In Agony

** Content Warning: Story contains physical violence and gore. Story contains strong language.**

After I killed him, I threw the body in a lake, threw up blood in the bathroom of a 7-Eleven, and walked home before the sun came up. I didn’t sleep that night. I kept waiting for the sound of sirens. I kept telling myself, “Get the fuck out of town.”

Now my eyes have red tendrils seeping into my pupils. I’m sweating through my shirt and probably my sheets, only I’m too uncomfortable to look.

“This is crap,” I say from my bed.

The door is open, and I can see the kitchen from my position. The TV is on in the room next to the kitchen, blaring some cheapy newscast.

“Go to sleep,” replies my roommate Dorian.

“I don’t sleep much anymore. Besides, my bed is a piece of shit.”

“Your bed isn’t shit.”

“My bed is shit.”

I sit up and lean against the wall. My hair is tangled in a heap. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth as I move my tongue against the roof of my mouth in discomfort. I whine and groan a bit, loud enough so that Dorian can hear me. I walk out and look at him, my mouth contorted in a pout.

“It’s 2 p.m. Can’t you decide whether you like your bed or not from the comfort of your own bed?” he says, exasperated.

“I already know it’s a shit bed. I’ve tried sleeping in it already. Look, isn't there something I could do during the day?”

“Yeah, go read a book. Take advantage of your immortality. Maybe get your sweating under control,” he replies without looking up from his book.

“I just want to be busy for a long time. You got a book like that?”

He doesn’t reply. This is crap.

As I head back to my room, the room blurs, and I feel another wave of nausea hit me. I slowly lose consciousness as the news anchor says, “The situation keeps getting worse. Political unrest across the country. We are seeing riots continuing in the streets. It is very unsafe, and the city officials have urged all citizens to stay indoors,” in a deeply cartoonish voice.

October 8th. I’m taking longer walks. I’m still awake long hours. I picked up a book from the store, haven’t even read the first page. There’s something about words on a page that makes me forget everything I know. Thank God for showers. I’m taking a lot of those, too. Ever since I died, my soap smell doesn’t seem to hold. Eventually I’ll have to eat again. Each night when I come back from my walks, I’ll stand on the porch and wait for the sun to come out. Sometimes I can see it peeking over the horizon. At night, though, Dorian and I like to go see scary movies. Just to see the look on their faces. This one is about some fishing trip gone wrong. The popcorn bowls are large tentacle monsters, with the maw where you grab the popcorn. Very scary.

“So, you think anyone’s ever been killed like that?” I whisper to Dorian during the movie.

“By a sea monster?” he whispers back, eyes unmoving from the screen.

“No, no, like drowned and stabbed at the same time.”

“Well, I suppose if you are going to drown someone, why would you need to stab them as well?”

There are some uncomfortable gasps from the crowd. I peek behind me to see a couple seated arm in arm, half covering each other's eyes.

“Why do people pay to see this?” I say, turning back around.

“Mm, sea monsters are cool,” Dorian replies.

“I only like the good ones.”

“The good ones? They’re monsters.”

“Yeah, but some of them are nice.”

The boyfriend of the couple behind us leans forward. “Are you guys going to talk through the whole movie?”

“Probably,” replies Dorian, shooting me a disapproving glance.

After the movie, Dorian and I walk down the street. There’s an alleyway on the other side of the road. Looks like the boyfriend is beating up some guy. Typical. He seemed like the type. Dorian notices but lets me look. I get a little closer to see who the other guy is. Maybe he was also watching the monster movie, but Dorian puts his hand in front of me.

“What? I was going to go help them,” I say, frustrated.

“No, you weren’t. Let’s go. There are too many people here,” he says, looking around.

I’m in my bed again, sweating. My vision is blurred, and the room is spinning slightly. I hear a voice suddenly, just at the foot of my bed.

“Hey, look at you. You look awful. I haven’t seen you since…” they say as they move their thumb across their neck.

“Hey, whoa, wha—what are you doing here? How did you get in?” I shoot up, moving wildly, and put my hands in a defensive gesture.

“Dorian let me in,” they reply blankly.

“Well, you should have called. God, I can’t do this right now. I’m reading. I’m fucking reading. Look, I have tea, and my things are here…”

“Hey, easy, killer. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“She doesn’t recognize you,” yells Dorian from the other room.

“What? Is she clear?” says the person.

“Nope, she’s losing it.”

“That’s not true. Look here,” I say as I push this friend out of my room and to the door.

“I just wish you would have called, that’s all,” I continue.

“Dorian, you gotta take care of her. This is crazy. She doesn’t even know who I am,” the friend says, shuffling.

