Through her boxed view, searching circumspectly, Olivia was able to determine her location. Based upon the clear glass shelves, the white cash register and rows of Smartphones and other communication devices, she was in Gourd, Inc., a local computer store. Along with seeing her present place, Olivia could hear loud, angry voices.
“Whatever this place is, my lawyer is going to know of it,” a dictatorial male voice bellowed.
“Hold on, be quiet, let me pray. Perhaps we should pray,” an old patriarchal voice said in a fatigued tone.
“Speak for yourself, pops, even in hell, I don’t pray to anybody,” a boy yelled.
“We are not in danger, such as we are. Do you remember what the witch said?” Some woman’s operatic voice queried. “Well, does anyone recall?”
“Until you can convince someone to live a proper existence without using their something or another, your soul shall remain in a machine.” Olivia responded.
“Yes, she said something similar.” the melliferous-voiced woman agreed.
“So, according to you lot, we ran over the same woman and the witch cursed us to remain in these phones. We must remain in these things—that is, of course, until we make people get lives and leave their bloody mobiles. What a ridiculous theory. My rather clever deduction is this, we’re dreaming,” an Englishman concluded.
“Because of IMing and SMSing while driving brought us here. Ya’ heard? Basically, being lost in blogs, chat rooms, games, and postings got us doin’ a bid up in here,” an irate lady growled.
“She’s right, my friends, this is our penance for an egregious sin.” In a bitter tone, the honeyed speaker replied.
“My God, hell is merely a call away,” an adolescent female voice said while sobbing.
A hundred voices chimed in and described their auto accidents. Each story had the same description of the black woman, her conjuration and that mist, etc.
Silent and motionless, Olivia accepted her fate. Albeit a cruel sentence, she determined it was deserved. Even the irony made sense. Stuck inside a machine, Olivia had a greater amount of feelings for the world and herself than when she was full of formed flesh and moral flaws.
THE END
THE CRY OF A CORPSE by Henry Vesterlund
The full grotesqueness of the sights I then beheld, there, in that very moment, would be nothing but folly and idiocy to try to convey to someone else. But nevertheless, I beheld them, in all of their gory glory, and I could scarcely prevent myself from vomiting. On the neatly polished oak floor, the vast puddle of shimmering, cherry-colored blood was shining, still wet, and the living room walls as well as the Coffee table was decorated with petite stains of blood and innards with the same moist appearance as the puddle on the floor. And in the sofa, sitting with her head tilted backward and her mouth sluggishly opened – looking as if she had fallen asleep in front of the TV – was my victim. But a more careful and minute observation would immediately make it clear - to whomever was observing - that this woman was far from sleeping. Or if she was, she would never wake up again. Her eyes globes were colored with a darkly red liquid, from all the broken blood vessels in her head, the cranium was utterly bashed in on several places, thus making her brain gush out in a repellent and nauseating way. The static buzzing and the flickering light from the television gave the room a sickly pale, grayish appearance, since it was the only light source to be found. A part from that it was pitch black. It was way past midnight; and the night had enshrouded the city in its thick, cozy blanket of utter darkness, which is the perpetrators favorite piece of clothing, especially the burglar´s. All the lights in the luxury apartment were shut off, thus making the unpleasant, bleak light ray from the television screen the only available source of illumination, coloring me, the apartment, the pools of blood and my victim in an icy tone. I stood there in the living room, with the big bag I had brought with me lying at my feet, and still holding the crowbar in my hand, the very crowbar which I had buried deep into that poor woman´s skull, several times. I buried my heavy head in my quivering, bloodstained hands and submitted myself to remorse; and I indulged in sadness and despair over the sudden death that I had induced upon the young woman; the woman that I had once loved. Still loved actually. My mind was yet to fathom that she was no longer alive. Her emerald eyes – which had so often looked upon me with love – had been glistening with an abundance of tears, her soft – almost whisper-like – voice, curly hair and cream-colored skin – it would be no point in denying that I had felt something for her, felt something that I had not felt in a very long