Grey Room

ALRIGHT SO I WAS BORED AND THIS CAME OF IT

There're like.. 1025 words or something. It was fun to write, for sure. This time it was written during the day. IGNORE ALL GLARING MISTAKES!

Grey Room

“Ow, my fucking eyes.” The first thoughts that jump to this man’s tired and burning mind as his eyelids fly up. The cold light from the bare fluorescent lights lining the ceiling above the man shines down upon his bloodied form. He can’t move. Very few people could when they’re tied to a chair. He glances around and surveys his surroundings. The room is bare save for the chair on which he is seated, and a plain, grey door directly in front of him. Slowly pictures begin to pool in the back of his mind. A room, a man, an intense pain, and then… nothing. Blackness, like tar crept over his senses. A sharp pain in his chest is his last memory before the darkness overtook his vision. He looks down to examine where the pain had been. Nothing. Strange, he could swear he had felt a gunshot pierce his lung.

The door swung open quickly, and a tall man wearing a grey suit and a fedora pulled down over his eyes walked through. The suit matched the walls of the room very nicely. “So, you’re finally awake are you?” said the man in the grey suit. “How are you feeling? We patched you up nicely.” “You can fuck yourself is how I’m feeling,” replied the man in the chair. “Who are you and why did you take me here?”

“Ah, ah, ah. Being rude never helped anyone, now did it?” said the man in the suit with a smug grin creeping onto the corners of his mouth. “Though I will answer your question; I am known as Arcias. I am one of the higher ranking members of this… circle. We took you here simply because you knew too much, Garrett. The thing is, we need to know EXACTLY what you know. Kind of funny isn’t it? You’re basically here under suspicion of knowing too much. Of course, we can’t let you go even if you know nothing. Help us and we’ll try our best to help you.”

“What the fuck do you want to know then?” asked Garrett angrily, through gritted teeth. He seemed to be trying to block out some form of intense pain.

“Oh, I think you should tell me everything you know, or I’ll be forced to go digging. And that will not be pleasant for you. Hell, I’m not sure if you would even survive.” said Arcias with an amused air about him. “Why don’t you start by telling my about yourself?”

“Fine, you goddamn… whatever you are.” replied Garrett. “I’m Garrett Ezeial, currently 48 years old, at least I was before I was brought here. Though you obviously already know that. Back in my youth I used to travel the world, looking for artifacts I could sell for massive profit on the black market. A treasure hunter of sorts, I suppose. My ‘job’ brought me all over this Earth. Only when you travel the world do you realize how gigantic it really is. Treasures of the Mayans, Egyptians, Incans, nothing was safe from my grasp. I had never kept a collection of my plunder. I was only in it for the money. Fifteen years ago, I gave up on my ‘job’. Is that good enough, you bastard?”

“Oh, but you’re only beginning, aren’t you? Why have you been evading us?” asked Arcias.
“Evading you?” laughed Garrett. “You really need to ask why? I know what happens when your kind finds somebody they’re looking for. It doesn’t end well for the prey, now does it? No, I had to run. I knew I shouldn’t have kept it. I never kept anything, why did I have to break my rule for that?”

“Ah, so you admit to keeping it then?” asked Arcias. The darkness from his hat that covered his eyes seemed to glow a sickly reddish colour for a split second.
“Yes, I goddamn do,” replied Garrett, doing his best to avoid looking into the darkness where Arcias’ eyes should be. “And I wish for nothing more than to have gotten rid of it. It would’ve helped this situation.”

“You must tell me where it is located now. None of our people have been able to locate it.” said Arcias, appearing to slowly lose his cool.

“Fuck that. I’ll take its location with me to the grave, or wherever it is I’m going.” replied Garrett. He then proceeded to spit on Arcias’ shoe.

Arcias stepped forward, his mouth twisted into a sadistic grin. He brought his arm up with horrendous speed. The blow to Garrett’s face was brutal. He could instantly taste the bitterness of his own blood. He brought back his hand for a second assault, pausing briefly to ask “Are you ready to talk, wretch?” 

“Never.” replied Garrett through his bloody mouth.
This time the punch was delivered directly to Garrett’s nose. He could feel it shatter. His vision began to blur and swim. This feeling was familiar. Had this happened before? No, it couldn’t have.

“DO YOU WISH TO SPEAK, YOU WORTHLESS PIECE OF TRASH?” screamed Arcias in rage.
“I… already… t-told you… th-that… I wou-wouldn’t s-speak… of the… lo-location.” stuttered Garrett.

Arcias doubled over, seemingly shaking with laughter. “You won’t talk, will you? You think you have the choice? Never have I heard such a laughable statement!” Arcias seemed to be laughing with anger, not mirth.

While still doubled over, Arcias reached towards his shoe. Pulling up his pant leg revealed a snub-nosed revolver attached to his leg. He slowly righted himself, revolver in hand. Aiming at Garrett’s chest, he asked once more “Will you speak?”

“I would rather die.” said Garrett, with conviction.

“So be it.” said Arcias. These words were followed by a loud bang, and the sound of a body and a chair hitting the floor. “Fool.”

Garrett lay motionless on the floor. The room slowly faded to black in front of him. “So this is what death feels like, eh?” thought Garrett. “This isn’t so bad.” And suddenly, everything was gone.

Arcias stood above Garrett’s corpse, looking strangely happy. “Oh well,” he thought. “Better luck next time I suppose.”

…

“Ow, my fucking eyes.”

----------

!

