by Chad Inglis
Neither of us chose to be chained here, in this flesh, inside a broken world. I just chose to get out, because of what's coming. Because I refuse to end along with it. And so that's a choice, and it follows that I can't permit anyone to stop me. Not before I'm out."
So rambling, he finished with the first bird and ripped the head off a second, painting several symbols on the wall, and around them a small ring, a perfect circle that seemed to Hollister to vibrate with some odd, invisible energy. Watching the man work, it was as if he himself was falling away, and he was afraid of this, much more so than he was afraid of the man or anything he might do, because instinctively Hollister knew that if once he lost his grip on himself he would be lost, drifting away as easily as a column of steam, and from that into nothing.
"You have to come to it someday," said the man, nearly whispering the words, but for Hollister they sounded as clear as if he'd spoken them into his ear. "The knowledge that even if it's not real, even if you aren't, that this is all we've got. And even if our life is worthless, it's the only life we'll ever know. And none of us had a choice about it."
The man finished the ring and fell silent. He winced as if he was in pain, and then he laughed, letting the bird fall from his hand. He moved forward, stepping into the wall, and then he was gone, and all that was left was the bloody ring, and the bodies of two dead birds on the ground, slowly freezing.
"That was two days ago," says Hollister, looking at his hands. "Not even sure if it was real, and I don't care much either. Think I'll let it go now. Let the birds fend for themselves."
"Why?" comes the question, from some interested party, a friend or social worker, a stranger on the street. Hollister shrugs.
"What's the point? The world is just too strange. Too fucked up to do anything about it."
There is a pause.
"Buried the birds from that alley though," he says quietly. "At least I could do that."