time, a long time indeed. That woman had stirred something deep in the most remote corners of my soul, and she had awoken something that I had considered long dead. I honestly regretted my deed, but I tried – failingly – to convince myself that the deed was somehow justified, since it was not meant to happen. It was what I, for one, would consider an “unfortunate accident”. Many a shameful actions have I committed in my life, and I am more than aware of the fact that I am a despicable, distasteful and rather repugnant person, but never before have I felt such a regret as the one that I felt in that particular moment, and never have I cried heavier, more bitter tears, than in that apartment. But then again I have never committed such a shameful deed before either. In that very instance, in which my crowbar pounded down upon her forehead, and I realized that there was no turning back, I felt such a flood of regret rushing over me. But I did not pay attention to it then. My heart beat had been racing, pounding like a hammer on an anvil inside of me, my breath had been quick and irregular, my head heavy and my vision dim, and I had not returned to reality before the poor girl gushed out a fountain of blood and spit all over my face which made me come to my senses – or rather lose those senses, forever. Only then had I realized that I had performed a detestable action far worse, and far more heartless than any I have committed before, and the only thing I could perceive was the salt taste of tears in my mouth.
This is all a very unusual state of mind for me, since I have always found refuge in the very knowledge that I possess very few human feelings what so ever. I have found strength in knowing that my inside consists of little more than that of a dead tree – rotten, and infested with mushrooms and fungus. But I have never considered myself cruel or coldblooded, and God knows I never intended to kill that poor woman; I merely endeavored to get a hold of her copious amount of money and her treasure of valuables worthy of a dragon. Lord knows I need the money! It is rare for me to grant myself the luxury of sorrow, but dammit I submit to it now!
Why did I have to kill her, could not I have chosen somebody else?
No more of these thoughts! She had to go!
But she was innocent! And young! And I loved her; I actually dare to say that I loved her! This inner battle, together with my pondering upon my current, very problematic situation – emotional as well as physical – occupied me while I initiated my minute scrutinizing of the apartment, in search of money, jewelry and other valuable items.
The woman lying dead on the couch in the living room was, or were, known as Livia Harlow, a 25 year old stunning beauty, which up until recently I had been able to refer to as “my girlfriend”, but no more. Both of us residing in New York, we had met a few years earlier on a party, thrown by a mutual friend of ours. I had been stunned, like the victim of an electric shock, by her beauty as well as her social charm. Even though I was a handful of years older we had enjoyed each other’s company very, very much, and before too long we were what one would call a couple. Of course I told her nothing of my somewhat peculiar behavior and my tendency to steal that which I did not possess but still wanted to obtain.
Perhaps, deep down, some distant part of me possessed a vague hope that she would be the one, the one who would make me realize that there actually exists fairness in this otherwise so gloomy world. That she would be the one who would be worth changing for. And she almost became that girl, the true love of my life. As one might expect I have never had many friends or mates, and thi
s has always boggled me and made me solemn, but with Livia it did no longer matter. Not at all, as a matter of fact. I was perfectly happy, just as long as she were standing by my side. And this happiness lasted for years, and I finally came to believe that perhaps my days of melancholy, of loneliness and of breaking and entering were over, but little did I know that I was gravely mistaking.
It took a long time for me to realize how lucky I was that a woman like her was even looking at me without having her finger ready on the trigger of the tear gas can. I was older than she was, without a proper job, dressing in old, saggy, sweaty clothes and rags, drinking a bit more than what is healthy and then, of course, I had my old habit of committing compulsive burglary every now and then. Yet, being close to her made me forget about all this, and it made the air that I breathed a lot fresher. I enjoyed and rejoiced in her mere company, and I do not hesitate to say that I was happier with her than I have ever been before.
