Young Writers Society

Author's note: Ewwww

The gentle flicker of the tv screen pacified Tristen, the boring romance dulling his mind down to the lowest level of activity—just like he wanted. No thoughts, no concerns, no emotions conflicted with the lives played out before him. When Lais had told him to go home and think about what’d happened, Tristen hadn’t gone anywhere save for his apartment, taking off his flower shorts and changing into his lounging, lazy pajamas.

The contact card fluttered from the shorts pocket, and he picked it up, turning it over to read the name—Emilie Sharp. Heslammed the card on the desk beside him and flopped to the bed. A few moments passed, where the only sound came from the mumbling of the characters in the movie, a dysfunctional mash of screaming and tears. Tristen zoned them out and focused on nothing, staring into the ceiling and following the spider patterns of cracks zigzagging along. No pattern, no meaning, no purpose—the story of his life.

And yet it continued to live on.

He remembered when he’d felt something stirring inside him whenever he looked outside at the expanse, when he’d looked out and seen his future. Now when he looked out, all he saw was dust and decay, a skeletal figure of what his life had been. There was no one to pin his failure onto, and nothing he or anyone could’ve done to prevent it. Except her.

Ashley.

After a lifetime of breaking bone and crushing dreams, he figured he would become numb to their pain, their loss. Instead, it only made him feel the pangs deeper. Looking upon all he’d done, all the lives he’d taken in his lifetime, he felt the voices screaming for their revenge. And all he could do was stand and listen. Trapped inside his own prison, where he was separated from her and allowed to decay in mind, there was nothing to live for, so instead he fought to bring her back.

Years had passed since he saw her, but he still remembered the last day—when she’d walked out the door and out of his life. And where she’d gone after that, only God knew. If God existed. As time lingered on, his frail belief in Him became brittle, cracking at every wrong turn, until now there was nothing left of his faith. All that remained was a sliver of hope—that someday, every piece of his life would find their way back home again.

He groped for the TV remote under the blankets, squinting through the low light at the controls until he found the skip button. The channel still played the same boring romance, the actors now walking through a field saying and doing nothing. It reminded him too much of Ashley, and how they had been years before—not needing to say anything, but enjoying their company in the silence.

Skip—next channel, nothing good was on. By the fifth channel, he was convinced the only entertaining parts were the commercials. Sixth channel was Disney—skip. After running through a dozen more, he settled on an action movie he’d never seen before. Some armored guy was running through a smoking field, and it looked more interesting than Lilo and Stitch, so he set the remote down and lied lower in the bed. It was still a dreary movie with nothing more enticing than amazing graphics, but it rested his mind from the day and allowed someone else to scheme on how to destroy humanity. So far, his plans were like clockwork—walking in, blowing people up, leaving. If there was anything else involved, his trusty sidekick dealt a spinning kick and the obstacle was shattered.

Real life was much different, and Tristen knew it. There were impenetrable barriers where only hurdling over or working around them were possible. Enemies weren’t shot down by single bullets, then hidden behind trash bins in the alley and forgotten. One thing remained framed by truth, through it all a single resounding note. The bad guy never got the girl.

He flung the thought from his mind, that nagging voice repeating those words in a singsong voice, reminding him of the truth. No—he wasn’t the bad guy. The cause he worked for was responsible for all he did, and all blame was thrown towards them like gravel flung behind escaping vehicles. It was their burden to carry, and he was guiltless.

Guiltless. Blameless.

He had nothing to answer for.

Shaking the thought from his mind, he unclenched his fists from around the top blankets, focusing on the movie and allowing all else to fade into background scuffle—even his mind, all those pictures flooding his consciousness.

His face remained hidden behind a mask throughout the scene, his footstep as silent as falling snow, his eyes searching the room like a fox. There was nothing that escaped his vision, nothing slipping from his visual grasp. The cold Glock 45 hanging from his belt and secured so close to his fingertips only concluded Tristen’s silent intuitions—that this man was on a mission, and someone would die tonight.

He stole through the open doors, sliding across the thresholds and into the rooms like a wraith. The shadows were his best friend, the leather furniture wrapping around the room to provide him with cover—if any was needed. Tristen scanned the room in front of the masked man, saw nothing, but sensed a tingling of suspicion even in the movie.

A solitary figure stood on the veranda outside the open door, cigarette smoke rolling into the room with the light breeze. He held no weapon, but leaned over the railing atop the city, looking out into the lights and busy night-life of downtown. All was still.

The masked man slid the Glock from the holster without even a scuff against the leather, easing around the corners of the room to find a—

The scene froze in place, all characters and movement stopped in time as though paused. Projected up and away from the screen, almost in a different world of his own, crouched the assassin, still gripping the pistol. The room materialized around him, the colors shading in and becoming reality in mere moments. But one thing was different, one thing twisted from the previous scene.

Another person stood behind him, poised for the kill. Long knife clenched in her slender fingers, she slipped forward, unseen and unheard. Tristen clenched his fists, sank lower in the sheets, and held his breath—expecting and knowing the worst. She continued to creep forward, lurking behind in his own silent, still shadow. He continued to survey the man standing on the porch ahead, ignorant to the threat behind him.

The knife slipped forward at the same time as the vicious jab upwards, and—

Tristen slammed his head backwards against the bed-frame, sending jarring pain up his spine, his head pounding. His focus shattered, the vision was gone, and the only remains were the images in his mind and the slow release of breath as he sank against the pillow. Only a vision, only a vision.

It’d pass, as it always did—sooner than late, creating space for the new vision. The TV still played its eerie music, the assassin still creeping through the living room. Glancing over only brought hints of the vision into his mind, so he reached over and slapped the off on the remote beside him.

Tristen sank back, closed his eyes from all interfering images and thoughts, and sank into a deep sleep where only the memories of his visions could haunt him.