“Shut up. Relax. She knows who you are,” says Dorian, already annoyed.

“Who am I, Emily? Who do you see, huh?” says the friend.

“No. I…I know you. I just…” I stammer. I can feel sweat and confusion in a hot boil on my brow.

I collapse. I dream of that night. I’m drawn to them, their flesh in the night. I see the fear in my periphery, but I don’t care. I push away the guilt, the horror at taking a life. I feel a thrill of scandal run through me. I can’t stop now. I wouldn’t stop even if there were cops around, even if this innocent person was someone close to me. I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to feel the blood run down my barren throat. I want to consume their flesh. The enormity of my bloodlust disgusts me.

Dorian was right. I’m still too weak.

I finally wake up, with Dorian sitting beside me.

“How are you feeling?” he says as he moves a hand onto my forehead, pushing my bangs aside.

“Feverish,” I croak.

“A police summons came for you. They want you to go down to the station to give a statement,” he says gently.

“A statement? Do you think—”

“No,” he cuts me off. “That bar you were at, they probably scanned your ID when you came in. The police are probably questioning everyone who came that night.”

I walk up to the police station just before closing. I’m only waiting for two to three minutes before a portly-looking gentleman walks to the front and waves me back to a small room. He has rosy cheeks and a grey mustache that is upturned on the sides.

“Hello, how are you? I’m Detective Rosencheck.”

“Fine, thank you.”

“You’re sweating,” the detective points out.

“Getting over a cold,” I reply as nonchalantly as possible.

“Please sit.”

“I was told I was to give a statement about the night of a murder,” I cut in.

Detective Rosencheck pours me a glass of water and pushes it over to me, smiling. God, his cheeks almost close his eyes when he smiles. It’s obnoxious.

“Oh yes, of course. These sorts of things take a long time to sort through. I’m just one detective, after all, so you can imagine the kind of stress I’m under. Running around trying to find clues,” he says, laughing. “I get my own badge and everything, though. Lots of perks.”

“I’m sure. Are you trying to make me feel relaxed? I’m sure you got some interrogation techniques along with that badge,” I say, looking at him out of the corner of my eye. “Trying to make me feel comfortable? Maybe you’re hoping I confess to a crime I didn’t commit?”

“Do you think I suspect you? Oh no, no, no. I certainly wouldn’t be complaining to a potential murderer,” he says, laughing louder now. “Of course, I wasn’t really complaining. It’s just that I don’t really get out much. You know, my free time is basically just going to visit my grandmother, and she’s, well, a handful.”

“Am I giving my statement or not? Why shouldn’t I just leave now? You’re wasting my time!” I cry out like a teakettle.

“Calm down. What’s wrong? You can leave any time you’d like. Of course, I would still need a statement eventually.” He smirks but continues, “I’m a bit socially awkward. I’m still new at this job, and of course my girlfriend has been giving me trouble lately, so I act unprofessionally at times.”

“Right. It’s no problem,” I say, catching my breath, when I notice my eyes welling up with tears.

The detective chuckles lightly. “Well, I should hope you aren’t too wound up. Your statement must be accurate. I suppose that’s the real purpose of my job… to make sure the subject tells the story honestly. So, I could have come in here and grilled you about the murder and whatnot, but then would you tell me the story honestly or like I wanted you to tell it? Freud was enormously concerned about this. In his clinical practice, he wouldn’t even look at his patients, for fear that he would subject them to his own beliefs. No, it is better to let the patient work out their problems in their own head. That way they will do all the investigating for you!”

“And what if the patient lies anyway? Some people believe the things their brain makes up,” I add offhandedly.

“Yes, but it’s my job to prevent the criminal from doing so,” the detective replies, looking down at some paperwork.

“And that works?”

“Of course! The innocent always outwit the guilty because they have nothing to hide.” He laughs. “You see, an innocent person will tell the story as they perceive it, but a criminal will tell the story as innocently as possible, with all kinds of unnecessary details, as if they were too preoccupied to even notice wrongdoing. This is the flaw,” he finishes contentedly, as if he’d put a bow on the situation.

“So, you suspect me?” I say nervously.

“What?” He laughs again.

There’s something sick about that laugh. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s repulsive.

“I’ve got to get you some more water. You are still sick, aren’t you?” he continues.

“I’m fine,” I protest.

Detective Rosencheck pours some water as he looks at me with a nurturing glance, eyes almost shut from smiling. The water starts to reach the top of the glass when I start to notice. I look up at him, concerned. The glass begins to overflow, spilling its clear guts onto the stainless steel table. I can see my glossy reflection in it.

“If I suspected you, I would be getting your statement now. I would have searched your apartment, but I have not done that. So what makes you think I find you guilty?” he says, pouring.

