NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: Please see this (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=571615) for more information. Please make sure I've given approval before posting either via telegrams or in the thread itself. If you have any questions, please ask me via telegram or the OOC thread.

Summer was always simmering. The boiling pavement, the tar sticking to the melting driveways as the acrid air crackled like mini-thunderstorms. The humidity was unbearable, the stench of the entire thing disgusting and deplorable. Under the plastic canopies, people sat as their fans angrily whirred, engines already steaming. Cars were kept deep in their garages, and children were hushed back into the safety of their air conditioned homes as their parents grasped them tightly, shouting and lamenting. The homeless walked around with throbbing red rashes on their backs, dirtied towels wrapped around their heads as their dogs salivated beyond belief.

The bustling of the cars, the whistling of the police officers as the skyscrapers in the distance glimmered with the shimmering, dancing celestial lights of the noon turrets. The sun was high and imperial, shining its rays down with impunity as the people shifted from left to right, uneasy and uncomfortable in the blazing heat. The lawns were parched and scorched, the rivers drying as the fish within its blackened streams greedily trying to stay alive as they flailed in what little space remained. It was too damn hot here.

But elsewhere, within the city, it was different. It was uneasy. It was cool. Cold, chilling. Lifeless, without warmth. Soulless, as the light of the sun did not penetrate the streets. Not these ones.

A single figure only walked through them, his hand wrapped around the sweat filled handle of his switch blade, walking through the darkness as the streets were empty and forlorn. Without shadows, he only smelled the stench of rotting bodies fill his nostrils, but nowhere was there a corpse to be found. Only him, the fog encompassing him as he could barely see past the corner of the street a few feet away, and the streetlights illuminated a ruby red shimmer. Blood splatters were on the light’s shield, giving off a reddish ray, and beneath it, there was a shadow.

A form of unknown, hanging in the light, the noise of a creaking rope like gallows giving way to age, dangling with no sight as the man approached it. There was not a single soul hanging from that pole, nothing, but the shadow beneath it, splashed under the crimson light, and was showing something. A black, solid form, with spider-like fingers, grasping out for the road, but as the light let up, there was nothing hanging. The man walked briskly, quickening his pace before the bristling touch of the end of a shoe pressed against his neck, then nothing.

Then again.

Then nothing.

The smell of bodies were still lingering in the air, and the noise of horns and voices in the distance, but the night was still young, and the light of the sunset did not yet dissipate. Only an evening dusk was shown, the ring of the last vestige of sunlight dipping below the blankets of the horizon into the endless earth. The clouds were empty, ghostly white and the stars were not there. Only a black, mass less form as shapes shifted about in the sky. Creaking continued, as only the smell was there, the shadow was there, but nothing between the red light otherwise.

Walking further along, the man heard a loud thud behind him, walking faster as he turned around slightly to peek behind his way, and only there did he see a body lying on the ground where he first saw the shadow, his feet tapping on the pavement. “Oh god, oh god.” He spoke angrily, clenching his teeth in horrified distaste, frightened and gasping for breath as the fog became stronger.

Moaning and screeching was heard. A human screech, like a high pitched scream that never stopped rang throughout his ears. The sound of a woman being stabbed as the visceral piercing of the flesh by the knife was flooding into his drums, but there was only the fog that surrounded him. In front of him, a child’s crying was heard, slowly distorting to a lengthened crawl like a cat’s meow. Dark, deep, fingers scuttling, the footsteps approached him as he walked to the side, and there, another set approached from the other side. Behind him, the clattering of feet like the plastic clicks of doll feet. Like little tap dancing shoes, smashing upon the ground with the ticking of the seconds, the heartbeat rushing to his mind.

“Oh god. Fuck. Fuck.” He said, his knife swinging around, his eyes closed as he ran a single direction in the growing and soon endless night. Figures glided along the edges of his vision, and now with his eyes closed he insisted that he did not see those shapes again. Rushing, running, sprinting, out of breath but unable to accept that something was chasing him, the moaning and crying stopping, the clattering and clicking dying down into nothingness.

Hands grasping a wall, he felt the softness of a fleshy being upon his fingers, and opening his eyes slowly, the face of his father was implanted into the wall. The emerald eyes, the thin, dried lips, the sunken stare and the thin, sharp cheeks. It was his father, hair stringy and white, but nevertheless the man who, in all images, was presented as being stuck on the wall, impaled by a single sharp pole as blood had trickled down his mouth. Smiling with blood ruby lips, he looked at the man with content. The man, looking back, making out the eyes in the night, felt the blood on his hand, ignoring it grimly.

Only two words were mouthed from his father’s chopped tongue. Just two, before the ring of a cell phone was heard. Waking up in the heat from a nap, the man sighed. Only a nightmare. A surreal journey of a mind at work.

Picking up his cell phone, he pressed it against his ear. “Hello?” He asked.

“Goodnight, Jeremy.” The voice whispered, a baby crying in the background, the low drawl of the whimper out of a demonic feline-like meow.

“Wait, who is this? Dad?” The man said, before it hung up on him. Looking at the number, it was inevitably his father’s home phone, and the sweat poured down on him, his fingers running through his hair.

But as he did so, the feeling of peeling skin was on his forward, and he ran his fingers along the surface before small flakes of burgundy blood fell like a mahogany winter. His right hand was covered in blood, almost to the level where the surface was caking. “What the fuck is this?” He asked himself, his face distorted in disgust.

The noise of bending gallows was heard with the smell of a corpse. Only a single shadow was at the foot of his bed.

Then nothing.

Janus had been an average teenager a year ago. On the boat over, he’d had a lot of time to think of himself from back then. The day had started off routine, but it hadn’t been a routine day. Janus remembered how excited he’d been that his mom allowed him not to have the big and festive birthday party. Instead, she’d allowed him to have his own party, with his own friends. They’d all pitched in for a cake, and had little poppers to greet him in their little niche in the park. A plane droned overhead, and perhaps out of habit, Janus looked up hopefully. He had frowned in disgust; it had been ten years since his father had died-no, had disappeared. His plane had been lost in a storm, the storm…they’d searched for almost two weeks before giving up, listing his father as, “Lost and presumed dead.” Janus had tried to ignore it back then, trying to lose himself in the spirit of the party, particularly in the spirits of Jennifer, who I’ve not-so-secretly tried to get together with.
------
Janus:
I successfully get the both of us separated from the rest of the group, and we’re just talking. Well, it’s mostly her, with only an occasional comment or affirmation from me. Suddenly, one of my friends-Mike-calls me over. I sigh inwardly at his timing and try to excuse myself gracefully, but I end up tripping on a root. Trying to regain my composure, I look at what Mike was beckoning me for. There’s a man from the People’s Parcel Service decked out in a long trenchcoat, despite the fact that it’s barely below 60°. He’s got a manila folder in his hand, and as I approach, he asks me by name.

“We were given instructions to deliver this letter today,” he informs me, “At this park to a boy named Janus Anderson, is that you?”
“Yeah…” I answer warily. I can tell my friends gathering around, mystified by these events. The man hands me a receipt to sign, I hand it back and I get the package.

I open in and find a simple letter envelope-nothing fancy, with my name written in careful calligraphy on the front. I recognize it as my father’s handwriting, as I used to peruse volumes of journals and letters of his when I was younger. I open it and stand there shocked as I read.

