Twelve Mad Men

by Ryan Bracha et al.

  I’m in charge now, not Stanley.

  I’m in control.

  I’m harmless.

  I’m good.

  I’m not a matryoshka doll.

  There are no layers. Just me.

  So open the door and let me go.

  Hello, are you still there?

  His muffled voice fade away as my feet take me further and further back from the door. The alien. He killed all of these women. He-

  I’m surrendering to gravity as my heel thumps against the face of one of the corpses and gives my balance a jolt, toppling me backwards through the air. My arse splats down into the sticky lake of blood that coats the floor, and a ringing in my ears accompanies a harsh pain in the back of my skull as my head bounces off of the wall. I gasp in agony, bringing my hand up to check my head. For a split second I’m convinced that I’ve busted my skull open, but then I’m brought into the reality of the fact that I’m now caked in the gore of Martin Stanley’s victims and the blood on my fingers isn’t mine. I try to bring myself upright but my stupid shoes can’t get any stupid purchase in the dark red liquid and I slip back, arse first into the gore. Still my ears ring that high pitched ethereal sound that’s much like that old party trick when you run your finger around the rim of a wine glass.

  “I don’t belong here!” Martin Stanley roars from his room, but it doesn’t really register properly behind the ringing. I find myself crawling on my hands and knees toward a door so that I can use the handle to drag me upright. The corpse of a woman stares up to me. The horror of Martin Stanley’s actions still registering in her cold dead face. They used to say that a murder victim’s eyes might still hold the image of their killer burned into their retina. From the look of her I would quite happily never see that image. Her arm is twisted so tight behind her back that I can see the lump of her dislocated shoulder popped out through the blue material of her scrubs. Her throat is torn open, like he started to cut off her head like he did with Amanda – Spark’s plaything- and then gave it up. Maybe she was his last victim before he took himself off to bed. She’s only young. A slender petite brunette with huge brown eyes. High cheekbones. Far too pretty to work in a place filled with psychotic men. Far too pretty to live, it would seem. Her skirt has ridden up to reveal no pants. She probably came to work with some on. Fucking Martin Stanley.

  The closest door handle seems to get further and further away with every cold slap of my hands into the blood. The young nurse remains at my side. Her eyes boring into me. Accusing me. I should have been here to help her. But how could I be? How could I know? This was Benny’s fault. Not mine. I didn’t know she was here. I haven’t had any training. I didn’t even want this fucking job in the first place. Why did I apply? I don’t remember applying. I don’t even remember getting here anymore. So much shit has happened. I need to call the police. They need to know what’s happening here. They need to know about this mysterious Dr Bracha, and Benny, and his psychotic twin.

  Still the handle continues to elude me, and I’ve been crawling for about five minutes. Something’s not right.

  From beneath the blood something rises. A head. Benny. First his head, and then his shoulders, and torso. This isn’t happening. He’s laughing that same booming laugh that Gary spouted at me earlier. The dead girl twists. Her arm slides from beneath her and there’s the sickening pop of her shoulder sliding back into place. She sits up, cross-legged beside Benny, who stands over me, still laughing. Between her legs I can see that she’s wearing no underwear. I shouldn’t stare but I do. She looks up to him and blood spills from the gaping wound in her throat. He holds his hand out to her, rubbing his fingers together as if enticing a cat with invisible food, and waves his hand around. Her eye line follows him dutifully, until he waves his hand just a little too far behind her and the weight of her head forces it to drop back and there’s the sound of tearing flesh and all I can see anymore is the open hole of the top of her neck. Benny laughs some more as he balls up his fist and begins to slide it deep into the girl’s exposed oesophagus. He drops to his knees, and whilst he fist-fucks the open throat with one hand he pulls the other to his face, flicking his tongue between two outstretched fingers. I scream. I’m not proud of it, but I scream. This is fucked. I try to push myself back away from them but it’s no use. The blood on the floor is too slippy. I can’t bear this. My arms come up to my face to shield this sight from my vision. But the noise. Benny’s laughter and the wet gargled bubble-pops of her neck spewing more blood around his elbow. My screams. Then nothing. Benny is gone. The girl is on the floor. Dead. In the same place as she always was. Me with my back to the wall, and a throbbing ache in the rear of my skull.

