Something Wicked

The day was shitty. Such is the norm around here. Trees barely living and for some off reason, it seems that the people around here reflect that pretty well. Dreary people inhabit this burg. No love for anything and no reaction to what their own minds may be saying to them. I reflect all this, but I listen to that voice. It screams.

My room is dark with the white vinyl shades left drooping down. The faint tinge of old cigarettes seem sustained in every crevice, but since I'm no social butterfly, I don't much care. An old broken futon, a dingy yellow bed spread that I'm sure used to be white, a cheap leather chair listing to one side, a computer that was top of the line three years ago, and me, an over-weight malcontent with violent and suicidal tendencies, all share residence in this small first floor dorm room. Welcome to Haven.

My name is Christopher and this is my story. It's long winded at times, and at others it is far too fast paced to understand what the fuck just flew by. This is just a warning. I've been diagnosed with Clinical Depression and there is no cure, only what they call "Suppression Therapy". I have other neurosis and most of them can't be defined by the worthless military doctors here. I know what they are though. I don't need a P.H.D to tell me I've got more issues then most popular magazines. I've tried to kill myself with pills. I've tried to use a razor. I've tried to use a knife. I've tried to overdose. I don't know why I do these things, except that I feel the compulsive need. It's fun.

I was sitting at my computer typing a rather shitty poem. Again. Looking back on all my writings, it all seems to be anger let out with no particular rhyme or reason. People like it for some fucking reason that I'll never fathom. A knock on my door. It's Brian again.

Brian: Skater-Wannabe, neighbor who enjoys playing crappy music on a crappy guitar, with no feeling or style. Likes to borrow my truck. Doesn't like to fill up the tank.

I remember checking the clock, and it seemed about the right time for him to get up and bug me. He's a very punctual person.

"What?" I shouted.
"Hey bro! Hey, do you think I can like...borrow your shit for a sec'? I gotta get some smokes. You want somethin'?"
I don't know why, and I know that he is intelligent in his own way, but the way he talked, dripping with lingo, really made me want to crush his skull. "No, I'm fine. The keys are...somewhere. You find them, you can take them. Consider it your reward." My sarcasm normally escapes him, but he chuckles and looks over to where I normally forget them. He snatched them up with a swish of metal on wood, and asked me again if I wanted something. I didn't know then why just the simple presence of someone else in my room was enough to set me on edge. I wish I had known then what I know now. Yes, that sounds cliché. That's because it is. "No, I'm fine. Just go. Thanks." I reply.

With a whistle and a grunt, he left my room, finally. Really, back then it wasn't that I enjoyed being alone. It was more that I didn't like anyone being within a place where I dwell. It's a bit hard to explain, and I'm not a xenophobe, I just felt invaded and violated. Had I the ability to see my future back then, I am sure that I would have some how found a way to make my fondest wish come true. To die was about the only present I would accept back then with any sort of real enthusiasm.


So I went back to tapping a newly excreted poem from somewhere deep inside I prefer not to look. It was my anger showing through, as it seemed to be lately. It just felt like a jumble of violence with some sort of obscure reference to me being sick and not being able to cure anything. Like I said, excreted.
Orgy swings onto WinAmp blaring Blue Monday. I love this song. It's perfect for just about anytime of the day for me. I went back to typing but soon I realized that all I was writing were words that don't mean a damn thing to me. I hit save, gave it a title, and shoved it in a folder for later submissions to my less then adoring fans.

It's almost time to head off to work, and I hear Brian pull up in front of the dorms with my truck blasting out some sort of high pitched punk music with a indecipherable beat. Tool belongs in that CD player, nothing else. With his normal clamor, Brian crashed through the door and threw my keys on my bed. "Thanks man. 'Preciate it." He said.

"No problem. I don't suppose you put gas in it did you?" This, I understand, was a stupid question that I already knew the answer too. But I thought maybe if I hammered the fact home enough times, it would get through his double thick cranium.

"Oh, shit man. I forgot. I'll fill it up tomorrow, k?" he said. No surprise here.
"Sure. Don't worry about it. Thanks." I said, with my eyes reviewing some new poetry on an independent site I go to. He closed my door and left me to me silence. I felt more comfortable already. Don't get me wrong, though. Brian can be an okay guy, he just needs a surgery to remove his brain from his nether regions.

Resentment washed over me acting like a biological alarm clock. Time to go to work, I see. I shrug into my uniform, snap in the buttons, grab my web-belt and backpack and stuff it with books and writing shit. I spend most of the time sitting in front of my Security System terminal either writing or reading, and occasionally looking up to acknowledge an alarm caused by a wide eyed deer with no bladder control near a fence-line. A quick stop for Marlbolo's and some water and I head to work.