To my son, Janus,
By now, I know I’ve been gone for a while…you probably don’t even remember me or what I look like. I’m your father, Janus. And today is your fifteenth birthday. I wish I could be there to see the young man you’ve grown into. Are you the sort that’s good in sports…? The bookworm? The charmer with a new girl every week…? I don’t know, but I wish I did.

The reason I’ve written to you, Janus is simple. There is a place you need to be, and I’ve written you ahead of time to warn you. In a year, in the city of Ithaca, there will be a very important event. You NEED to be there. Boy, listen to me, though; this is not to be undertaken lightly, or with a mediocre will. You must be willing; willing to go into the Depths themselves to uncover the mystery there. Are you willing, my boy? I hope you are…I know you are.

Your Father.

I’m absolutely blown away. My friends are all questioning me to tell them what it says, but I can’t say a thing. Instead, I stumble away, only semi-aware of my friends calling out to me. Even Jennifer’s pleas aren’t enough to hold me back, and I end up running all the way home.

That was a year ago, almost to the day. Six months ago, I jumped a cargo ship as an apprentice, knowing it would take me to the shores I needed to go to. From there, I hopped and hitched rides all the way to Ithaca, shedding my pea coat and other non-essentials in the hellish weather.

There’s something not right about this city, I noticed that from the onset. I walk the streets alone, looking and basking in the big-city atmosphere. I make my way to the center of the city, wondering where exactly I should go. I got decent pay from the ship I worked on, and look around for a hotel or something I can stay in. there’s an overpass and I duck under it to get out of the heat, sitting down on the curb as I take a drink from my dwindling canteen. Somewhere, I’m sure, my dad is here somewhere…he wouldn’t have sent the letter otherwise. I have to find him…I have to know what’s going on.

The shiver of the leaves was deft, falling shortly like scraps of nature’s papers as the small slither of sheets dribbled through the air onto the ground. Puddles rang as the tapping of the soft fingers of the rain bore rings around their glassy surfaces. Like small waves bobbing in miniature fashion, the boots were soggy as the socks were already wet from the leaking. Men stood in respect as a small, scattered group bode farewell to the mahogany box. Only a few wept then, the others standing in silence as the preacher only spoke his short speech. The one figure that was to be there was not.

Locked within the house, a single bottle of alcohol casting throbbing shadows over the pine table, the calloused hand of Jeremy Walker touched the cold glass once more. Looking at the drops of alcohol run along the cold surface of the glass, he shook in lament like a cold’s shiver; his fingers tapping uneasily as the red blood stain on his hand never went away. Tick, tick, tick, it rang, like a telephone.

Tick, tick, tick. It became faster. Then faster, then faster.

Then stopped. Then.

Tick, tick, tick.

His eyes were lifeless, soulless, without conscience or thought, without activity or feeling, the frigid icicle cold room turning hot, then cold once more. Jeremy’s mind was split apart, his head burning as the blood from his skull pumping through his veins like wildfire, the pain unbearable as he breathed uneasily in the wake of the throbbing. His hands were clenched together, the newspaper in his left, the sweat pouring from his palms catching onto the loose ink as black smudges were formed, his fingerprints pressed onto the paper. His mind was in searing pain, his teeth clenched, as if a knife was slowly cutting apart his skin.

Every feeling. The whole touch of the visceral blade, ghostly cold, running smoothly along his skull as the skin slowly slid off his skull, the small wiry sinew pulled out like hair as the flaps of flesh were moistened in the trickling blood. The lips, scarred and chapped, the feeling of torn flesh as he pressed tip by tip together, only to have a coppery taste of blood in his mouth before he tasted a metallic, sour saliva. Fingers were cold, freezing. Somewhat burning now, warming up as the feeling of the nails were beginning to intensify.

The dreariness of it all, the blackness that began to tentacle its way through the corners of his eyes, slowly crawling at a snail’s pace to his sight. Overwhelming as the pain encompassed him, the feeling of steel rods piercing his stomach, his arms, his shoulders and his hands, the enflamed muscles melting away like minced flesh as he heard squelching noises. The pain was unbearable, and the tired attitude of it all only made him want to sleep even more as he closed his eyes to the frozen pain.

When he awoke, the cackling of crows was outside his window. His eyes, regaining proper sight, and his muscles, worn and tired but still fine, drifted towards the indigo sky. Sunset, the crimson star’s last single kiss of the day before it dipped down into the rocky ocean that was the horizon, birthed and birthed again, the death of a day before the fire of the chariot in the sky would fly once more. He sat there, looking at the trickling of the clouds as they crawled by in the sky, the wind blowing gently as the banging of the windows were heard in the upstairs bedroom, bottle at his table gone. It was never there.

Footsteps up the stairs, the creaking ticked like the clock, and every second that went by the sun closed down into the world that much quicker. Exponentially, darkness began to encompass the house, the turning of the doorknob screeching as its un-oiled gears clattered loudly against each other. Floorboards creaking, he walked into the room to close the window.

But there was none. Only a single blank wall, the work desk of his father’s dying company, the papers strewn all over the floor as the single suitcase was propped up with its lid flung open, ready to receive and be received. There was the bed, the indentation of his mother still there, the pristine condition his father had left it frightening but amazing. By now, the moon was high in the sky, casting shadows over the room with the single light that came from the windows in the hallway, pouring gently its sable silver shine into the tiny room. His eyes upon the papers, he looked at the articles, the journal entries and the progress work. But there were no pictures of Jeremy, or his mother. Only work.

“Fuck it, dad.” He said, looking at the papers with disgust before turning around to leave. When he heard in the obituaries his father had died of a heart attack, he had taken up the rights to the house, and kept it under his name. His father’s property, by the will, was given to him. This house was his, but with all the good memories within it, he could recall none of them with his father. “Fuck it.” He repeated angrily, his feet stomping down the stairs, the loud clanging heard as he headed for the garage.

Swinging the door open, his keys pressed into the hole, he entered his car as the garage doors slowly opened by his remote, the night awaiting as he checked his rear view mirror. There, standing in the middle of the room, the form of a dark, faceless figure walking towards the car as the footsteps were heard, the moaning and groaning of a monstrous beast in pain, the screaming of a tortured soul as the lashes of the clock cut away the formalities.

“Who is that?” Jeremy whispered to himself, unsure of how to approach it. The footsteps got closer, touching the driveway. The shoes clanged down, the click of the heels getting louder.

Then the sidewalk again.

The second, inner driveway.

The figure stopped, standing in the darkness of the night as it waited, hangs down, form straight, without eyes or facial expressions to describe its appearance. Jeremy waited, but the moaning and screaming continued, and he soon became unsure if it really was the figure.

“What is he doing?!” He asked, turning the car on, the engine roaring as the high beams flickered behind him, hoping to get a glimpse of the figure standing there. When the sapphire-shimmering light splashed the area with a bright light, nothing was there. Nothing standing there. Only the blank air and the moon hanging overhead on a silver platform, and on the driveway and at the sidewalks, the dirtied footprints of somebody’s shoes were drying up in the chilly night.

