Writing on the Wall

On the wall, someone had written in black marker three names, the letters crooked and disfigured, almost illegible.  The names are the only decorations remaining in this two-room apartment.  It’s as if someone has gutted the apartment of furniture, photographs, appliances, everything.  Nothing remains, except those three names.  The windows are boarded up and the apartment is stifling hot, so hot that I’m sweating, so hot that I want to strip off my clothes and take a nap on the hardwood floors, but I can’t move, and I can’t stop staring at those three names.  I don’t recognize any of the names, but I know someone has left them for me.

First name, Alexander White.  Second name, Maria Thomas.  Third name, Michael Thomas.

I need to find these people, need to see them with my own two eyes, see that they’re real, flesh and bone and all that good stuff, and once I know they exist, I need to kill them, murder them as brutally as possible.

Alexander White.  Sounds too common, too hard to find, and I want to give up, but I realize this is a test to see if I can accomplish my mission.  Clever.  Very clever.  But I won’t be fooled that easily.  I’m not stupid and I’m no quitter.

In the bathroom, a cracked mirror that somehow managed to survive when the apartment was looted, and I look at the figure staring back at me.  Black stringy shoulder-length hair, dark blood-shot eyes, pale pasty skin, a sunken face, thin cheeks covered with black stubble, nostrils painted with dried blood, lips chapped, cracked, bleeding.  Despite all the defects, I’m drawn to those eyes.  So sad and lonely, and most of all, desperate.  The man in the mirror looks like a depressed scarecrow, a frightened stick figure, a white ghost.  This man stares at me, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

Outside, it’s cold, and I don’t have a jacket, I’m not even wearing long sleeves, my bony scrawny arms nothing but sticks.  I look at those sticks and realize that I don’t think I can kill anyone with my bare hands.  I need a weapon.  A gun, a knife, a bat, a piece of metal, a stick, something sharp, something easy to maneuver, something deadly.

There’s no money in my pockets, nothing in my pockets at all, and that makes me smile, as if I don’t exist, as if I’m an avenging angel sent from heaven, or hell, or somewhere in between, on a quest to steal three souls.

This street is called 4th Avenue.  I don’t recognize it and I don’t care.  I need a phone book, an Internet connection, some source of information to help me find Alexander White.

Up ahead, a coffee shop, and I walk in, wonder if stores still have pay phones, if pay phones still have phone books.  Inside, no one speaks to me, no one even looks at me, and for a second I fear I’m invisible, but then I remember seeing the man in the mirror and know I must exist.

In the back, near the bathrooms, a miracle, a pay phone and a phone book.

And inside, the name, number and address of one Alexander White.

Just one.

What are the odds of this city having only one Alexander White?

I rip out the page, go outside, and begin walking the streets looking for Alexander White, who lives at 325 Water Street.  I walk for hours, anonymous in the city, walking and walking and walking, and somehow after walking in circles, passing the same streets, same stores, same restaurants, I stumble on Water Street.  325 Water Street looks like some sort of apartment, or maybe a house, maybe something else, I don’t know.  There’s a set of stairs, seven stairs, leading up to the front door.

Then I remember I don’t have a weapon, and turn around and begin looking for something like a gun, a knife, a bat, a piece of metal, a stick, something sharp, something easy to maneuver, something deadly.  In an alley that smells like shit and piss and vomit, I find a lead pipe, thirteen inches long, heavy, but not too heavy.  It fits perfectly in my hand as if it’s been waiting for me all this time.  I test its weight, practice slashing it through the air, imagine I’m cracking open someone’s skull.  My imagination is so good, I almost believe I’m killing someone in the alley.  Pretend killing is fun.  I hope real killing is just as rewarding.

Back in front of 325, lead pipe in hand, and I stare at the seven stairs, at the number 325 next to the door.  This is it.  The moment of truth.  Another test to see if I have what it takes to go through with it.  I’m won’t fail.  I’ll never fail.