Nevertheless, it did not take long for me to discover that she was rich, very rich, and inhabited a glamorous, luxury flat. I tried to resist, tried to fight down my old, filthy indigenous habit, but in the end it gained the upper hand. I developed a plan which involved breaking into her apartment at a time when I knew she was not going to be home, steel everything of value, sell it, and then pretend like nothing happened, that I was nothing but oblivious about who committed the deed. And then, of course, I would be there for her, comforting and consoling her, let her warm tears run down my arms while I kissed her neck, telling her that everything was going to be all right. If the plan were to succeed, it would mean that I could have both the money and the girl, without having to choose. It seemed like a perfect plan, and I promised myself that this would be the last crime that I would ever commit. I also promised myself that everything would be completed smoothly and without complications. The first promise was accurate, but I was mistaking myself severely on the second one.
In the damp blackness of the night I finally, with an effort, managed to search through the kitchen, the closet, the bathroom, the study and workroom and finally the living room. The things of value which I had obtained were now packed into the spacious bag that I had brought with me. I stood there in the living room, no more than a few feet away from the atrocious, hideous corpse, and I realized that the tips of my fingers were shaking violently. My lips were constantly drying out, and my tongue felt thick and paralyzed, as if it were trying to prevent me from being able to talk. The air around me seemed to be filled with a vigorous, ominous malice which were tightening its grip around my throat with every breath I inhaled. Panic was beginning to rise inside of me as my horrible action, and the actual meaning of it, was terrorizing me. And the very situation, of being alone, at midnight, in a strange apartment with the body of a dead woman, was ripping and tearing at my brain, my heart, my soul. I feared for my sanity, realizing that it was not far from bursting. I had to get out. Out and away from this madness, from this nightmarish flat! But I could not, however, run from my deed, from the action of killing a young, innocent woman for her money. That would forever be on my conscious. I licked my bone-dry lips, opened and closed by fists, endeavoring to stop them from trembling. I regretted my deed so much, and in that moment I would have done anything that would make the fear and the anxiety go away. But before I could leave I had to check the bedroom, the room which often contained the truly valuable items in form of necklaces, rings, earrings and bracelets.
I had decided to not arrange a disposal of the body. I no longer cared if someone found her or if she were to rotten in here for decades. Never before had I taken someone´s life; and I had a palpable feeling of her dead, stirring eyes following my every move, the pattering of the rain and the blowing of the wind gave me goosebumps, and my own, ferocious brutality, chocked me and left me devastated.
I could scarcely be of human nature! I cried, unrestrainedly, and I cursed my very soul and essence! How could I kill her? That sweet, lovely woman! A worthless, pitiful creature such as me did not deserve to exist! Or maybe I did deserve to exist, more than anything else? Perhaps death – with its utter emptiness and relieving of all emotions – was way too merciful to work as a punishment for a nugatory maggot like me? Say, would not solitary, endless years of life – alone, with nothing but my consciousness, my remorse, my guilt and the weight of my crime hanging over me like shadows – be a more suitable reward for a scum like me?
With all of these ponderings pounding and hammering on my head and conscious, I found that I no longer cared about anything, no longer cared if my fingerprints were found, if Livias body was found, if I were found guilty. It did not seem to matter anymore. I just felt so sick, so repugnant, and suddenly felt an urge to vomit, to just cleanse my body from filth and sin. But I knew that throwing up would not make me any purer. Sure, it would cleanse me of physical muck and foulness, but it would not set my mind at ease, for the stains that defiled my innermost self could not be erased. It would only be like trying to wash away a cancer with soap.
She was so innocent, so young so beautiful… How could I have known that she had decided to stay home tonight? She was supposed to be gone, out, having fun with friends! Anywhere, but not here! How could I be expected to have known that she was still home…
I ought to have listened carefully, put my ear against the door and ensured myself that the flat was empty, before putting the crowbar to the door and forcing it up!