Arthur Vogel was left physically unscathed by his service in the Rammsteinburg Army during the recent civil war. Besides gaining a few pounds, on the outside he was the exact same man he had been before. But his mind, on the other hand, was irrevocably damaged by the horrors of combat. His mind was still in the past, on the battlefield where he lost his innocence four years ago. The same events were relived every day: the deafening explosions, the bullets whizzing by only inches away from his body, the screams of his dying comrades. After his discharge from the Army, Vogel thought he could move on, that in time the memories which constantly tormented him would fade away and that he could pretend none of it had ever happened. But there was no escape now, he knew; he was forever chained down by those agonizing recollections.

Nobody knew the young man's suffering. He kept hidden well. He even somehow managed to pass the mental evaluation when he applied for his job with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. At times he contemplated seeing a psychiatrist or psychology--a psycho-something--but in the end he always came to the conclusion that there was no hope and he was better off keeping his pain to himself.

The junior diplomat woke in a puddle of sweat and with a strange uneasiness overcoming him. Slowly, painfully, he rose from the bed. He was dressed in only a gray pair of boxer-briefs. He entered the bathroom of his modest-sized hotel room and splashed his face with cool water, but it did little to fix his feeling that something was askew. As hard as he tried, he could not shake it. Normally Vogel would have attributed to his daily nightmares, but today he knew that it was something else, something more devilish. What then could be the source of this unnerving foreboding that plagued him? Was it just a trick of the mind? He wanted to believe that, but he simply couldn’t. On some level he just knew that it was not a mere deception of his senses; a real danger was lurking, but what he had no way of determining, and that was the most frightening part.

I wish I never came to this rotten city, Vogel thought. Why couldn’t I get a nice post at the Rechburg embassy or something? Some nice, cozy assignment in a place where I know I’m safe. Not here, not Ithaca. There’s something about this place that I don’t like. The very city has an aura, it seems, like it’s a living, breathing, godless monstrosity.

But these thoughts were crazy, he realize. Ithaca was just another city, not much different from his home city of Ark in Rammsteinburg. Arthur Vogel had been there for about a week now, and the stay, while far from luxurious, was not unpleasant. He had been given a warm welcome, and in his free time he got to explore the wonderful things the city had to offer. A coffee shop three blocks away from his hotel had found a spot in his heart, and yesterday he stumbled upon one of the most beautiful, serene parks he had ever seen. Yes, he told himself, nothing was wrong with Ithaca. He was being silly, that’s all.

How do I explain this uncanny premonition, then? he asked himself. Arthur searched desperately for an answer, but failed. He splashed his face again with cold water and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he saw in the mirror that his face was covered in blood. He jumped backwards and fell into the bathtub. His heart beat faster as a surge of adrenaline pumped through his 28 year old body. Before him stood a half-decomposed corpse. There was only a few square inches of skin left on the face, but he recognized it immediately as Corporal Franz Kraft, a comrade he had lost early in the war. Kraft wore a tattered green uniform covered in mud and blood and a black substance that might have been oil. Arthur could see bone where the rips were. The corporal’s right arm dangled, connected the rest of the body by only a thin chunk of muscle. The other arm clung to a rifle, a huge slice of human skin on the bayonet. Arthur remembered his friend as basically a giant dork who always had a big, goofy smile. Ten minutes before he died, Corporal Kraft told him a dirty joke, and he could clearly picture that stupid grin of his, for the corpse towering above him wore it, too.

Arthur was not sure how long the apparition stayed. A minute, an hour, a whole day—who knew? He seemed then to have been outside of the confines of time.

The young diplomat got out of the tub and exited the bathroom. An orange glow filled the room. He went to the window and saw the setting sun beyond rows of buildings. The way the light shone on those glass skyscrapers seemed perfect to him. He stared for minutes at the picturesque scene, and for the first time since before the war, he experienced genuine contentment at being alive. He even felt like his old self again—the witty, charming, hopeless romantic Comparative Literature major he had been before the army got a hold of him.

A scream suddenly brought him back to reality. The frightful cry pounded mercilessly on Arthur’s eardrums with a force like a speeding car slamming into a brick wall. He covered both ears and moved back from the window. “What the FUCK was that?” he yelled. That scream was almost… inhuman!

The sound had originated from inside the building. He ran out into the hall and turned left. Lying on the cold, uncarpeted floor was a woman, no older than 25. Blood gushed from her chest, soaking her pink blouse. She lay in front of an open door. Inside that room came the sound of breaking glass, followed by another horrible, more animal-like scream. Arthur could hear footsteps, and a shadow appeared on the wall opposite the room. Somebody was coming, and he didn’t want to know who. Fearing for his life, Arthur sped down the hall, hurried down the stairs, and burst through the glass doors of the hotel main entrance into a deserted street.

He could still hear the footsteps. They were louder now. He ran down the street until they finally disappeared.

Arthur stood outside the coffee shop he loved. Looking inside, he saw no one. He looked all around him and there was not one single person in sight. Solitude usually pleased him, but all the young diplomat wanted at that moment was the comfort of a warm body pressed against his. He needed company… He needed a friend.

Trash flew by on the empty road, guided by a strong gust of wind. Still dressed only in underwear, Arthur shivered. He crossed his arms over his chest and pushed them tightly against himself. Unfortunately, he did not have the courage to return to the hotel for his clothes. He squatted against a lamp post and began thinking over his options, which he sadly understood to be very limited at the moment.

A bat flew overhead. It dived, circled four feet above Arthur’s head twice and went flying off the way that the Rammsteinburgian had come. The twenty-eight year old ex-army sergeant envied the creature. He wanted wings to fly away home, out of this terrible city.

Another breeze came, and it was colder than the last. Arthur’s mind went blank and he sat shaking, stupidly staring ahead at nothing. Somebody was rapidly approaching from behind, but he had gone deaf.

A single thought, a name, penetrated his consciousness. He whispered it to himself: “Sylvia…”

All of a sudden the deserted street came to life. People rushed by on the sidewalks with gloomy faces. Furious drivers stuck in traffic honked their horns and cursed loudly. The stench of exhaust filled Arthur's nose. The normal sights, sounds, and smells of the modern world had returned. It would be an understatement to say the Rammsteinburgian was confused by this bizarre turn of events. He felt nothing, did nothing, for he hadn't the slightest clue how he should respond.

Nobody paid any attention to the nearly naked man squatting by a lamp post. That, Arthur thought, was the weirdest thing of all. Somehow he was invisible to them, or at least they acted that way.

Another abrupt change of scenery occurred. He was no longer on a busy sidewalk, but back in his bed at the hotel, covered in perspiration and besieged by overwhelming apprehension.

"Okay, now," he said, "this is really getting fucked up..."

Sid’s back hurt. Her shoulders were stiff, a small long line of beaten muscle throbbing as she laid down on the couch, her television flickering wildly before her eyes as the bubbling of last night’s soup trickled slowly down the pot, the burner sizzling loudly as smoke drifted through the kitchen. She had no smoke detector, and wished none, for it she did the incessant beeping would have annoyed her to no end. The night shift, all of it was long and brutal, horrible as she picked the itchy bits of grain out of her long and once vibrant chestnut hair. Nothing, just news at this hour, the bombardment of insipid television struggling to claw its way into her mind, as over a small bit of time, she heard a knocking at the door, followed by steady ringing on the doorbell. “Christ.” She murmured, walking over to her closet as she placed a coat around her shirtless body, zipping it up quickly.

