When I was ten years old, I had a really bizarre dream. I was dressed in my favorite nightgown, a pretty lacy one I used to wear to bed every Christmas until I got too big to wear it, and my mom’s worn and tattered hoodie she had owned since college. I was walking down a large hall filled with nothing but ornate columns. The paint, used to decorate the columns in big swirling designs, glowed in the relative darkness like some sort of florescent orange bacteria that you might find deep in a cave or under the sea. At the end of the hall, there was an oak door with a small bronze doorknob worn smooth from too much use. I opened the door and stepped inside, the thin red carpet beneath my feet giving way to cool black tile. The room I had entered was barely the size of a large walk-in closet, yet somehow felt like I had walked into the vast majesty of St. Peter’s Basilica. Pale golden walls with white trim surrounded me on four sides.
I cast my eyes upon a woman seated on a simple wooden stool in the middle of the room. Dressed in a white shift, she was blindfolded and some sort of veil over her mouth, her hands tied behind her back. Her curly hair tumbled down her back like a black waterfall. I became scared, yet I started towards the woman in the center of the room. She jumped and turned her head abruptly in the direction of my footsteps. Her forehead was beaded with sweat.
“Have you come for me? Will I die this time?”
I remained silent, unsure what to say.
She turned her head away and let out a little sob. “I never did anything wrong, yet you chose to take him away from me. What will you do to him this time?”
I hesitated before stepping forward. I touched the knotted handkerchief that served as her blindfold. She flinched. I paused. Slowly, I picked out the knots and pulled it off. She looked up at me with the wild eyes of a broken person.
“Don’t unbind me. I must die. If I don’t they will kill him too.”
I opened my mouth in protest.
“I will thank you somehow. Please…go.”
I heard the door behind me open and heavy footsteps pound the floor. “Mom!” I heard a young boy behind me scream.
“Leave! Run!” The woman screamed. The veil covering her mouth had come loose and fell into her lap, revealing—
Then I woke up. And cried. My mom attributed it to my older sister letting me eat spicy Chinese food the night before, but what do parents know? The dream never really left. I would forget about it for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, but it would always come back to haunt the inner folds of my conscience. I’d bring it up, and my mom would take me to the doctor to suggest a new medicine to keep my “issues” under control. But after a while, I’d forget to take the new pills. The dream would come back, and I’d stupidly mention it again.
One night, I remember seeing my mom and my dad talking in the hallway way past my bedtime.
“304? Are you sure?”
“It isn’t like another could have done it, Marie.” My dad looked tired. His white lab coat, the one with his name my mom hand embroidered in indigo thread across the front pocket, was wrinkled and looked like it needed a wash. “You need to make sure someone," he nodded in the direction of my bedroom, "takes everything on a regular basis, otherwise I don’t know what is going to happen.”
“I know.” My mom pursed her lips. Silence. “So, 305?” She exchanged a knowing look with my father, something I didn’t understand.
“Yes, it’s true.”
My mother’s face drained of color. “No…”
“We are going to have to dispatch 304 after the incident. I wanted to avoid this, but if the word gets out to anyone, the whole thing is going to be a scandal.” My dad sighed and leaned against the wall. “I really, really liked 304 too. But do what you must to cover the tracks in this business.”
“If word gets out…what is going to happen to us? I heard the panic in her voice.
“Everything.”
I stepped on a toy littered about the hall and gasped. If I hadn’t made it back into my room in time and jumped under the covers, I really don’t know what might have happened.
After a while, I knew it was best to keep my mouth shut.
At twenty-three, I have a small apartment in a crappy part of town, my pitiful GED, and a job at a small granola-cruncher type of café. I told my mom I was only going to work there until I could support myself as a freelance writer, but let’s face it, I'm probably be working that job until I died surrounded by my chorus of cats…or in a dumpster somewhere.
Eight o’clock in the evening, November 15th, 2014. While most people were excitedly waiting to close up shop and discussing what to do on the merciful day off offered by Thanksgiving, I was cutting up a no-dairy, gluten-free chocolate cake into small slices to place in the refrigerated glass display case with the rest of the week-old baked goods. My favorite co-worker, "Max," begged me to work double duty this week so she could visit her boyfriend and daughter for a couple of days. I reluctantly agreed, knowing that my mom would chastise me for coming home for the holiday early when extra money was at stake.
