When your mind is in a dark place, it makes writing dark things so much easier…
The blood dripped from the end of the barrel with an annoying quick beat. it was hitting the puddle in the middle of the floor and the noise was nearly deafening in the emptiness of the room. With a sigh, he dropped the gun and winced as it hit the floor, the metal making a screech as it hit the concrete. Shaking his head, which was an experience and a half now that it had ventilation, Jake stood up and walked to the door, the blood already cleaning itself up so very tidily from the now non-existent entry and exit wounds in his skull. As he turned the doorknob he made sure to turn and make sure all was tidy and, as always, it was as clean as a nasty room in a basement of an abandoned milk factory was ever going to get. The blood was gone, the chunks of skull, skin, brain, and viscera all taken care of. Hell, his shirt was even stained.
There exists a man with whom exists a singular desire. To die. For dozens and dozens of years, he has been trying to accomplish this with no success whatsoever. Why he wants this only to him, seeming immortality would be a gift for some, then again, those men are not like our friend here with the newly formed skull and cortex. Those men do not have the memories of so many horrible moments from history, so many guilt clogged thoughts, so much survivors guilt as to bring the world to its very knees. Then again, this isn’t the world, this, for all of its miracles and menacing moments, is The Twilight Zone.
Walking back and forth above the room he had just again failed in, the man, Jakob Rousalov, tried to think of a thing he had yet to try. Tried to think of a trick he had not thought of. Tried to think, think at all.
He had been in this building for almost fifteen years now. He never ate, he never slept. His only mission was to quiet his mind forever. The thousands and thousands of voices in his head tried to dissuade him, tried to tell him he had a gift, tried to insist he was chosen of God.
No, no God would not have done this to anyone. God would not have brought a boy that fell into the Nyamiha river the year Charlemagne was crowned by Poe Leo III back to life only to then allow him to spend the next twelve centuries going more and more mad by the second. His first voices were his parents. They were comforting at first, telling him that he was loved, missed. Then, then they came. So many, so many who simply wanted to know what happened. Where they were. Why they could not see the glory of God, or even the Infernal One if that was to be their destination.
He tried, Jakob who was not then Jakob tried. There were always more, every moment there were more of them trying to ask him, to beg him for guidance. They prayed he would help, they begged him for mercy and leniency for things he had no control over. All he could do was lay down and scream his sobs into the pillows of the ground, long since having left anywhere where people were located lest they lock him up, an odd irony in the end.
All those years, all those faces and deaths, and names, he knew each name and could read them in order to anyone who would have asked and had the decades and centuries it would take to speak them. It mattered not their tongue, their faith, their anything. He knew all of them and they all seemed to know him.
Ignoring the urge to smoke a moment he returned to the room downstairs with a pair of extra-large and long hedge clippers that would snip the head off in a few moments of agony.
He would be able to free from the voices.
At least until the new head fully grew back in an hour or so.
Then, then he would have a smoke.
Jakob who was not born Jakob. A Man? An Angel? Maybe even God Himself. There will never be answers for him, no. Questions never get resolved, in The Twilight Zone.
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