Opening the door, the face of a familiar man answered her. His face was dishevelled and sweaty, his fingers shaking and his eyes red with dried tears, and she took her hand and forcefully pulled him into the house, closing the door behind him. The small living room was comfortable for one person, leading up to the bedroom on the balcony-like second floor. The stairs were crossing each other at the end of the room and there were no hallways – only the basement after that as the kitchen was separated to the left by a single half-door.

Sitting down on the couch, her hands tucked neatly in her coat pockets, the small wrappers of chocolate bars heard as the foil scrunched up loudly. “Why this late, Jeremy?” Sid asked, taking her hair and pushing the bangs back, revealing her piercing yet shimmering azure eyes. Her thin lips were pursed like knives, sharp and attention grabbing, and her tiny nose flared up in her nervousness. How long has it been? Six? Seven? Six or seven years since they had separated because of the pressure from Jeremy’s illogical father and her family’s disapproval. Troubles only lasted as troubles for so long before romance broken apart. To her, Jeremy was no longer considered a man she loved, but rather a brother, or a being she had an obligation to take care of, as god knows how he manages to stay alive and maintain himself, as she herself cannot fathom.

“He’s gone, Sid.” Jeremy replied back, his fingers running along his head, the hair turning a ghostly white as the roots were slowly losing their colour. “He’s missing.”

“Who?” Sid was unsure of what Jeremy was trying to say. Did somebody die? “Who went missing?”

“Dad.” Jeremy replied forlornly.

She wasn’t sure as to how she should feel. On one hand, she hated the man. She hated his misogynist views and his chauvinist attitude. She despised his nasty tendencies to leer at her or minimize her value within the relationship. However, as Jeremy was a brother to her, Harold, in all his twisted sexist malevolence, was a poor father, but father nevertheless. As such, he carried a value within her that was irreplaceable, but also weakening as the years went by, and now rekindled were the inadequacies she was subject to in his time as Jeremy, eyes shot and cold, almost feverish, was desperately frightened and worried.

But she didn’t know why did Jeremy act so frightened now. Why did he take Harold’s missing status so down to heart? What was wrong?

“You’ve called his cell phone and his home phone, correct? Jeremy?” She asked louder, more clearly, as he turned and looked, then nodded.

“He’s not there. He’s not home, nor at the Midnight Grill, or anywhere. I don’t know where he is, Sid.” He was beginning to panic, as Sid nodded as he spoke every single word.

“Alright, we’ll phone the cops and let them know, ask them to continue the search. We’ll go to Harold’s house and check it out, maybe there’s a note for us. Or a letter, or some sort of sign, you know?” She got, unzipping the jacket as her bra was slightly visible. “First off, I’m going to take a shower. I’m going outside for a fucking smoke, then we’ll be on our way. Is that alright, Jeremy?” Sid asked, as Jeremy sighed in agreement.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Actually, it’s perfect right now.” He answered monotonously, as Sid shrugged at the lifeless conversation.

After her shower, she picked up her phone to call the police. However, there was no dull tone ringing. There wasn’t the droning noise of the open line as it awaited patiently for the caller to punch in the number. Only an eerie silence and Sid clanged the handle back onto the receiver. The phone rang. The drilling noise pounding its noise into her skull, she shook her head in disbelief as she picked up the phone. “Hello?” She asked pleasantly, before the quietness of the receiver made her uneasy. “Hello?”

She hung up.

“I’m not in the mood for this.” She whispered to herself, looking out the window before the black shadow of a single figure hanging outside by the streetlights, the creaking of the arm heard as the ropes were dangling loosely by the thin threads like sinew as the fleshy, rosy red blood trickled down endlessly. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh, shit.” She spoke uneasily, looking at the dying sun as the blackness began to encroach upon the world.

“What’s going on?!” She spoke loudly, Jeremy ignoring her cries. “It’s supposed to be dawn. Dawn! Jeremy!” She turned to him, unsure and uneasy. “What’s going on here?!”

Jeremy’s eyes were careless. “It’s been happening for a long time now.” He answered. “I don’t know how to get out of this, Sid.”

Sid slid down onto the ground. “Okay.” She spoke calmly. “We go to the police station. We-we go and tell them, that something’s wrong, and we speak calmly, and tell them, and they’ll understand. Okay?”

“It won’t help, Sid.” Jeremy argued, getting up. “We’re isolated. There’s nobody out there but us.”

“Well, fuck that. I’m going.” Sid replied, getting her keys. “I need to figure out what the hell is going on in this fucked up city.”

OOC: Post coming up tonight.

The sweet aroma of freshly brewed coffee overpowered the musty smell of the hotel room. Arthur was confused. He did not remember making coffee before going to sleep, but apparently he had. He walked to the pot on a table on the other end of the room. His movement was sluggish, his back slouched and his head hung low; he moved as if a large stone had been chained to his ankle, as if the heavy burden he carried inside him every day had assumed a material form. When he reached the table the smell of the beverage energized him.

Halfway through pouring himself a cup he noticed his hand shaking, but why he did not know. He wanted put the cup and coffee pot down, but his hand had declared mutiny. He could not stop the slipping of the pot from his hand. Time stopped as it made its descent. A thunderous clash of shattering glass rung in his ears. Shards flew in every direction. Scolding hot coffee splashed everywhere, some of it burning his hairless chest. A tiny chunk of glass cut Arthur’s left arm, and another slashed his cheek. One particularly sharp piece slowly dug into his abdomen, piercing the skin like a samurai’s sword, working its way deep into the young man’s body. Pain did not register in the Rammsteinburgian’s brain. Mesmerized, he watched the flying shards and brown liquid like a child watches the fireworks on the Fourth of July.

Time returned to its normal pace. Arthur became dizzy and wobbled away from the table. The world began to spin around him. Once again the name appeared in his head. But it was not his own voice who uttered that dreaded word, but that of a cruel stranger; its tone was sadistic, mocking. With each second that passed the voice was amplified and the world moved faster around him. Every utterance of the name—Sylvia¬—was more mocking than the last. Arthur slammed his hands on his ears and yelled “Stop it! Stop it!” This only encouraged the fiendish entity that resided within. It laughed at him; it took pleasure in his pain. “Stop tormenting me!” Arthur exclaimed, but again to no avail. Suddenly the voice seemed to coming from outside him.

Oblivious to his external environment, the young man wandered the room, pleading in vain for mercy. Faster and faster did the universe spin around him. People from his past gathered around, studying him with scrutinizing gazes. They, too, began to scream the name: “Sylvia! Sylvia! Sylvia!” Arthur begged them to leave him alone, but they refused to listen. He pushed his hands harder against his ears, and he felt blood touch his palms.

The voice stopped. The blood gushing from his ears vanished, and his burns and wounds faded away. Arthur slowed his breathing. It's all over, he reassured himself. You’re safe.

The coffee was no longer on the table. In fact, the table itself had vanished. Arthur stood in an empty room. A low wattage light bulb illuminated only a small portion of the room with him motionless in the middle.

A whistle sounded. Cold air brushed against his pale skin. Did I leave the window open? The noise made an encore. No, it can't be the wind -- can it? It seems so unnatural...