  I’m up on my feet, stepping through the blood as carefully as I can whilst ripping the soaked shirt from my back. The blood has soaked through to my vest so I rip that from my body too, discarding my clothes to the floor, and scanning every door left in the corridor for anything that might provide a tap, or towels. Anything. The metallic stink of blood is everywhere, and I retch some more but it’s seriously no use. I can’t think of the last time I ate. What did I even have? This place is killing me.

  Minutes later I find a staff toilet. Again the lighting is much crisper than anywhere else in this fucking building, so much so that it’s almost startling. I make my way to the first sink of four and turn on both taps. From a dispenser on the wall I pull towel after towel and dunk handfuls into the water and I scrub at my skin. The diluted blood streams down my body, and through the masses of hair on my chest, back, and down over my swelled gut. I don’t remember ever being that hairy. Or fat. But surely I must have been. What’s happening to me? The pink water weaves its way between the hair, stopping to tug gently at each and every one of them, ticking me softly. Still I drag the sopping wet towels across my skin and try to clean the sticky awful blood away. Beside the sink the pile of red towels builds higher, the blood drips a tap tap tap onto the tiled floor. Then that familiar tip tap of the moth comes into my ear space. Whilst dragging handtowels across my waist I crane my neck to see it there. Again. The moth. My only company on this fucked up trip. It tip taps against the ceiling, heading for the light panel behind me. It tip taps gently, basking in the glow of the fresh and clean lighting of the bathroom. It tip taps just a little more, before I crush its tiny fucking body against the plastic with the end of a mop handle. Take that, Mr fucking moth. The insignificant corpse hangs on to the plastic casing of the light panel for just a few seconds with the glue of its innards, before it drops to the floor. Dead. I watch the black blob on the floor, and smile a satisfied grin. That’s all it takes to snuff out a life. I’m reminded of Martin Stanley, and what he did to those girls. The way he ended their lives so quickly and without remorse. My smile drops from my face and I instantly regret my minor crime. It’s not the same but it kind of is. I hover my shoe over the corpse of the moth and I slam it down, crushing its, what? Skeleton? My heel grinds from left to right, disintegrating the thing. Removing the evidence. I turn back to the sink and I want to reach out for more towels but I can’t. I’m frozen. Because he’s looking out at me. From the mirror. Benny. It’s his gut I’ve got. His tits. His bulging fat cock protruding from beneath the drum-skin stretched grey trousers. That isn’t me. It’s him. This is a dream. Of course it is. It’s the old cliché where I wake up and it was all some fucked up reverie. Fucking Benny!

  Without a thought I rush toward the mirror. It takes all the will in the world not to raise my hands to stop myself from smashing my forehead into the mirror, which doesn’t crack. There’s just a dull thud as I bounce from the glass, and then I have a cracking ache not only at the back of my head but at the front too.

  “Fuck’s sake,” I say through gritted teeth. I’ll fuck Benny up before I wake up, so help me fucking God and his little lad Jesus. I charge forward again. This time the mirror cracks with the force, and several shards drop out under the irresistible force of gravity. The larger shard cracks again as it hits the sink, and
becomes several blood stained shards. In the fractured reflection I see Benny’s skull broken at the forehead. Blood streams down his face. I laugh. That same booming Benny laugh. The kind of laugh that says if I didn’t then I would probably cry. I stagger toward the mirror once again, but this time I lift a shard out of the sink, and place the tip against my cheek. I feel no pain as I put a small amount of pressure on it and my cheek begins to tear. This will teach you for fucking with my head Benny. Gary. Whoever the fuck you are.

  “Stop!” a voice calls out. There’s nobody in here but me.

  “Fuck you!” I call out, “fuck this fucking building, and fuck Dr fucking Bracha!”

  “Dr Bracha’s upstairs,” says the voice, “you can talk to him any time. The same as I can.”

  “Who are you?” I ask, still holding the shard to my cheek.

  “I’m Darren.”

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “I’m having a shit,” he chuckles, “first thing I did when you let me out. Been here ages.”

