The Envelope

There was a person in the envelope on the table in front of him.

It had always been somewhat disconcerting to him that everything you could ever need to know about a person could be summarized in a manila file folder. A thick one, but still, it was depressing. Sex, age, weight, height. Photographs. Work, family, friends. Schedule, habits. Hobbies. A human being, condensed into a few dozen sheets of paper and a handful of photos. Over the next week or so the man at the table would become intimately familiar with this person. But they would never meet, except ever so briefly through the telescopic sight of his rifle.

The process of learning a person well enough to kill him is only as complicated as the killer chooses. Some don't know their victims at all, but those people are usually psychopaths or the basest of criminals. The man at the table was a professional, and he liked to take his time. To be worth what he was paid, he had to know what he was doing. He was a master of the clean kill – one shot, one kill was the mantra that ran through his head every single time at the moment of decision, a ghost from his military past. A muzzle flash, a bullet hole in a window, and a dead body. There was never any trace of the shooter, and for that kind of accuracy, you had to know your target – and your surroundings – very, very well. His services didn't come cheap, and he hated to disappoint.

He began the slow process of sifting through the information. His target was male, a sixty-three year old corporate leader who also happened to be very dirty. There was blood on his hands, and not a little. The man at the table preferred that, it was better knowing that his target had it coming. Not that it was necessary. The target spent most of his day in a high-rise office building, which was good – men of his caliber generally preferred large, open windows so that they could look down on “their” city. A vanity that would cost him, if it proved to be true. And judging from the provided recon photos, it was. The man at the table sighed; he had been hoping for a challenge. A skyscraper adjacent to another, a glass walled office... people should be more cautious this day and age, he thought. Especially bad people. They tended to attract the attention of other bad people. Like him.


~


Over the next several days the man at the table came to the conclusion that the office building was, indeed, the most suitable location. His home had been ruled out early; not only was it more difficult to gain line of sight through smaller residential windows, but it meant that the kill would be in front of the man's family, and he tried to avoid that when possible. Nothing does wonders for the psyche like the back of grandfather's head exploding at family dinner. Another likely location was a favorite golf course. Always a solid choice, golf courses provided an abundance of cover, as well as nearly countless opportunities to make the kill as your target stands stock still to line up his shot as you line up yours. But in this case he had a time frame to deal with, and couldn't be sure when the target would decide another round of golf was in order. The office became the obvious choice.

The adjacent building, however, presented a problem. It wasn't tall enough; the target's office was on the 42nd floor of his building, while the building across the street only offered 35 floors. The building one back from it provided enough height, but the distance would test him. Perhaps there would be some challenge to this after all.

The chosen tower contained the office space of many different companies, a maze of cubicle farms, lobbies, supply closets, and corner offices. This was good; a person can move with much more freedom through the halls of a shared building than one owned by a single corporation. Only a hotel would have been better, but he was not permitted that luxury this time. A bit of research provided him with the name of the company renting the space that would provide him the best vantage point: BD Computers. It was a small hardware design firm, a boutique computer shop for the Wall Street wealthy who had nothing better to do with their money than purchase computers with handmade mahogany panels and mother of pearl inlaid optical mice. It would take a bit of social engineering to gain sufficient access to, and would be even more of a challenge to gain the significant level of privacy his task required. He made an appointment.


~


It hadn't been difficult to gain the required access to the chosen building, or the location within. A few phone calls posing as an interested new client, gaining access to building schematics from one of his local government contacts, then bluffing his way past the lobby security, which was as simple as a manufactured ID badge and a look of determination. Once past the lobby the hard part was done; people look for abnormalities and block them at the door, but once you're inside, and look as if you know where you're going, it's generally assumed that you're supposed to be there.

He was dressed in a dark suit, stylish sunglasses, and carrying a perfectly usual if slightly over sized briefcase, ID badge clipped to his lapel, he looked like any of the other affluent businessmen weaving their way through the corridors. Except that his heart was beating roughly twice as fast as it should. He always felt this rush of adrenaline before and shortly after, but during the actual process of making the shot, it was crucial to stay calm and steady.

He turned into a men's room and locked the door from the inside. The janitorial staff would be able to unlock it without any trouble, but for now the closed door would give him the privacy he needed.

The first thing he did was to pull on a pair of paper-thin leather gloves. They gave him the tactile feedback he needed while serving to cover the tracks left by anything he might touch. The restroom doorknob was the only thing in the entire building he had actually touched with his bare hands, and his prints would be so smeared and covered by dozens of other restroom patrons that it wasn't a concern. Now he had to hope that the schematics he'd been studying were accurate.