There was movement in the dark circle surrounding the diplomat. Light pattering on the floorboard. A slow creaking. Dumbfounded, Arthur did nothing. Of course, what was there for him to do?

Fear opened the floodgates of his memory. Frightening images from his past tormented him. An innocent woman's head sliced off by flying debris from a terrorist explosion. Men with sinister grins and AK-47s coming out of nowhere. A barrage of automatic weapon fire and blood spraying everywhere. And Corporal Kraft, wearing that goofy smile, his dead flesh being consumed by maggots.

The light went out, just for a second, returning brighter than before. The entire room was lit again, and all of the items in it were present -- with one addition. Next to the coffee pot lay a book: a dusty, red hardback book the size of an encyclopedia. Arthur was reminded of pictures he saw in history textbooks of monks leaning over such books. He touched it, gently, half-expecting it to turn ash. An ancient ambience emanated from it. Many emotions assaulted him: fear, awe, a strong curiosity, a sense of adventure, and a feeling to which he could not assign a name, like the mix between melancholy and disgust – some ghoulish sensation that made his stomach churn.

To open it, or not? That was the question before Arthur Vogel. The temptation was like an alcoholic’s yearning for liquor when stressed – no, stronger than that. The urge bordered on a need. However, a perception of danger loomed. But what harm could a book bring? Even if its contents are disturbing, they won’t kill; words aren’t lethal. He convinced himself that he was acting childishly and opened to the first page.

Pictures with a bronze hue filled the page. “It’s a photo album!” Arthur exclaimed. Most of the photographs were posed portraits of a family, but there were occasional candid shots, as well. Judging from their attire, he guessed that the pictures were taken in the 1920s, maybe a decade earlier. Despite their age the photos were in pristine condition. The quality was too good, in fact. They couldn’t have looked this good even when they were taken! He flipped through the album more slowly now, taking the time to carefully view the pictures. Certain odd details caught his eye. Many of the pictures had a subtle, surreal quality to them. A few sent shivers down Arthur’s spine. At first he could not put his finger on what made them so dreamlike, so eerie—it was their facial expressions. Smiling children playing tag. A grandmother knitting peacefully by the fireplace. A father with a pipe in his mouth and a happy little girl on his knee, resting her head upon his chest. They all seemed to be hiding some dark secret. You could see it in their eyes. They stared at you distrustfully; murderously, even.

Arthur noticed something as else he browsed this unusual book of pictures. The photographs gradually took on a more somber tone. Soon gone were the shots of barbeques and family vacations. Gone was the laughter and smiles. Variation declined, as well. Eventually the only differences were in the backgrounds. In each photo the family stood straight, looking right into the camera, and increasingly Arthur felt they were looking at him. Their faces showed nothing, and their clothes always the same bland formal attire. Too creeped out to continue, he slammed the book close. A cloud of dust formed when he did so, some of going down his throat. He doubled over and coughed violently.

Rage surged inside him, and he was overcome by a compulsion to destroy the photo album. Not bothering to think twice about it, he grabbed it and tossed it out the window. Shards of glass spread across the room. Freezing cold air from outside leaked in from the giant hole in the lower pane. The anger faded. Shame filled him for his outburst, the kind of shame a child experiences when punished by a parent. Arthur sat on his bed and rubbed his forehead. He wondered if his brain finally had a meltdown. What other explanation existed for his strange experiences? He sighed and laid flat on his back. Questions danced in his head: How would I have turned out if I had never gotten drafted? Is my ex-wife doing okay? Why the hell did I join the Foreign Service? Why the hell did I agree to come to Ithaca?

Thinking fatigued the young diplomat. The quiet outside did nothing to help. After ten minutes he was fast asleep.

In his dream Arthur wandered aimlessly down a dirt road. Multicolored trees with falling leaves flanked him, birds overhead chirped a cheerful little tune, and the odors of nature filled his nostrils. There was peacefulness in the cool autumnal air. The young Rammsteinburgian walked with easiness in his step—and a bit of youthful cockiness, as well—as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He was dressed in blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Beneath his right arm was a copy of Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, a book he had read for a world literature class in college and a personal favorite.

He neared the end of the road. The world took on a queer bronze hue. That happy tune the birds had been singing became eerily somber. Tranquility in the air was replaced by a gloom and a sense of impending doom. Arthur’s pace slowed, became more cautious, and he scanned for possible danger. The road led to a huge opening in the woods. To the right lay a small lake with a single canoe tied to a dry rotting dock, rocking gently in the water. To the left a massive country estate towered high above the tree. The size of it was breathtaking. He gawked at the magnificent building.

A faint tune caught Arthur’s attention. It was familiar, but he could not identify it at first. He moved closer to its source of origin, and he realized it was Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” Somebody inside the house played it on a piano—and quite well.

A screen door had been left opened. Arthur entered in a trancelike state, forgetting that he was trespassing on a stranger’s property. The music seduced him. He had to find whoever played it, no matter what.

Paintings lined a seemingly endless hallway down which he strolled. They were strikingly realistic to the point that one could reasonably confuse them for photographs. Each had a look and feel akin to a mix between Munch’s “The Scream” and Grant Wood’s “American Gothic”: creepily empty faces with a simple rural scene behind them, an underlying melancholy and a subtle expression of madness. Arthur was reminded of the people in the photo album that had spontaneously appeared before him.

He spotted a doorless opening on the left up ahead. “Moonlight Sonata” changed to “Für Elise”. With cautious steps he approached the obvious source of the beautiful playing. He stopped just before the opening and turned his head for a peak.
A girl no older than fourteen sat in front of the piano, her back to Arthur, dressed only in a nightgown and a pair of slippers. Red hair extended three quarters of the way down her back, the only thing in sight without the bizarre bronze hue. Arthur’s hands shook as they had at the table earlier, and this time they were soaked with sweat. Wanting a better look, he went into the room.

The girl stopped playing immediately. All of a sudden she faced Arthur; her movements had been so quick that he had not seen them. What he saw brought him to his knees. He let out an ungodly awful cry of pure revulsion. The girl’s throat had been slashed, and blood as red as her hair dripped down the front of her garment.

Arthur laid on the floor in the fetal position. “No! No! No!” he screamed. “It can’t be! No!” He sobbed and continued to yell “No!” until his throat became too dry to speak. The mocking voice returned and tormented him once more with that name, over and over and over again—Sylvia.

Still pulling his knees against his chest and with tears rolling down his cheeks, the young Rammsteinburgian found himself back in his hotel. He lay with his head leaning against the door. The worse part hit him then. He was not sure how he knew, but know it he did. He was awake, and that had been no nightmare. Reality was collapsing around him. Something was askew in the city of Ithaca.

OOC: I really don't think I'm too good at this.

ooc: tag for post. i just gotta free up time to make a good one...

ooc: tag for post. i just gotta free up time to make a good one...

OOC: I probably spent three whole hours (at least) over the last two days working on mine.

OOC:Working on a post, sorry I missed the start - college and now my FT factbook are keeping me busy.

OOC: You're doing fine, Rammsteinburg. Also, can we keep this OOC talk to the sign up thread?

