabs at some of the weaker chains and tugs on those instead. Edgar hears the links snapping and crinkling under pressure.

[Why are you here again? Haven't we been through this? I thought you were dead.]

[It's called many different things; self-improvement, selfishness . . . I think you referred to it as greed.]

[Humanity is a race of greedy, selfish things.]

More and more of the moose reaching out as far as it can, pulling the chair with all its might. It is hungry, it wants humanity, it needs to be fed. Edgar looks up again at the sound of another metal clang above him. One of the smaller chains breaks apart and fall into the depths below him with the moose. The chain drops him another few feet and more of the monster reaches out to keep what it has gained. A whirring noise starts above him and the chair shakes.

[It's how we survive as a race, isn't it?]

A thicker chain breaks and crashes through the draining grate, the chair falls but not Edgar. The main hold is wrapped around his waist and arms. He is pulled through the air and into the crater in the ceiling of the room. The Whirring turns into grinding, bones and flesh become a messy and thick soup that falls in a torrent through the hole. Almost the entire floor of the room is saturated with Edgar's blood. A majority of him falls right down to the now wide opening of the draining grate.

The moose is retreating slowly, its arms still splayed out about the room lazily waving in as much of its most recent meal into its hiding place. One of the tentacles brushes Edgar's broken glasses, dragging them in with the rest of him, along the floor. For now it is satisfied.

[If by surviving you mean killing ourselves, each other, making more people than we can care for and destroying anything that may one day prove useful then yes, I suppose it is.]

Johnny woke up to see Edgar sitting a few feet away from him, clutching his knees with his back against the wall. When he turned over and his eyes briefly cleared the other man was still there, staring at Nny's boots and not making a sound.

"Get out of my house."

But Edgar didn't reply, didn't say a word even as Johnny fell asleep again. He dreamed that he woke up six more times to see the other man sitting in the same place, in the same position with his arms wrapped around his legs and a blank stare in his eyes.

"Get out of my house, now." He said right before he drifted off completely. Just as the oppressive fog of sleep settled over him he saw his friend's figure stand and melt into the walls of his home. When his eyes opened not even a second later Edgar was gone. He tried harder this time to stay conscious.

"Oh goody, you're awake."

Johnny looked around, eyes scanning the walls for more signs of his unwanted house guest. As he forced his body up things began to resurface from the silence that seemed to drift over him.

"Where's Mr. Fuck?"

"Obviously not up here."

"And Nailbunny?"

"Followed him downstairs, I dare say that little rodent gets rather nosey every time you decide to pass out on us. Asks a lot of questions."

D-boy was leaning against the wall near the door that lead downstairs. Johnny stood and looked at him from the other side of the couch. The house was shifting . . . it felt like . . . moving in odd ways against the air that he was breathing. He walked around the couch with the intention of going downstairs to see what they were up to.

What if I'm not like all those goblin people?

The words again.

"I'm not like them."

This time they were coming from the very door he was reaching for. His hand was outstretched, the barest tips of his fingers brushing the metal knob when he heard the beginnings of a conversation in voices he half recognized. Edgar's drifted through the softest and the voice he didn't know was the loudest, as if the other person in there had his back pressed up against the door.

Johnny went abruptly still, looking down at D-boy as if the painted pig was on the inside of some joke Eff was playing but in true odd fashion he was silent and frozen beside him.

"These things I see in my dreams, this man, I had never seen him before the first one. There was no sense of familiarity at all. I don't know who he is." Edgar's voice was hoarse and weak.

"You must have seen him before, Edgar. All delusions that take the form of people are derived from the things we see in everyday life. Perhaps you are the one who created him but his appearance is not entirely your doing. You've seen this person before, I promise you. Whether it was back with Mrs. Crepe or maybe a visitor in the hospital itself but either way I am positive that you have created this Johnny person from things you've been exposed to your entire life. And as for his insanity, well you've been exposed to a wide variety of disorders while here."

"I know he's not a delusion. And I know I'm not sick like that" There was a brief pause, Edgar sighed just as Nny was about to open the door, "I've never made stuff up before, you know that. You've known that for years, why would it start now?"

"Because you are sick, Edgar. That's why you've been here for years, you're ill."

"How could I make this stuff up, where could I have gotten all of these conversations?" The other man remained silent and Edgar continued on, "All of my dreams have had a sense of the surreal but the most recent one, I could feel the pull of the chains against my skin, I could smell the metal and I could hear his voice."

"You had a nightmare, it's perfectly natural to have a nightmare of someone you're afraid of."

"But I'm not afraid of him." His voice dropped suddenly and Johnny stared at the hand that had pulled on the door handle. Darkness stared back at him and he was unsurprised when he flicked on a light to see no one in the room downstairs. Typical, the voices stop when you open the door.

He didn't find Nailbunny downstairs but he did stumble across Mr. Fuck in the Wall's room leaning precariously opposite the hidden monster. Red tinted the room's walls and floor.

The Wall is getting rather dry.

Nny walked forward to touch the splinters that dusted the rotting and warped wood. He could feel them digging into the skin of his fingers, burrowing for blood.

Leaving it hungry are we?

"Sick." He pulled his hand away and stared at the tips of his fingers, "It's sick to paint a wall with the memories of bad people, isn't it?"

I'm not sure I understand what you mean . . .

"You know exactly what I'm talking about." He smoothed down some of the raised grain of the wall with the side of his and leaned in to examine it, "All of the ones brought here are used as a means to an end. I don't offer them anything but they follow me anyways, like they expect something for their time but when I take what I need from them they get indignant. Like I've ruined them or something."

It's only natural to want from others, you do the same thing Johnny.

"But I'm different."

No you're not.

He stood away from it suddenly and looked back at Mr. Fuck. The pig stared almost up at him and for a moment there was silence. The Wall grumbled moodily behind Nny.

"I don't think killing people makes me normal."

I think it depends on how you define killing. People kill each other every day, sometimes without realizing or caring that they're driving others to commit horrible crimes. You are not the only one to be pushed into hurting people or yourself. I know of some who have killed themselves for far less.

"I just want some answers."

Who doesn't? Despite what my horrible counterpart claims you are not alone in your search for clarity.

"I'm not alone." He stood back and slid down to the floor, hugging his knees and digging his own nails into his arms.

No . . . you're not.

"They why does feel like I'm the only one here?" He looked up, straight into Mr. Fuck's face. The doughboy was staring at the space of wall above him without expression.

Because you want to be left alone. You want the answers to be handed to you on a silver platter. You want and want just like all of the "greedy little ticks" you bring into your home. You are only different in your actions, Johnny.

"There's this little space where there should be something. An empty slot that's changing everything I do, everything I think about . . . I am and then I'm not anymore." He fisted his hand in blue-black hair and tugged lightly. "I try to remember but all I get are small pieces of nowhere and people who shouldn't exist. You, D-boy, and Nailbunny in quick sequence." He dropped his hands and leaned back hoping the monster he catered to would just reach out and pull him inside.

I don't understand what you mean.

"They talk but I can't understand what they say. Gibberish. The more I listen the less I take in." He moved to stand up, "He called me conceited and I let the Moose have him. I was happy when he died again, then I saw him watching me sleep and was relieved he was alive."

A new friend, perhaps?

"It's a little more complicated than that but basically."

That should make things more interesting around here. You should do something about the Wall though.

"I have some left over from those kids a few days ago."

A few days ago?

"Or something, you remember."

Of course.

"Wondering if I will ever see you again . . ."

End Chapter Three