As I park under the orange light in our assigned spots, I light one up and head over to talk to a few of my co-workers from my element that are smoking near the bike racks. Mike looks over at me and gives me a dopey grin.

Michael Kennedy: One of the only people I can trust around here. Loves sports to the point where he always wears the same underwear everytime the Los Angeles Kings play a home game. I think it's sick but comical at the same time. I got him reading some of the fantasy books I'm into. He's a really good guy from my point of view.

"Hey!" he shouts at me from across the way. "What is up brother man?"
"Hey bro." I say with a smile. Yes, he uses the same kind of caustic lingo with me as Brian does, but there is something a little easier to except about it when Mike says it.
"What are you up to? Isn't this a bit early for you?" I ask. I'm the early one normally. I like getting to work before everyone else. It gives me a chance to listen to music without annoying any touchy neighbors. That's why I spent $2000 for a sound system in my truck after all.
He chuckles and sips on a drink from Burger King. "Yeah well, I didn't have nothin to do at home, so I thought I would see what makes you get here so early."
I laugh. I don't expect him to understand. "Same reason I suppose. Not much to do at home, might as well come here and listen to music. Yeah well, anyway, where are you working tonight? The Cave or the Hole?" I ask.

The Cave: The Dispatch center. Appropriately named for the dimness of light and the fact that there are no windows except for one that is used for customer service if someone has to file a police report.

The Hole: The Surveillance Center. Appropriately named for the circular room with a hidden door. To give a better discription, it looks like the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. 200 cameras and a big screen one for camera call up in case of an alarm. The heart of the system is a Computer Terminal that reads all alarms and swipe cards on the whole base.

"You're in the cave, man." He says to me. "I hate that place. Too much shit to look after."
"It's not that hard. Just listen for the annoying beep, acknowledge the alarm, and go back to playing video games." I laugh. Personally, I really used to love working in the Hole. I was away from people, and I have cameras everywhere so no one can sneak up on me. We always laugh at our non-chalantness about our jobs. But when it comes down to it, we both take it seriously. Very seriously. My supervisor walks up behind us as we're chatting. Staff Sgt. Zink.

Mark Zink: Jackass. He used to be a friend of mine until I realized he was lying to me about a girl I was seeing. Turns out he was seeing her at the same time. I knew they were friends, but when she started acting odd, and I knew she was going to him to talk, I put the pieces together. Needless to say, the animosity between us two was thick enough to cut with a knife.

"Hey fellas!" he cheers merrily. He used to be a Christian Minister, and although he gave up his faith, he still has that certain little brightness at all times that I find absolutely fucking intolerable. "What are you guys up? Ready for a fun night at work?" he giggles. He fucking giggles.

I scoff, feigning amusement. "Sure am, man." Dumb fuck.
"Let's get this party started then." He says. I chance a glance at Mike and he saw the hidden meaning in my reply. I always did trust Mike. We head up and get our weapons from the armory. Nine millimeter Berreta's with thirty rounds of ammunition. Now, you would think that a suicidal person with internal violent tendencies would probably be a bad person to have carrying a loaded weapon around. The difference is that I always did have some sort of odd seperation between how it was at home, and how it was at work. I had my job to focus on, so all the other shit that tormented me day in and day out never really bothered me in the slightest. Anyway, I went and got a vehicle, and with a final wave I set off to my post. That was the last clear memory I had of that night.

I'm not entirely sure how I got to my post. And I'm not entirely sure what happened there either. I remember some crying and whispering. And I remember me curling up under the counter. I did apparently log on to the system, and did my usual routine as I assumed my post. I remember that ear splitting phone ring in it's ackward 'I ring like this on purpose to get you to pick me up' tone. I wrote about 30 nonsensical poems and most of them ended about halfway through. I normally don't like how I write, but I could always tell when I didn't finish a piece. I prefer to have my endings made very clear and the point made. None of them seemed to be like that.

Nine hours later, I was back in my dorm room and crying again. This is where my memory picks up a little more, but it's still rather hazy. I checked my e-mail, and had enough of a mind to remember to take my vitamins, defrost some chicken to make and take to work for the next night. I evidently held a rather distant conversation with a few friends on my instant messenger service then told them I was going to take a shower.

Apparently I did, not that I remembered very much of anything. I got in bed and said my usual prayer to the god I don't believe in to take me while I was sleeping so I wouldn't have to live another day. I drifted off to sleep.