The café was empty. "Lola," the store owner loved single shifts in the evening, since very few people would come in so late in the day. I would usually just clean up during these quiet hours, so I could clock out early. Sometimes I even had time to read if customers were spare enough. The old white ceiling fan with bamboo blades clicked away above me, purring like an old cat in pain. I placed the shrink-wrapped pieces of chocolate cake on Styrofoam plates in the display case. I wiped my chocolate frosted fingers on my black employee apron and surveyed the café, looking for anything I could do to clean. The small trashcan besides the coffee preparation station needed to be emptied. Next thing to do —
The door opened and the bell rang to announce a customer. A man in a thick black jacket, hood covering his face and zipper pulled up over his nose and mouth, came in. He shut the door behind him. Unmoving, he stood in the doorway. My blood ran cold. A little “eco-friendly” corner café with a cute animal mascot painted in the window was usually not a place for unsavory figures. The only time I had ever seen criminal activity, if you could even call it that, was when Max had to call the police to take away a drunken woman who started to swear and shout death threats at another co-worker when her coffee wasn’t prepared with enough cream.
Keep calm. “May I help you?”
“Whoo! It’s cold out there!” He walked towards the small herd of chairs and tables scattered about the café and pulled off his hood. I put on my best professional smile. “Mary I help you?”
“Before I order something, can I use the restroom?” His voice was muffled by some sort of brown half-face headgear that covered his mouth and jaw.
“Down the hall on your left.”
“Thanks.”
As soon as he was out of sight, I quickly but confidently went over to the knife block set and pulled out the largest bread knife with a jagged serrated edge. I walked back to the cash register and set the knife nearby. My last defense.
It wasn’t long until he came back. He walked up to the display case and pondered over the menu for a while. I felt myself glance from the man back to the knife more than a couple of times. Actually, to call the person in front of me a man would be an overstatement. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, with a prominent broken nose, heavy jaw and shaggy honey-brown hair. Yet something about his eyes, the way one followed the other one perhaps half a second behind the other, was what put me on edge.
“The cider sounds good.”
“Anything else?”
“Nah.” He smiled under his face mask.
“$1.50.”
After some searching around, he pulled out two worn out dollar bills and placed them on the counter. I give him back two quarters, which he put in the change jar.
“Thank you!” I put on my best professional smile.
“You’re welcome—” he glanced down at my name tag, and graciously added my name, savoring it on his tongue.
My smile wavered. “Yes…” I let the exchange of words die a slow and awkward death as I pulled out the packet of cider mix from under the counter. I glanced at him one more time.
“To go?”
“Yes, I have to get back to moving in. It looks like you are closing up soon too.”
I looked at the clock, one of those old timey ones shaped like a cat with the clock face in his belly. It was five minutes until closing time.
“Ah, I guess you are right.”
I hastily poured a generous cup of hot water and mixed in the cider powder with a wooden stirrer. The warm orange-brown drink emitted a pleasant autumn smell.
“Here you go.”
“Thanks.” He pulled the jacket hood over his face. “See ya later. We’ll be meeting again in a few minutes.” He was soon gone.
I felt my legs start to shake. Meet again? I began to breathe harder. No, no, no. No panic attack right now. One…two…three… I leaned against the counter, counting the number of times I inhaled and exhaled.
…Time to go home. I cleaned up the cider mess, wiped the counter clean, hung up my apron, and grabbed my bag. The journey home, though cold, was brisk and full of fresh air. I walked with purpose, sometimes breaking out into short jogs for a couple of yards until I got to the complex. I look the stairs up to the third floor, opened the door into eggshell white hallway…
He was there. He was standing there with his hands in his pockets. Waiting.
My stomach threw itself against my ribcage. I’m gonna die tonight.
He noticed me and nodded towards the apartment besides mine. I complied. I might escape with my life if I did what he asked. He put a key in the lock and turned the door knob. The door clicked open and he held it for me, like a gentleman. I walked in. He shut the door behind him. But he didn’t lock the door.
“You may sit.” The apartment was lit by a small antique lamp that threw large shadows around the room perched on an old broken desk. Next to the desk, a paisley-cushioned sofa sat, covered with large brown stains. A small coffee table sat in front of the sofa. Two white lawn chairs sat on the other side of the table. I sat down. My heart thumped loudly in my ears.
“I’m…sorry. This looks really creepy for you, I bet.” He sat down in one of the lawn chairs.
“What…do you want from me?” My voice came out as a whisper in my dry throat.
“It’s…kinda hard to explain. You…saved me. A long time ago.” I stared at the brown swath of fleece covering his mouth.
“Huh?”
“You distracted the guard and I got away.”
“What?”