Up the stairs, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, and to the front door.

I knock.

 A man answers.  He doesn’t look happy to see me.  He asks what I want.  I ask if his name is Alexander White.  He looks confused, so I ask again.  He tells me, of course his name is Alexander White, and he wants to know what I want.

I hit him in the head with the lead pipe.  It makes a neat crack sound. It’s surprising how easily his brain splits open, the blood pouring down the side of his head, so bright and beautiful, and I lose my focus and stare at the blood for several seconds, admiring my handiwork, before I collect myself, shove him forward so that he falls on his ass on the floor, and I step through the door, close it behind me.  He looks at me, even more confused now, and I raise the lead pipe and hit him again and again and again.

Crack.  Crack.  Crack.

Then a woman walks into the room, sees the dead man, and starts freaking out.  It’s almost comical, watching her screaming and crying and shaking all at once.  I tell her to shut up, but she doesn’t listen to me.  I yell at her to shut up, but she doesn’t; she keeps freaking out.  Trying to be smart, trying to think on my feet, I call out the name, Maria Thomas, and am surprised that it catches her attention, causes her to look at me.  How about that?  A chance to kill two birds with one lead pipe.

She’s not so easy to kill.  Unlike Alexander White, she doesn’t remain still while I bash her brains in.  I have to chase her through the living room, the kitchen, and up the stairs, finally catching her in the upstairs hallway when she conveniently falls down.  I only hit her three times.  Crack.  Crack.  Crack.  Her head isn’t as hard as Alexander White’s and it busts open easily, blood pouring everywhere.  It’s pretty neat.  I wish I had brought a camera, wish I could remember this scene forever.

Done with the first two names on my list, I decide the smart thing to do is to look for clues.  If Alexander White and Maria Thomas know each other, then maybe they know Michael Thomas too.  It takes about ten minutes, but eventually I find his name and address written on a piece of paper.  He lives on 4^th Avenue.  That sounds familiar.  I also find a gun, and exchange my bloody lead pipe for the gun.  I like guns. 

Outside, I begin walking, walk in circles for two hours, walking and walking and walking, passing the same streets, same stores, same restaurants, and finally I stumble onto 4^th Avenue.  317 4^th Avenue.  It looks like any other crappy apartment in the city. 

Up the stairs, to the door, and I knock.  When no one answers, I try the door, am surprised to find it unlocked.  I go inside.  On the wall, someone has written in black marker three names, the letters crooked and disfigured, almost illegible.  The names are the only decorations remaining in this two-room apartment.  It’s as if someone has gutted the apartment of furniture, photographs, appliances, everything.  Nothing remains, except those three names.  The windows are boarded up and the apartment is stifling hot, so hot that I’m sweating, so hot that I want to strip off my clothes and take a nap on the hardwood floors, but I can’t move, and I can’t stop staring at those three names.  I don’t recognize any of the names, but I know someone has left them for me.

In the bathroom, a cracked mirror that somehow managed to survive when the apartment was looted, and I look at the figure staring back at me.  Black stringy shoulder-length hair, dark blood-shot eyes, pale pasty face, a sunken face, thin cheeks covered with black stubble, nostrils painted with dried blood, lips chapped, cracked, bleeding.  Despite all the defects, I’m drawn to those eyes.  So sad and lonely, and most of all, desperate.  The man in the mirror looks like a depressed scarecrow, a frightened stick figure, a white ghost.  This man stares at me, and I wonder what he’s thinking.

I wonder what Michael Thomas is thinking.

It doesn’t matter.  I point the gun at his head, see from looking in the mirror that he’s not even scared, that he doesn’t even care if he dies, and that takes some of the enjoyment away from me.  The other two were scared, they wanted to live.  Michael Thomas is empty, he’s nothing, and I hate him so much for denying me the pleasure of killing him.

But I smile, I smile at Michael Thomas.

And I pull the trigger.