  “When I let you out? I did no such thing.” I say calmly.

  “If you say so,” he says, “you’re almost ready to meet Dr Bracha,” he says, “so shut your trap for just a minute will you? I’ve got a story for you.”

  Urban Paranoia

  By Darren Sant

  How did I get here? Some might say it was an unfortunate series of events. Unkind folk would blame me entirely. The truth is I don't really know what made me do it. They've called me a paranoid, psychotic and dangerous person in the press. The relatives have called for them to throw away the key. I'll let you judge for yourselves.

  June 1st

  As my fingers flew over the keys with practised ease my head throbbed with the first stirrings of a headache. In my tiny little study a radio played a Pixies track and I smiled at memories of days gone by. A sudden loud crack drew my attention to the world outside my window. I looked out and saw a man throwing the "To let" sign from next door into the back of a van. So they'd finally managed to find tenants for the place … nightmare scenarios of crazy neighbours quickly flashed through my mind and the pounding in my head increased in tempo.

  June 2nd

  I awoke with the cat nuzzling my face, her grey tail swishing with impatience.

  "Alright, flea bag, I'm getting up."

  She gave me the kind of look that left no doubt as to who was in charge here and what she would do in my slippers if I didn't do as I was told.

  I climbed out of bed and wandered to the bathroom to take care of pressing business. After putting out the cat's food I opened the kitchen window and sighed happily at the sound of the birds. It promised to be a lovely day if the rain kept off.

  I was sitting at the kitchen table enjoying coffee and toast when the thunderous roar of approaching apocalypse battered my ears. I walked through to the living room and looked out of the window. A blue Subaru with tacky yellow door panel stickers was half-blocking my drive. I could hear the thunderous roar of the exhaust as the driver unnecessarily pressed the accelerator pedal with the car in neutral. I heard the thump thump of bad techno pounding from two huge speakers mounted on the car's parcel shelf. The distortion hurt my ears even from a distance.

  The cacophony stopped as a bald-headed man stepped from the car. A spider web tattoo covered half of his face and a Woodbine drooped from his mouth.

  “Declan, Courtney – help your mum unpack the boot whilst I get the dog,” he bellowed. The man threw his Woodbine into my drive and opened one of the car’s back doors. A huge Rottweiler bounded from the back seat and immediately pissed up a bush at the end of my drive. It was quickly followed by two moody looking teens. The lad was dressed all in black, wearing boots that looked three sizes too big for him; he was so pale he looked like he shouldn’t be out in the daylight. He was followed by a girl of about seventeen wearing shorts that almost weren’t there. Her crop top revealed more than it should have, but she was oblivious to everything but her phone, to which her eyes were glued. The last person to emerge from the car was a clean-looking woman dressed plainly and prettily. She had the ghost of a smile and already I pitied her. She caught my eye through the window and I quickly retreated back to the kitchen to eat my toast and finish my coffee. My head started to pound with another headache as I contemplated my new neighbours.

  June 3rd

  I awoke with cold sweats and listened for the thunderstorm that had woken me up. The clock told me it was 2 a.m. I groaned and sat up in bed, blinking. I heard a steady rumble that I slowly realised was actually not outside, but coming through the wall behind my head, from the house next door. I listened closer and realised it was fucking dance music. At 2 a.m. on a Tuesday fucking morning. I groaned and put the pillow over my face and tried to sleep; my head started to throb in time with the music.

  The noise had abated at around 4 a.m. and I’d had just a few hours of very broken sleep when I got up at 7 a.m. I showered and shaved and felt a little better as I got dressed for work. As I got into my car and reversed down the drive, I could see that my neighbours' car was still blocking my driveway. I reversed as far as I could and left the car idling as I walked over to their front door. I rang the bell and waited. After a minute or so there was still no sign of life so I rang it again, waited. Still nothing. I looked at my watch. If they didn’t hurry it up I’d be late for work. I knocked on the door. Still nothing. I knocked louder. The dog started barking and I heard the door shudder as it hurled itself at it. Jesus Christ, that thing was fucking big.

  The door was suddenly flung open and the big man held the dog by the collar as it barked and snarled at me.