He climbed onto the toilet in the stall farthest from the door and began unscrewing the air conditioning grate. It was one of those large, square ones that provide ample ventilation for a large business complex, and also happen to be just the right size for crawling inside. He had the second screw out when he heard someone outside try the doorknob. He froze. They jiggled the knob once more, then nothing. This either meant that they left in frustration to find another restroom, or that they would be contacting maintenance to open the door. Either way, he had to hurry.


~


As he adjusted for wind, distance, bullet drop, and the dozens of other variables someone of his skill takes into account, he watched the target having an energetic telephone conversation. He was hundreds of yards away and slightly elevated above the office window, but the powerful telescopic sight of his rifle made the distance seem much less of an issue than it actually was. In truth, he was in a precarious and not entirely comfortable position; prone and on top of an industrial storage rack that housed cleaning supplies, toiletries, and for the moment one highly trained and motivated killer.

His awkward vantage point was a small slit window high on the storage room wall, the opening barely wide enough for his tripod. It had been sealed shut, but an emergency hammer designed for breaching car windows had made short work of it, and the tiny shards of falling glass had been so dispersed by the breeze once it reached the ground below that it was very unlikely anyone would notice.

His breathing was slow and even, and he wasn't sweating. He had always found that he could be perfectly calm in the heat of the moment, the adrenaline rush did not come until immediately afterwards. He made a slight adjustment to the calibration of the rifle, and squinted through the scope.

“Stop moving, damn you.” he thought. The target seemed to enjoy grand gesturing when discussing business matters, even when the other side of the conversation was on a phone. He decided that he would wait until the conclusion of the call – it would be rude to cut such an obviously important conversation short, anyway.

He waited. He was a very patient man, but knew that he did not have an unlimited amount of time before someone from the maintenance staff would need something from his chosen perch – perhaps even the same janitor who had surely unlocked the adjacent hall's bathroom door by now.

The target was off the phone, and leaning back in his rich leather chair peacefully. Not moving an inch. The man tightened his grip on his weapon ever so slightly, and held his breath.

Now.


~


The man parked his car and sat quietly in his driveway, listening to the radio report of the murder of an as-yet-unidentified businessman in his downtown office. He smiled a slight but satisfied smile, turned off his car, and walked up to the front steps of his home, where he collected the mail before going inside and turning on the television news, where a similar report was currently breaking.

He took off his jacket and sat down at the kitchen table. He began sorting his mail, and smiled again.

There was a person in the envelope on the table in front of him.

There is a Room

Reposted from my old pre-taking-this-stuff-seriously blog. Liked it, wanted to hang onto it.


There is a room.

About ten feet by eleven. The floor is dark, aged wood planks, once smooth and polished but now old, neglected, and splintering just enough to be dangerous to young, bare feet. It used to be cared for, but not any more.

The walls are wooden panels that used to be brown, then were covered in a dark green paint the color of rich forest moss. In places they are brown again, where the paint has begun to chip away, usually around the edges. On the south wall there is a door, closed. The door is plain and unpainted dark wood, with a tarnished brass knob and deadbolt that has been locked for as long as it can remember. One other door leads from the room, equally plain and unadorned, opening to a small coat closet containing no coats. A single wire hanger resides there, slowly rusting as the years pass. The closet floor is covered in dust, as is most everything else. There is a cardboard box there, open and empty save the decaying remains of a dead insect, now unidentifiable. The closet is otherwise empty, the door standing slightly ajar. The walls of the room are pockmarked with nails and the places nails used to be. A select few of them still bear their burdens through the years of neglect. One supports a small framed photograph of a young girl, seven or so, smiling to the camera and holding a plastic cup. She is not pretty, but to someone she was. She gazes out at the room, but its condition can't dampen her eternal happiness. Nearby, a diploma presents itself proudly to the empty space, announcing the owner as a graduate and a scholar, but he is not here. There is a cracked mirror as well, hanging from a thin wire. A pair of ticket stubs have been carefully placed in the edge of the frame, reminding the motes of dust in the air of a happier time. There is a single window, comprised of four panes of glass that have yellowed with age, completely obscuring the outside world. It has the benefit of neither curtains nor shutters, and the pale yellow light that manages to filter through it is the only illumination to penetrate the room. The walls of the room used to be cared for, but not any more.

There is a table in the room, below the window. A simple, narrow, rectangular wooden thing that was once a poor man's dining table, but has since been converted to a poorer man's makeshift writing desk. Its condition is comparable to that of the floor and the walls; aged and splintering slightly around the edges. The chair that accompanies it sits quiet and alone, unused. A dining chair, but mismatched from the table it now serves. The arms of the chair are slightly loose, a product of assisting its owner in getting up hundreds upon hundreds of times. Worn at the edge the seat by years of use, then years of disuse. The table and its chair used to be cared for, but not any more.

There is a wire wastebasket under the table. It is empty. Once it collected crumpled papers, torn envelopes, empty cans, banana peels, but now it is home only to a thin layer of dust and several dead flies that began on the sill of the window far above, and are now here. The basket was never particularly cared for, so its current state is nothing new.