“Oh my god, I can’t remember the last time we took Jen to that one place. What was it called? The one with the slide around it?” Sid asked, her fingers snapping as Jeremy’s eyebrows raised up in confusion. “You went there, didn’t you? Or was it Danny that went with me?”

“It was probably Danny. Wait, no, scratch that. It was Danny. The proceedings probably were going on during that time, unless it happened more than four years ago, because I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen Jen in four years. How are they?” Jeremy asked, curious about his whimsical brother-in-law and his monotonous wife. “Are they still planning on going on that travel program?”

Sid paused. “They got shot a year ago. I don’t know.” She shook her head, trying to recall the memories clearly. “It was some sort of crack addict and the police say he couldn’t differentiate or some bullshit like that.” She turned another corner, driving past Wistler Avenue as the empty buildings blew by, the windows bare and soulless, pristine and lifeless. The long trail out of Ithaca was beset with turns, and as she turned another, the familiar single chestnut bungalow caught Jeremy’s eyes.

The single teal door. The dying garden. The half-finished fence.

The next house, a semi-detached. One opened window, this time to Sid’s left. Originally to Jeremy’s. “We’re back in Ithaca.” Jeremy concluded, as Sid looked at him, her driving continuing before the intersection turned red. “Sid, we’re back in Ithaca. We need to figure out a different way than driving out of here.”

“Wait, what do you mean we’re back in Ithaca, Jeremy?” Sid asked, looking around, her eyes unbelieving as she scoffed at his ideas in frightful defeat. “How is that even possible? I took the nine east out of Ithaca, and down the open highway. How can you say that we’re back here in Ithaca?”

“I-I don’t know, but the past two houses I remember, and they’re on the rural outskirts here of Ithaca, we just passed them, Sid. I was looking out at the road and we’re here.” The light turned greened, but the eerie emptiness of the roads made Sid care less. She sat there in the driver’s seat, her hands clenched around the leather wheel, her sweat pouring down as her hand slipped slowly under. Jeremy looked around, trying to find some sign that could lead him to believe he was wrong. “Let’s just drive.”

“Fine, fine.” Sid said firmly, continuing as it just turned yellow. “Don’t say anything on that subject, okay? Just, not Ithaca, okay?” She tried to confirm, her fingers tapping against the wheel, the noisy ticking like a heartbeat as it thumped quicker in frigid fright. “Just, nothing.”

“Alright, alright.” Jeremy agreed, nodding as he sat there, silent, watching the familiar signs go by. He looked at the forests as, empty, black, shadows cast upon the leaf-less ground, the wind howling as it tapped loudly against their car door, trying to invite itself in. The tall forms and figures were creeping on the road, connecting in an ebony tunnel as they drove along the dimly lit streetlights as the image came into view. The three skyscrapers were visible in the west and north, and Sid’s disbelief came to odds with reality. The surreal, twisted reality that they lived in.

“What the fuck is this?” She whispered to herself, unwilling to believe the shadows of the cityscape in the distance, the bluish hue of the lights only flickering like the dotted beeps of night time radio towers. A small line of whirring lights were seen, but they spun in and out of existence as fast as they appeared upon the windshield. Jeremy didn’t say anything. He was right, but he wished he wasn’t.

Stopping at the empty highway, Sid pushed Jeremy’s hand aside as she reached into her glove compartment, pulling out a small bottle of headache relievers and some bottled water. Taking two, she gulped them down greedily as she drank the water with fervour before stuffing it back into the compartment. “Okay, we need to think clearly.” She told herself, the car braked and parked by the side of the road, the ditch between them and the infinite forest. Jeremy dared not look into the ever growing blackness only a few meters away them.

“Think clearly is right, but can we go somewhere a bit better to think these things out? Can we go back to your place or my dad’s place?” Jeremy pleaded, as Sid ignored him.

“Okay, okay. How do we get out? How do we get out?” Children’s crying was heard like soft whisperings Jeremy’s ears, the moaning and moping getting louder to him as he began to stare into the shadow swamped forest. Tall trees had cast blankets of innumerable darkness, uncontested as reddish glows were seen floating in pairs, like evil eyes as they hung about in the air, looking back as Jeremy began to press upon Sid’s arms. “Sid, Sid.” He urged.

“What?” She turned, looking at Jeremy, catching the eyes in her sight. “What?” Her voice became demurred.

“Can we please go somewhere not so close to a damn forest?” He asked, as the noise of the trunk began to thud loudly, the banging at the back of the car heard, screeching loudly like claws tearing apart the paper-like metal, the fragile structure breaking and bending. “Let’s go somewhere else!” He urged, Sid nodding as she unlocked the brakes and turned off the parking, driving with all her speed as the whirring of the car roared obediently. Scratching continued, working its way towards the sides, then the back doors, trying to open as the formless crying of children were heard. Screech, screech. Clang.

Sid sped up. The scratching moved back to the trunk. Screech, screech.

She went faster, and the scratching stopped entirely.

“Keep going, keep going.” Jeremy blurted, the car speeding up as Sid’s forehead was dripping with sweat, her fingers slippery with uneasiness and nervousness. “Shit. Oh, god, what was that?” He dared not to turn around, and dared not to look at the forest either, for fear of encountering those horrid eyes again, staring with malevolence as they stabbed his heart. His head was hurting, feeling as if it were cleaved in two. The tearing visceral ripping of his skin as it hung like melted plastic over his porcelain skull was burning, the feeling of sinew loosening as it dangled with blood behind his head like throbbing hair. The coppery taste filled his mouth, and he felt trickling down his head as they reached the city, the running of small droplets down his cheeks so sensitive like spider’s legs along the surface of his skin.

He tasted blood from the sweat, his fingers running along his face before he felt the crusting liquid turn a mahogany brown in his fingers. Hands running his hair, coagulated blood parts were forming, but there was no wound. Only the pain, then skin. But also blood. “Why did I come?” Jeremy asked, as Sid pulled into the city, her car parking near a convenient store as the lights were off.

“Wait here.” She whispered, beaten, unwilling to consider otherwise. “I’m going into the convenient store, and I’m going to get my smokes, okay?” She spoke to Jeremy as if he were a child, trying her best to ignore his panicking as she was coming to gripes with her own. Shaking, the opening of the door was slow, and she carefully walked out into the warm night air.

Looking at the back of her car, the imprint of a young man’s face was on the trunk, mouth wide and twisted as the sockets pressed deeper, casting shadows of their own in the blackening night. Long lines of dried and smeared blood was seen as the holes indicated the thumping of a body trying to get onto top of the car. Puncture holes in the side and in the back light revealed more blood, and the small jetted and protrude debris stuck in the metal only seemed too similar to human nails.

Alex stepped out into the light of Ithica. As a new arrival, he marvelled at the weather, which was much better than it ever was in Ustio. He had been here a few days, and while the weather was nice, he wasn't exactly on holiday. No, following a ridiculous trail of breadcrumbs left by his father had led him across three countries, to Ithica so far. He headed off to continue his search.


-------------------------------------------------------------
Some Time Later

It was dark when he returned to his room. It was dark of the moon, and he fumbled with his key in the dark

"Come on!" he shouted as he pushed the key into the door. It opened into a small room, with another door on the other side.