  “WHAT?” he yelled aggressively.

  I took a step back.

  “Listen, mate, I live next door and I’ve got to get to work and you’re blocking my drive.”

  He looked over at where I was pointing at his Subaru.

  “Okay.” He shut the door in my face and I once more heard the dog throwing itself at it.

  I went back to my car and after ten minutes he came out and moved his car a few inches. Gave me just enough room to get out. The wanker. I wound down my window to mutter a sarcastic "thanks" but his back was already to me as he headed back to his house. I heard him mutter “ponce” loudly before shutting the door.

  I barely functioned at work. Endless cups of coffee couldn’t take away the tiredness from sleep deprivation. My now constant headache grew in intensity with my caffeine intake. At six o’clock I turned into my close and swore as I saw the Subaru once more blocking my drive. I drove right up to the car and left my ignition on. I got out, slamming the door behind me, and stomped up to their front door. I knocked loudly and was rewarded by the Hound of the fucking Baskervilles once more trying to smash through the door. The door was answered by the teenage girl who, I saw, was still clutching her phone.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you ask your dad to move his car, please?”

  She looked down at her phone and started typing.

  “Hello.” I waved my hand in front of her face. “Can-you-ask-your-dad-to-move-his-car-please.”

  I spoke slowly and sarcastically. She looked up from her phone.

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Well, bloody well wake him up, then. There’s plenty of room in the street for his car that doesn’t involve him blocking my drive.”

  “He gets mad when you wake him up.”

  I let out all of my anger in a huge frustrated sigh. “Alright, alright. No problem. I’ll knock for him later.” I considered that maybe he was the kind of bloke that would take out his anger on his family and I didn’t want to be responsible for that.

  I walked back towards my car, but before I made it I heard a yell.

  “Bruiser! Get back here!”

  I turned to see the dog streaking towards me and I ran the last couple of yards and shut the door just as the dog's face appeared at the window, its foam-flecked teeth pressing against the glass. My heart was pounding in my chest, I felt like
I was going to have a heart attack. My head throbbed in time with it and I felt a sudden odd calmness come over me.

  KILL IT a voice said from nowhere. I felt oddly disconnected from the world, all that I could focus on the voice. KILL IT, I heard again, like an echo.

  “Bruiser, come here now!”

  The dog took a last longing, hungry look at me before trotting back to the girl at the front door, its tail wagging like it wanted to play.

  Once she’d gotten hold of the dog and given me a quick scowl, she closed the door. I parked up in the street and made my way into my house.

  June 4th

  I awoke with a headache. It wasn’t helped by the yelling I heard from next door, punctuated by occasional loud barks. The cat gave me a quizzical look as she stared at the wall. She wasn’t happy, either. I fed her and let her out, then wondered if I’d done the right thing by putting in a work from home day. I turned on the radio and was rewarded with a Zeppelin track. I cranked up the volume as I put the kettle on. Almost immediately I heard a banging on the wall and a yell.

  “Turn it fucking down!”

  I guiltily turned the volume down.

  “You wanker!”

  The room swam out of view and I staggered as a calm measured voice spoke to me. KILL HIM FIRST. I sat down at my kitchen table, hyperventilating and scared of what was happening to me. My hands shook as I tried to sip my coffee. I took deep calming breaths and tried to concentrate on the relaxation techniques my counsellor had shown me. I wouldn’t allow these neighbours to give me another breakdown.

  2:30 p.m.

  I’d tried to forget the voice I’d heard and instead concentrated on work. I worked like a Trojan and finished spreadsheet after spreadsheet, firing them off to work and getting encouraging comments from my boss about my sudden surge in work rate. I refrained from calling him a smarmy wanker by return e-mail. The twat had more faces than Big Ben. A sudden commotion in the garden drew my attention. I dashed outside to see the cat arching her back and next door's dog advancing on her menacingly. I picked up a spade I’d left in the garden and hefted it over my head. DO IT. The cat suddenly turned tail and ran and was quickly up a tree in the corner of the garden. The dog gave chase, but it was way too slow for her. It snarled and barked at the bottom of my garden.