There is a typewriter on the table. A manual monolith of metal and keys and coils and springs. The T, R, and E are worn completely away, and many others are only half visible. The ribbon is dry and cracked, and would crumble into dust if touched. There is a short, neat stack of yellowing paper to one side, all blank. The typewriter used to be loved, but not any more.

There is a room. The door has been closed for a very long time.

The Man In Dark Glasses

“Why are you here, Adrian?”

I stared at The Man In Dark Glasses, as I'd come to think of him. Every time he came into the room in which I'd been imprisoned, he began by asking that same question. It was infuriating.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been there. Days at the very least, possibly weeks. The spartan room was without clocks or windows, making it impossible to keep track. The room itself contained only the cot on which I spent every restless night, a toilet, and the simple wooden table at which The Man In Dark Glasses presently sat.

“I said, why are you here, Adrian?”

“You tell me,” I said. “You're the one who brought me here.”

He shook his head slowly, face impassive behind the dark, round spectacles. “I am not the one responsible for your present condition, Adrian. I am sorry that you continue to believe this is the case.”

I sighed and ran my hand over my face. How long had it been since I shaved? I felt more carefully at my skin... stubble, sure, but no more. How could that be possible?

The Man In Dark Glasses interrupted my thought. “Please, Adrian, have a seat. We have much to discuss, and our time may be short.”

I sat, lacking the energy to argue. “May be short? What, don't you know how long you're gonna keep me stuck here?”

“I do not. We could be interrupted at any moment, in theory. Though I do not believe it is likely.” His voice was an even monotone every time he spoke, making it all the more difficult to get any useful information out of him. His voice, his passive face, those damned glasses... he gave away nothing.

“Interrupted? You're the only one I've seen since I got here. Was brought here. Whatever. Who's going to interrupt us?”

He gave the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “I do not know. But it is possible, all the same.”

“So, okay, that means you're not the head honcho, if someone might interrupt your little interrogation. Who is?”

“Adrian, we have been over this. I am not the one responsible for your situation. I merely wish to talk.”

“So talk. We're talking. How's the weather? Giants win?” I leaned back on the folding chair. These conversations never went anywhere. Around and around in circles. Yet he never seemed to get tired or frustrated, which frustrated me all the more.

“Adrian, you say that you do not know why you are here. That being the case, allow me to rephrase the question. Why do you think you are here?”

“I don't even know where here is. You won't tell me anything, you talk and you talk and never tell me a damn thing. I mean, it's some kind of prison, right? Has to be. So what'd I do to end up in prison? Nothing. I didn't do anything.”

“It is interesting that you think of this place as a prison, Adrian. It is very interesting.”

“What else am I supposed to think of it as? You won't let me leave, will you? I can't just get up and go out the door. So what is it if it's not a prison.”

He may have sounded disappointed, except that he never really sounded like anything. “I have told you. I am not responsible...”

“Yeah. Yeah I know. You're not responsible for my situation. You keep saying that.”

“It is the truth.”

I shoved the table forwards at The Man In Dark Glasses with what I thought was enough force to knock him over. He lifted a hand and caught the edge, stopping it with what appeared to be no effort whatsoever. I grunted in frustration.

“Go away,” I said, moving back to the small cot with which I had become so familiar. “I'm getting tired of this.”

“That is unfortunate, Adrian, in that it makes two of us.” He stood and left the room without another word, and the sound of a heavy lock sliding into place was the last thing that I heard for hours.

The next time I woke up, I screamed. The Man In Dark Glasses was standing over my bed, looking down at me.

“What the – aarrh!” Pain shot through my left arm without explanation. I looked down to my arm and could see nothing, but it felt like a knife being shoved into me. When I looked up to demand an explanation, he was already seated at the table. I hadn't seen him move.

“What... what are you doing to me?” I yelled, holding my arm.

“Once again, Adrian, I am not responsible for your present condition. I am sorry that you are experiencing pain.”

“Yeah, I just bet you are.” The pain began to fade, though not entirely. I took my seat across the old table from him, as had become customary.

“I have a proposal for you, Adrian.”

My brow arched. This was new. At least he wasn't asking me what I was doing there. I waited for him to continue.

“Our time here may be growing short. I had hoped to come to know and understand you better before getting to this point, but it seems fate may be forcing my hand.”

The light from the bare bulb hanging overhead reflected off of his dark glasses.

“So this is where you finally get around to whatever the hell is it you want from me,” I said.

“Yes.” He nodded slightly. “It is. Adrian, it may come as a surprise to you to learn that I am just as much a captive of this place as you are, perhaps more so. I find it ironically appropriate that you deem to refer to it as a prison, for that is exactly what it has been to me for a very long time.”