"What the hell?" he said to himself, looking at the door. He stepped into the room, and the door slammed shut behind him. The door in front of him looked identical to his door, with the same lock. He attempted to open it with his key. Again, the door swung open again to reveal a room with a door. Alex looked at it carefully, before deciding not to go in.

"Fuck this" he said, opening the door back to the hall. Yet again, this door swung open to the same room.

"What the hell is going on here?" he whispered to himself, looking around the room. Was it getting smaller in there? Alex pressed himself against the wall. It was definetly getting smaller in there.

Sid’s neck was sore, her fingers running along the small bump as she felt a needle-sharp sting on her spine. Shoulders raised as she the feeling off, the trickling of tiny little legs amongst her hands felt as she were blanketed in invisible spiders. Here, their crawls skittered and scattered, the small pricks of their tiny little hairs piercing into her skin as the goose bumps were felt when her fingers ran along her skin. Her hair was splitting, the whites of her knuckles visible as the cold metal handle was pulled, and the door creaking open to a screeching wail. The ringing of bells upon the glass pane clanged a loud noise, startling her somewhat as the blackened room revealed 4 rows.

At the end was a counter, and the cashier sat, his head turned away from Sid as his eyes were glued to the small television screen. His thick and hairy arm was sitting comfortable on the counter, his neck revealing a black mat of tattoos as he looked at the flickering images before him. Only small bits were heard, something about the advent of a medicine that cures cancer. However, Sid paid little attention to it, walking forwards before seeing at the rows, hanging on the small hooks dangling at the shelves were tiny photographs, not items that were to be bought. Within them, mirror images shimmered and glittered, the small portraits of dogs and children and a woman very familiar. To Sid, she was everything, and now nothing.

In many of the photos, she remembered these places – the frothing whitecaps upon Cape Willcraft’s crown like formations, the infinite forests of the Archer Peach Orchards. Everywhere, always, she saw the throbbing and bustling landmarks of Ithaca remind her, and every time she looked, somebody, or something, always made it more familiar. Her mother, in one of the photos on the walls of the rows, smiled back at her with expectant delight, her broad grin shining in the Clementine sunshine, her emerald eyes unlike Sid’s. She was a woman, unlike Sid, who was of her years, the bags already formed at her age, the small strands of greying hair protruding from already faded chestnut shades. Her long and thin neck began the extra lines of age as liver spots formed around her neck and collarbone, her thin and tiny hands dotted with the little black beasts, shadows dancing upon her wilted cheeks.

Sid stopped, not smiling, but only staring with an intense stare. Her fingers running along the photo, she only felt texture like skin, pressing against the sheet. It wasn’t glossy, not in this dusty and weak light, but it wasn’t just paper either. It seemed as if it were printed on a slab of paper-thin fat, and that pressing further and further would only disintegrate it. In fact, when Sid pressed, it wouldn’t move. She only had two black marks on her forefinger and thumb, a warmth feeling between them.

Continuing, she walked to the counter as she looked at the panel of scratch tickets – empty. “Excuse me.” She said, the man turning around, his eyes empty, the sockets revealing only the small dangling, blood trickling optic nerve, the white and wiry strings that hung like an overhanging nail. His mouth had no lips, but was split in the center, like mantis fangs as they trickled with blood, the nose flaring up as if to sniff the smell of a woman. Sid walked back, the beastly body of a monstrous human getting up, his hairy arms pressed against the counter before she walked back even quicker. Quickly, she grabbed the end of one of the metal prongs that jetted out on the rows, and quickly stabbed the monstrosity in the mouth, the beast grabbing the pipe as it swung it out of her hand. Tearing another one, she stabbed it in its left empty socket, the blood spraying out as it wailed and cried in pain, arms thrashing and flailing violently as Sid rushed out of the store.

Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, facing the window, with his chin resting on his knees and his hands held behind his head. Desperately he searched for an explanation for the day’s events. He tried to convince himself that he was losing his mind. At least then he could take comfort in knowing. And he could actually do something about that. But alas the young diplomat knew his sanity remained intact. His mind may be permanently damaged from his wartime experiences, but his condition had not progressed that far.

Trying to apply reason to this situation is hopeless. It’s tantamount to using a fork to eat soup. I’m stuck in something I can’t possibly understand. I need to get out of this city before it’s too late. Whatever’s happening, I don’t want to stay long enough to find out.

He did not know if there were any flights heading straight to Rammsteinburg, but he did not care; he would settle for anywhere but Ithaca. In a tote bag hanging on a hook by the door was his cell phone. I’m going to call the ministry and tell them I’m getting the hell out of this god forsaken place. He started towards it.

It suddenly struck Arthur how empty his room was. Aside from the bed and nightstand the only furniture was a small table and an adjacent chair. Dirt and dust alone covered the uncovered black linoleum tiles that made up the floor. There were large amounts of unoccupied space. Only the noise of his movement penetrated the silence which engulfed the nearly barren room. His senses were under stimulated. Lack of stimuli was deceptive, however, and this fact was not lost on him. Beyond everything existed entities undetectable by normal human faculties. They registered only on a particularly perceptive scale deep beneath one’s consciousness, in a forgotten, usually dormant part of the mind; but even then man could not truly perceive whatever they were, only that something supernatural was there; the full experience was unattainable. Even if man could really sense them, would he truly understand?

The cell phone was exactly where he had left it: in the tiny zippered compartment in the front of the nondescript black bag. Arthur dialed the number for the Rammsteinburg Ministry of Foreign Affairs. And nothing happened… There was no ring. No busy signal. Nothing. At all. He scratched his head. Clearly the battery hadn’t died. So what happened? He tried dialing a number of one of his contacts in the city, and again nothing occurred. In a final attempt he instinctively punched in the number for the police. Still the cell phone was not responsive.

A thought crossed his mind: that Ithaca did not wish for him to leave. He returned to his bed. I need to think.

“It’s all my fucking fault for deciding to come here,” he said. “The assignment was idea at the time. I needed to get as far from home as possible. Like a damn fool I believed that after what I did the farther away physically I got, the easier it would be to push it all aside. Ithaca was as far away as was available then. And the work seemed so perfectly mundane.”

But I was wrong. Arthur discovered that he could not flee from his demons. They were as much a part of him as his foot or his arm. Every transgression, every pain molds itself into the very fabric of my existence. Escape is impossible.

He went back to his tote bag and opened the main compartment. Inside were over a dozen paperback novels, a small sample of his immense and diverse collection. Among them were the works of his favorite authors: Kafka, Poe, Hemmingway, Vonnegut, and even Nick Cave. Literature always filled him with an indescribable joy. Even to this day it remained his sole passion. War reduced him to a fraction of his former self, but this was the one characteristic left unscathed. He removed his hardback copy of Slaughterhouse-Five and searched its pages. Finally he found the page where the protagonist, Billy Pilgrim, first meets the Tralfamadorians, an alien race which can see in four dimensions—length, width, depth, and time. He read through several pages until he came to when a Tralfamadorian reveals how the universe comes to an end:

“We know how the universe ends—“said the guide, and Earth has nothing to do with it, except that it gets wiped out, too.”

“How—how does the universe end?” said Billy.

“We blow it up, experimenting with new fuels for our flying saucers. A Tralfamadorian test pilot presses a starter button, and the whole Universe disappears.” So it goes.

“So it goes,” Arthur said out loud as he read the words.