Oh, and utter terror, for there had she been! Quickly she got up from the couch when she heard me entering. And the horror and sorrow and anguish that ran through my body, carried around by my blood, when I saw that she was still home, rushing towards me, endeavoring to chase out the unwelcome intruder. Her beautiful, shimmering, emerald eyes – eyes of luster, of youth and life – where so abruptly filled with confusion and despair and glistening snowflake tears when she realized who the intruder was. And those eyes were, just a second later, wide open, bulging out of their sockets, filled to the brim with fright and bitterness, as I raised by crowbar and inflicted the must hideous, grotesque wounds on her previously so unspoiled, impeccable countenance. Blow after blow I struck, until the brain was seeping out of newly made orifices, and the very head and cranium was crushed and deformed beyond recognition. I could not control myself once I had begun and not until she was lying face down on the living room floor, did I stop, with my chest lifting and lowering in violent, ferocious breathing.
This, this I did to the woman I loved.
My nerves were as tense as violin strings as I walked around in the gloomy apartment, trying to calm down the foreboding, angry voices in my head – some of them telling me to just jump of the balcony and get it all over with – as well as my nerves. I groped in the blackness of Livia Harlow´s bedroom, only enlightened by the far-off flickering light of the TV. I knew that time was short – it was very likely that someone may had overheard the commotion or Livia´s short burst of hysterical screaming – so I was quickly trying to locate the last few things of value. When you have to murder someone in connection with a robbery, you really want to make it count. I presumed that I had already found everything of value – the bag which I had brought with me was almost filled to the brim with tainted gold, laying on the living room floor, waiting for me. But had decided to make one last round, checking to make sure that no invaluable treasures had escaped my gaze.
And it was then that I heard the singular noise, coming from somewhere inside the apartment. I froze; my blood became chilly as an autumn wind. Slowly, slowly I stood up and let my arms fall to my sides, listening. The roaring of the wind outside the windows – along with the calm dripping of rain – but nothing more. The compartment was dead quiet; the pale TV light was giving the room a ghostly, very ominous shade which made me even more nervous, and I was sure I had heard something. I tried to dismiss it as a sound coming from the floor above or below. I walked across the room, to the window on the other side, and stood by it, just observing the most astonishing city in the world, a
t night time. The few dying stars, the lights glowing from inside numberless apartments, street lights, car lights, the light of a thousand cell phones.
And then another creaking carved through the night, a creaking very much resembling that which an old, wooden floor board can emit. My breathing became suddenly incontrollable and my fingers started trembling even worse. A muffled sound, as from someone trying to move around quietly, and then again the shrilling sound of a creaking floor board. Something was moving. I listened carefully, trying to make out exactly were the sound was coming from. I knew that I were alone with no one but the corpse, but there were no longer any doubt that the nightmarish sound had emitted from somewhere inside the residence. And I was standing still, on a thick carpet, so I could not in any way be the reason of the noise. Quivering and icy cold I turned to the bedroom door, leading out into the hallway, but there was nothing to see there. And the muffled noise of movement and the horrible creaking abruptly ceased. For a moment there was calmness and utter silence in the flat. And the second later my heart nearly stopped as the pale, flickering light from the TV suddenly vanished. Someone had shut it off, thus leaving me in total blackness. I could no longer see more than a few inches ahead of me. My lips were quivering, my heart was bursting with fear and my eyes filled with tears as I groped in an even darker apartment to find my way out of the bedroom. I felt as if someone had just placed the most poisonous spider in the world within my shirt, and pitiful cries and sobbing escaped my lips as I tried to maintain control of myself, but I could not suffocate the immense horror that now had me in its merciless grip. I managed to feel my way to the doorway, but then I could force myself to go no further. When I turned to the left I had the front door only a few feet away – freedom was only a few feet away – and to my right I had the living room with my crowbar, my flashlight and my bag of valuables. And also a dead body, enshrouded by impenetrable darkness.
9 Tales Told in the Dark 11 Page 10