“Except the part where you're free to come and go out of that door and I'm not,” I scoffed.

“If you knew what exists beyond that door, Adrian, you would not be so anxious to leave through it.” He tilted his head slightly to one side. “Perhaps I should show you.”

“Yeah. Sure, show me.” I leaned back, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn't know what he was playing at, but I wasn't going to let his little mind games get me all worked up.

After a moment, he slid those opaque sunglasses down and off, placing them on the table. My mind froze. I jerked back from the table, my chair skidding backwards as I tried to understand what I was seeing. This was the moment where he stopped existing in my mind as The Man In Dark Glasses, and became The Man With No Eyes.

I wrestled with comprehension. His eyes weren't missing, there were no ugly scars or gaping holes. They simply were not there; the skin where his eye sockets should have been was smooth and unbroken under his brow. It wasn't until he slid the glasses back into place that I snapped out of my frozen shock and scrambled backwards out of the chair, sending it flying onto its side and standing with my hand over my mouth.

“Now that I have your attention, Adrian, we have much to discuss. Much like you, I am a victim of this purgatory. You, however, possess something that I do not. The ability to leave.”

My mind began to catch up. “W-wait, what? I can leave?”

“Of course you can, Adrian. And I want you to take me with you.”

“But... what, I just walk out? It's locked.”

“Not that way, Adrian. You don't want to go through the door.”

“I don't understand.”

The Man With No Eyes opened his jacket and withdrew a long silver dagger with a dark jewel set in the pommel. He placed it carefully in the center of the table.

“An act of self-sacrifice. By destroying your body you will be freed of this place, and by using my gift, you will take me with you. Pick up the knife, and ram it into your heart.”

I picked up the chair, righted it, and sat heavily. I stared at him, then the knife.

“You're insane. I've heard plenty of screwed up metaphors about death being freedom, but how the hell is killing myself going to get me out of... wherever this is?”

“I do not have time to explain myself, Adrian. Listen to me carefully: pick up the knife, and ram it into your heart.” He seemed to be becoming impatient. Well, if I was annoying him I must be doing something right.

“No.”

He took off his glasses again, exposing the soft flesh beneath them. “Pick up the knife, and ram it into your heart.”

“Screw you.”

His mouth became a void, stretching impossibly wide, his voice booming into my ears, filling my mind.

“PICK UP THE KNIFE, AND RAM IT INTO YOUR HEART.”

I backed away. When I made no move to follow his instructions, The Man With No Eyes stretched his mouth even wider, and the most indescribable sound filled the room. It was more than deafening, it was an inhuman wail that poured into my entire being, inescapable, unavoidable, unbearable. I covered my ears and tried to block it out, answering his fury with my own feeble screams as it overwhelmed my senses.

After an eternity, the unholy din subsided. I looked up in time to see his hand flashing towards me, grabbing me around the throat and lifting me off my feet. I gasped and choked, clawing at his arm as it held me.

“I had hoped to resolve this without resorting to extremes, Adrian. It is unfortunate that you have forced my hand.” His voice had returned to its unnaturally smooth monotone, though he had not bothered to replace the dark glasses. He slammed me backwards against the wall, hand clamped around my throat. My vision swam as he bounced my head off of the rough brick again and again. When he let go I collapsed in a heap, barely conscious. He yanked my head up by the hair, lifting my face up to his.

“Look into my eyes,” said The Man With No Eyes. Then he opened them.

The flesh covering his eye sockets strained and then tore, ripping itself open to reveal what it had been hiding. I screamed.

I don't know how long he held me like that, forcing me to gaze into the hell inside him. When he released me, I simply stood and walked numbly to the table, picked up the knife, and rammed it into my heart.

You wouldn't understand. You can't understand. Anything to escape the visions that had filled my mind. Anything to escape him. Ending my own life to do so was merciful.

The world went black.



There was something beeping.

What was beeping?

Would someone please stop that beeping?

I opened my eyes, and the world slowly came into focus. At first it was too bright, but as my eyes adjusted to the sunlight flooding in from the window, I started laughing.

A hospital room. I was in a hospital. Of course I was. There had been an accident... the memories came flooding back. A car accident. The IV needle taped to my left arm explained the pain I had felt in my dream. I felt giddy. That's all it had been, some weird coma-induced fever dream. Everything was explained, and whatever my physical condition was, it was OK. Because none of it had been real. He wasn't real.

A nurse rushed into the room, a huge smile blooming on her face. “Well, well, look who's awake. It looks like your friend was right... he said he thought you were coming around.”

I smiled weakly. It made me happy to think of one of my friends sitting with me.

“Was it Sophie?” I asked.

“No... you know, I don't think I actually got his name. He was here every day, but never really talked to anybody but you.” She made a slight face. “Not really very sociable. And hiding behind those weird sunglasses all the time.”