“My mom…summoned you to help me. I don’t think really know how to say it in English.”
“Thirteen years ago? I had a dream….”
“Summonings appear to the recipients as dreams.”
“You’re crazy.” I started to panic. This man is crazy. My head is going to be found in his refrigerator. I stood up. “Let me leave.” “Wait!” He stood. He was nearly a foot taller than me. There was no way I could overpower him.
I raised my voice. “Now!”
He seemed to shrink away.
“I’ll scream! These walls are thin, someone will hear me!” My volume increased the adrenaline started pumping.
He grabbed my shoulder in one hand. “Wait. Please wait.” Using his other hand, he pulled down the head gear.
“I swear if—” My words became lodged in my throat. Two ropey, red scars ran from the corners of his mouth across his cheek up to his ears. The same type of scar I saw on the woman—his mother— thirteen years earlier in the dark room.
“What…”
“Please…listen to me…” His hand on my arm was firm but hesitant.
“You need to know why I called you here in such an uncouth manner.” He nervously relinquished his grip on my shoulder and beckoned me to sit. “Sit, please. I won’t keep you long. You need to know.”
He took a deep breath. “My mother and I were part of government testing. Both were born with a genetic mutation that allowed us to…do unusual things. When the program we were part of shut down…the scientists in charge thought it would be best to kill everyone involved in the project, label them as ‘missing’ and carry on like nothing happened. I am the last person alive who was experimented on.”
No. Dad had always told me he worked on crop genetics.
“What unusual things?”
His face fell. “My mother, she was nicknamed ‘304’ by the program, could summon consciences, energy, souls, whatever you call it and allow them to manifest.”
“304.” Dispatch. Incident. No…
“Like a medium?”
“Yeah. And I…” He flushed a deep red. “It’s hard to explain.” “Show me then this genetic mutation you are boasting about, then.”
“…Okay.” He hesitated for a moment before pulling off his jacket and headgear. He wore a light blue T-shirt underneath. He paused.
“Do you mind?”
“No?”
He pulled off his shirt. His body revealed meticulously placed scars. Patches of skin were sewn together.
“Wait—”
He put his hands up as if in protest. “No, it’s not what you are thinking about. Just…look.”
He pulled at the scars on the sides of his cheeks. They tore in half like a piece of paper. His eyes started to water.
“What are you doing to yourself…?”
He didn’t reply. He grabbed his upper and lower lip with both hands and peeled back his skin from his muscles, like the peel off of an orange. He shrugged out of the rest of his skin like a wet hoodie, pulling off the skin on his hands like too-tight gloves. He stood there, muscles a deep red violet in the dim light, his skin hanging around his waist like a piece of loose fabric.
“I am a walking anatomy model.”
My mind ran with a million questions. How did he do this? What should I say?
“You are…305, right?”
He nodded. “How do you know?”
“Can I touch you?” I stood and walked over to him. Reluctantly, I touched forearm. Wet and warm. I looked at my fingertips. They were covered in blood. He flinched.
I wrapped my arm around his waist and placed my head on his chest. The thumping of his heart seemed nearer. He cautiously pressed his cheek to the side of my head. I felt his blood soak into my employee uniform.
“Am I hurting you?” My lips felt cracked.
“…I don’t mind it. I’m glad I was able to thank you in person. I’m glad you aren’t a crazy person.”
“Really?” I breathed. I felt the closeness of his lungs, separated by just a wall of muscle.
“If word gets out…what is going to happen to us?
“Everything.”
I plunged the bread knife into his chest cavity. He gasped and fell to the floor, the muscles in his cheeks twitching and throbbing as blood poured out of his wound and onto the floor. It was like a little lake, red as an apple. I slipped and stepped in the blood. Red against my white working pants. What a pretty sight it was.
...I came to my senses the next morning, in my own apartment. There's no such thing as a medium. My dad didn't experiment on people. No one lives in the apartment next door down. People can't remove their skin. And I'm not crazy.
Yet, a young man's body, flayed from the torso up, lay on the floor with a knife plunged deep into his chest. His identity is a mystery to me.
I've cut his body into chunks and put it in the fridge. His hands and feet went into Tupperware containers. Head, legs, arms and torso I've covered in tin foil.
It's been more than four months now. The smell of something rotting is starting to overpower my apartment. Febreze and smelly candles can only do so much. Someone is going to say something soon. I'm scared. I'm so, so scared.
Submitted February 24, 2015 at 01:39PM by LanadelNay http://ift.tt/1zc47Hj nosleep
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