“If you know this,” said Billy, “isn’t there some way you can prevent it? Can’t you keep the pilot from pressing the button?”

“He has always pressed it, and he always will. We have always let him and we always will let him. The moment is structured that way.”

That passage always had an intense impact on Arthur, more so now than ever before. It perplexed him how a creature could speak of the end of the universe so nonchalantly and accept its inevitably. And how Billy Pilgrim must have felt at becoming privy to such information! He tried hard to imagine it. In the process he wondered, Is the universe ending now? He shuddered at such a possibility.

In the novel the Tralfamadorians claimed that the concepts of ‘past,’ ‘present,’ and ‘future’ are nothing more than illusions; that all which happens today was already happened, will continue to happen for eternity, that all which happened yesterday happens still today, and that tomorrow has already occurred. They saw the entirety of history all at once; when they looked at a bug crawling across the wall, they saw its birth and they saw its death. Time, they said, was not linear. For the first time Arthur Vogel believed that these strange creatures in Vonnegut’s novel were right.

Ever since the war, I have been trapped in the past. Randomly I go back entirely, but I’m never fully here in the future. My life’s been fragmented. And now the whole world seems to be, too. It’s all falling apart. Walls are coming down. Time’s boundaries disintegrate. Events just wanders aimlessly through time and space. Paranoia consumed him. He feared that any moment he would once again relive the awful experiences of his past. His body shook. He thought the walls were closing in. The air seemed to be thinning, and he gasped. Somebody watched him, he was sure. Footsteps in the hallway. A squeaking like a rusty swing. Malicious laughter, as if him some sadist were saying to him with glee, “Today you die.” Everything conspired against him. The universe deteriorates. It starts in Ithaca, and then it spreads. The end is near, the end is near! he thought.

Arthur travelled back to his childhood. He ran down a hallway into his room, slamming the door shut. The lights were off. He hid under his bed and prayed as his father yelled drunkenly, “Boy! Where are you?” The door knob shook. A slow creaking warned the child of impending danger. Julius Vogel’s heavy work boots pounded ominously against the wooden floor. Young Arthur heard heavy breathing and the sound of a belt being removed. “Boy! You better show yourself,” the father said. And suddenly Arthur moved 20 years into the future. He was a raw Army recruit standing at attention as a drill instructor chewed him out for some minor transgression. Almost as soon as he entered the moment, he was gone, back to the present, or what he supposed you could call that, his room precisely as he had left it.

Fragments float about. You never know what to expect. Pieces of time rearranged themselves randomly, as if the world were a photo album and God moved the pictures inside on a whim.

“I’m trapped in a game with no rulebook," he said. But one thing is crystal clear: I need to get out of this hotel. I don’t know why, but I have to. Wind whistled and pressed against the window pane, as if an invitation to come and play.

Leaving his belongings behind, Arthur Vogel ventured outside, into the heart of darkness, where he had no clue what to expect. Would he find somebody who understood the day’s queer happenings? Somebody who could do something about it, maybe? Or was everybody else as puzzled as he? To his dismay he considered that he was alone in Ithaca, damned to witness its gradual demise in solitude.

Nobody roamed the halls of the hotel, and no one manned the front desk. Outside the situation was the same. Remnants of civilization remained, but the inhabitants of Ithaca had vanished. No light shone from the windows of nearby buildings. Cars lined the sides of the street, some with their engines running, but they had no occupants. Arthur might as well have stumbled into Atlantis, such was the dreamlike quality of the abandoned city. The atmosphere’s like that of ancient ruins. I feel like a fucking archaeologist.

He headed west, towards the center of the town. What he saw as he walked unnerved him more than anything he had already witnessed, yet an unknown force compelled him to look: a phone dangling from a phone booth, the dial tone still ringing; an empty stroller with a balloon attached, and a doll sprawled on the sidewalk beside it; a car with the passenger side door open; and a restaurant with broken dishes decorating the floor and plates full of food at the tables, steam emanating from it; all of it left behind by the lost citizenry, signs that they had vanished out of thin air.

How does a bustling metropolis become a ghost town so fast? Arthur wondered. Was this reality? Or was it fantasy? Was there a difference anymore?

He wandered through the desolation for ten minutes before he stopped. Headlights penetrated the darkness several blocks away. He spotted the outline of a building—a convenience store perhaps. A woman ran out. He wanted to approach, but did not dare, for there was no way of telling if danger loomed up ahead. He stared forward stupidly. Thunder roared in the distance, nature’s warrior cry. Lightning flashed, and for an instant he could see a man inside the car. Again the deafening explosion sounded, more harshly, like some kind of ungodly beast. Arthur felt a single drop of freezing rain land on his head.

First his left foot, then his right. Acting on their own initiative his legs dragged his body towards the car. Arthur made no effort to stop them. He had no desire to do so. As he proceeded he continued to stare straight ahead with lifeless eyes. A downpour began.

Sid's hands were drenched in blood, the coppery taste lingering on her lips as the small trickle that sprayed in her attack had touched the corner of her mouth, seeping into her cheeks. Breathing slowly, she looked as the figure of a man approached her car, Jeremy watching carefully with his hand on an object she was unsure of. Her steps slight and swift, she rushed over in a hurried walk towards the man, as inside Jeremy's finger were dangling on the lock button above the car door. "Excuse me!" She said, her voice and tone strong and firm, or at least, trying. "Who are you? Do you know what's going on?" She asked, her hand clenched into fists as her other hand fumbled in her pockets for something sharp.

It was all a blur to Arthur, everything melting and blending because of the rain like an image drawn in chalk on the sidewalk. Somebody was yelling something at him, but he could not tell what they said. "Ho varr zu," he heard. "Diyee knoywazz goong an."

He stopped 5 feet away from Sid. The world became clearer, but only slightly. He could understand her now. "Who are you?" she asked. He was shocked to find the answer did not come straight to his mind and out of his mouth. Desperately he searched his memory banks for the answer, but drew a blank.

"I--I don't know," he said. He stood, mouth agape, as the wind blew the rain directly at him. The little droplets of water were icy cold and stung like a knife. Arthur raised his arms in front of his face and saw blood gushing from them. His eyes widened in horror. Fear, the most primitive of all human emotions, took control of his body, and he screamed. He ran towards Sid, arms dangling wildly in the air, blood flying all over the place. There was a burst of thunder and a flash of lightning.

Sid's hands were outstretched, clenched into fists as Jeremy opened the car door, emerging with a small pocket knife as he slithered to Sid's side, trying to ensure that this man didn't make a single unwarranted move. "What do you mean, you don't know?" Sid asked as she saw Jeremy's shadow cover her. "Do you mean name or place or what? We need to know what the hell is going on. Okay? Okay?!" She was beginning to lose it, the stress building up against her as she tightened her fists, her nails digging into her palm as blood trickled down her wrist.

"Sid? Sid!" Jeremy said, grasping her weakening hands as he pushed them down to her side, his knife tucked back into his pocket as it clipped shut. Turning to this man, his stare was desperate, but hopeful. "Sir, just please, think carefully. We have no idea as to where this is, or whatever this is. Can you please help us?"

The sound of a crying, like a cackling taunt, was heard muffled in the distance. So loud that even echoes caused shivering.