“Right, well, I came to give a statement, so can I give it, or can I leave?” I say uncomfortably.

“I’ll tell you what. You are obviously unwell. Let’s reschedule for you to come in another day. Here, I’ll show you out. Whenever you’re ready, come and talk to me,” he says as he finally sets the water pitcher down.

“Right,” I say, practically running out of the station.

On the news, the anchor is rattling off in a loud, punctuated voice, “Looks like there is to be a peace summit soon. Our leaders will gather together to see if that can’t solve this mess.” I am numb, sitting there. I watch as they show reruns of a bombing in a place I’ve never seen before.

I remember watching an interview with Quentin Tarantino. The interviewer asks, “Why the need for so much gruesome, graphic violence?” To which he responds… “Because it’s SO MUCH FUN!”

Against my better judgment, I return to the police department. I am waiting for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of tossing and turning, squirming like a baby on a small wooden chair.

Finally, Detective Rosencheck walks in, laughing at some small talk with another detective. “Oh, you. What are you doing here?”

“I came to give my statement, um, for…”

“Oh yes, that’s right! Yes, that’s all right. Haven’t you heard? We caught the killer.”

“What?” I say, confused.

“Yes, the man walked right into the department and confessed. Strange man, if I do say so myself,” he says, looking around for some papers. “Anyway, we no longer need a statement from you.”

“So…” I stand up nervously.

“So? You can leave, please.” He looks up at me, chuckling. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

That night I go see another horror movie. This time we can hear more screaming and violence coming from the movie. The people in the crowd are cringing away as the jump scares hit one after the other.

“This isn’t going to be scary,” I whisper to Dorian.

“What do you mean? The movie’s not even over yet,” he whispers back.

“They’re teasing us with all these fake jump scares.”

“So?”

“So, all the tension is gone, all for a tease.”

“Yeah, but the monster is going to be scarier than the people screaming.”

“The monster is going to be a letdown because everything is scary in this movie.”

“Maybe you have a point, but people don’t watch these movies. They just sit in the back row and fuck.”

I look back, and sure enough, he’s right.

“Yeah, ugh,” I say, repulsed.

The couple that was making out in the back of the theatre are walking behind the theatre back to their car. I notice this, and then I notice Dorian looking, too.

“Go wait in the car. I’ll be there in a minute,” he says.

“Okay,” I reply absentmindedly.

While I’m walking to the car, I hear a struggle and see Dorian killing the young couple in the alley. There is almost no noise. I look at the scene from the rearview mirror, astonished yet hungry. I feel my pupils dilate. I get out of the car and stalk my way over to try and pull Dorian off of them. I can see they’re almost dead.

“Stop!” I yell as I pull Dorian away.

“What are you doing?” Dorian growls.

“You—you can’t. It’s not right,” I plead.

Dorian gets up and hits me in the face. I fall and hit a trash can that spills over on my way down. He stands over me. I can see blood seeping down his shirt, his eyes reddened and sharp.

“This is what we do! It’s either me or them, and I’m stronger!” he barks.

“STOP! Please, Dorian, we aren’t killers,” I cry.

“Yes, we are. You need to accept that. You are just as wretched as I am.”

“No, no, I’m not.”

“Go wait in the car like I told you.”

I begin to walk back, crying. But suddenly I’m turning back to Dorian. I run up behind him. In one swooping motion, I tear his head from his torso. I hear a cracking as his spine rips away and takes several pieces of cartilage and bone with it. There is no blood, just rotten flesh. I look down, but it’s too late. The couple is already dead.

I am shaking and stuttering inside my bed, sweating profusely. The news reporter is still squawking on and on from the living room. I think it’s comforting now.

“The military continues to advance. It seems if the United Nations cannot come to a peace agreement, we will surely be at war,” it chirps behind static.

My friend is suddenly underneath my doorframe. “Emily? What are you doing here? Last time I found you like this…?”

“I can’t let it go.”

“Emily, please, lie back down.”

“Am I supposed to be okay with what I did? I did this. This is going to change me. It already has changed me.” Hot tears leak from my face. “I can’t tell what’s right anymore.”

“There’s still good in you. I can see it. You’re not you, but you can be,” she says, grabbing me by my face.

“Everyone is acting like nothing has happened. Some man is in jail for what I—I am wicked and evil. I don’t deserve—” I retch, clutching my heart as it pounds wildly behind my rib cage.

“That is not for you to judge,” she replies pitifully.

“I didn’t die until it happened. I know what I am, but I was still someone before I fed.”

“Walk with me, please.”

“Where?”

“I have to confess. I am a murderer.”