I dreamt some odd dreams that night. My boss and good friend James Collins were there.

James Collins: Jimmy. I've worked with this man for a long time, and he and I really sync when we get together. He knows about my mental issues, and does his best to help me out. When we got more manning, he and I were supposed to go to Mental Health on base and get me "Fixed". He cares about me, and seems to be one of the only ones. Looking back on it now, I really wish we hadn't waited to go to the base shrink.

My dreams were strange to say the least, and like most dreams I only remember tiny bits and pieces of them. Some I had a knife and I was repeatedly stabbing my self in the chest with it. Some, James was standing behind me holding me up since I couldn't stand by myself. When I looked down, I realized why. The legs were nothing but withered pieces of wood suitable for kindling. The most disturbing one though, was when James reached around and hugged me tight to let me know he cared for me and he was always there for me. He took a step back and looked at me with a blanched-white face. He had a kitchen knife sticking out of his chest, and my hand was on the grip. I yanked it out and stared at him. I brought the knife up to the side of his neck and slid it in, upright and point first, so it sheathed right behind his windpipe. I Twisted my wrist, like I was prying of a bottle top, and pulled his throat out....

....This is about the time I awoke screaming, panting, and soaked in a cold sweat. It was time to get ready for work anyway, but I didn't normally sleep so close to the time I had to get up. I liked to have a little bit of time to peruse the Internet and writing something in my journal. I felt sick to my stomach and my belly burned. My wrist ached like I had been sleeping on it and yanked it from beneath me, but I could feel that I definitely pulled something. I rolled out of bed feet first, and landed on top of a soaked mass of clothing. My legs jumped away seemingly with a mind of their own, and I bent to pick up the nasty obstruction. It was my uniform. And it was soaked with cold sticky blood. I felt all the blood drain out of my face as I hastily searched my body for some sort of wound. I found nothing at all.

I don't know why I did this next thing, although, I guess it made sense in that 'weird amnesia movie' type way. I ran to my little kitchen cubby-hole to check the sink. The vitamin jar had a bloody hand print on it, and the now thawed chicken was a sickening mix of watery grease and blood. Nothing made sense to me at that point. Why didn't I have blood all over me? Where the fuck was all of this from? Or better yet, who the fuck was all of this from?

A key slid into my dead bolt from the outside, and I heard someone say "Step away from the door now." Five armed cops, all people I knew in passing, burst into my room. "Get the fuck down, Chris! Do it! Get down, god damnit!" they yelled. I stood there gaping and put my hands above my head. It was about that time I realized they stopped and were staring at me. My right hand was empty and reaching for the sky. My left however, was coated in blood holding my dingy uniform.

"Wha..." was all that was able to escape my mouth before a fist met my head, and my head met the floor. I dreamt of nothing, thank god. It was just a swirling of yelling and screaming, and the feeling of being dragged and thrown. I do however remember a brief lucid moment when I whispered, "Am I dead?" The response I got was less then encouraging.

"Not yet." A far away voice said. "But we're all holding out hope, you sick fuck."

I woke up with a burst of pain in my wrist and the side of my face. Being right handed, I reached up to check my cheek when I realized I was tethered to a long gray bench, like the ones we have in the holding rooms in the control center, by a pair of hinged handcuffs. The room seemed oddly familiar at first, and then I realized why. It was a bench in one of our holding rooms, and I was there for the holding. Everything that happened since I woke up, however long ago that was, came crashing back into my mind. The bloody uniform. The bloody vitamin bottle. The not so appetizing chicken. The knife one of the cops picked up from desk to look at, which wasn't a big deal now that I thought about it since we all have knifes issued to us. And the large gloved fist that helped me say goodnight to my consciousness.

The door to the holding room swung open, and in walked whom I at first thought may quite possibly be god. He had to be at least Six foot Five inches, built like a brick shit house, uniform pressed to the perfect depiction of military bearing, and a scowl on his face that would scare even the most evil creature the Dark-One could throw at mankind. His name was Master Sgt. Morrow, and I do recall whimpering at this point.

Master Sgt. Morrow: Big. Big black man. He had a scrunched-in face that could wear a warming smile or a loose-your-bowels scowl. He actually was a rather gentle person if you got to know him, but most young Enlistee's tended to steer clear of him. With good reason, I might add.

He looked me up and down, and at that point, I'm not sure if I ever felt more measured and weighed in my life. He cocked a studying eyebrow up and spoke. "I think that you and me have some things we need to talk about, don't you?"

"Uhm" I said in a hoarse voice, "I guess we do. I don't suppose you have a smoke do you?"




end part one