I

Shadows

This is less horror/mindfucky than my previous stuff that I've post here. I don't really know what I wanted to do with this, honestly. It was pretty much just stream of conciousness. I'll probably read this tomorrow and be like "What the fuck is this shit why did I write it oh god what have I done I had better go off myself with a gun." I shouldn't write at 3:00 AM. Also I started this earlier, but got distracted, saw the word program open like 20 minutes ago with one line in it. I couldn't leave it unfinished! ENOUGH RAMBLING. Here it is. I hope this doesn't suck. (PS STOCK TITLE UNTIL I THINK OF SOMETHING MORE FITTING I GUESS)

Shadows

Expressionlessly staring at the face before him, barely awake. Examining the little details. Y’know, the kinds of things you might not get at first glance. She has freckles going over her nose. Huh, who knew? You never realise how much goes over your head until you slow down, and really take the time of day. He let’s out a long, drawn out sigh. He would be content to lay here forever. Sleep is attempting to make a violent take-over of his body - to no avail of course. He glances at the alarm clock beside the bed. 3:19 AM. Late. Tired. So tired. Can’t sleep though, too much to see. He looks back at her face. The tips of her short, brown hair seem to turn red. Not the usual orange most people refer to as red when discussing hair. No, more of a crimson, like blood. 

Time passes.

Did he fall asleep? Yes, he must’ve. Wasted time, that. It’s 6:23 AM now. Light is creeping in through a blinded window, like a closed eye to the outside world. He stands up so as not to wake the woman sleeping beside him. He walks to the blind, and peers out, into the Earth in front of him. Shadowed forms writhe in the daylight. They do not fade, nor disappear. They seem to only feel mild discomfort. There really is no reprieve, is there? Not from this hectic living. They’ve learned to cope. The beings don’t seem to be hostile. No more than a human anyway. They walk through the streets, as if They cannot even see the men and woman who also occupy the space. Panic was the first reaction our little blue planet gave to these newcomers. Where did they come from you may be asking? We do not know, nor will we ever. They have no way of communicating with us. Humans can adapt to anything they say, and this is no different. We have completely adapted by now. The shadows appeared more than a hundred years ago. The man walks downstairs, to fix himself a bowl of cereal before work. He slowly and sleepily walks to the cupboard and grabs a box of cereal and a dish. He pours himself a makeshift meal and walks to the fridge to retrieve some milk. Opening the fridge, he realises that there is no milk. Damn. Still wearing his pajama bottoms, he puts on his shoes and walks out his door. The light is now burning above the horizon. He walks into the street. A shadow walks by. The man pays no heed to the dark being. Halfway down the street he happens to look down at his feet. He feels as though something is missing.

What A Strange Thing, This

It's been FOREVER since I posted something here. But now that I actually feel like writing again, I thought I'd throw down some quick prose. Really, really short.

What A Strange Thing, This

Flames dances before him, ashes covered his already bloodstained hands. Why? Why did it always comes to this? Fire, brimstone, hellish landscape. It all looked the same. He sat, and tilted his head skyward. The orange of the fire seemed to lick at the sky. The moon was behind a cloud, as if hiding its face from the carnage. What a strange thing, this. The smoke smelled terrible, but of course it should, he thought. Flesh, no matter how deformed always burned the nostrils. But what was this abomination? The question replayed in his weary mind. Why did they always find him, and not some other poor, helpless indiviual? His work finished, he returned to his feet. The moon was peeking its side out from behind the cloud. The moon had taken a sickly reddish glow, as if stained by the same blood that had flowed from the abomination. Shining its red glow down upon... the Earth? He didn't know for sure, but he thought it was. Maybe. Did trees always look like that? Did the air he was greedily drinking down to calm his heart always taste this way? He couldn't recall. Before leaving he takes one final glance at the monster before him, bloodstained, burning, dead. What a monstrosity. Only two legs, two arms, a sickly pinkish colour. How could anyone stand to look such a way?  

Bleak Insanity - Post 2.

Gogogogogo.

--

Damn, I suppose you'll need to know my name. My name is Alister Skye, blood type O, five foot nine, and around one hundred and fifty pounds. My hair is what some might call “sandy”, though I've never understood why. Twenty three years of age when this mess started. I don't know how old I am now, but probably much, much older.
I had just entered work, just like any other day. Said “hello” to the door man, polite as can be. As I entered, I noticed we had a new receptionist. This wasn't too odd, many people can't handle the stress of working here, so we endure many frequent changes of staff. I remember looking at her name tag. “Hello! My name is Erin!”. Never asked for her last name. She looked at me with a pleasant smile, and said “Oh, you must be one of the security guards. I'm just starting here today, so please be patient with me.” I returned the smile and replied “Oh, don't worry, I'm used to new people working here. It'll take you some time to adapt, if you can at all.”. This comment seemed to bother her. Looking back I can see why.
I walked towards the elevator, after excusing myself. Same old elevator. Faux fancy interior, hell even fake plants bolted to the corners of the little box. All of the walls are mirrors. I expect it's to make it feel more roomy. Not that you'd ever need it, never more than three people in that elevator as long as I've worked here. I pressed the button marked five. I think I started to whistle then, something like an off key version of some Broadway play. As the elevator slowly ground to a halt, I stepped out, ready to take my usual post.
You see, I work guarding the mid-level patients. Not too dangerous, these are the ones who're content to sit in their padded room drooling all day. Oh, sure occasionally there'll be something I'll have to deal with. I had just started to patrol the halls when I heard my radio go off. Eh, the noise it makes has always put me off. Sounds like somebody stomping some bloated bug into some unforgiving pavement.
“All guards, report to floor seven. A situation has arisen.” Spoke the voice over the radio, I recognized as my superior, John Cormack. He's been working here since the damn place opened. Some people say he's related to the owner. There are a few other more unpleasant rumors around his working here, as well.
I quickly ran back towards the elevator. A “situation” is never something to meander blandly towards. When I reached the elevator, I saw the other guard who works on floor five. That's another name I won't forget. Erik Baikov, of Russian decent, I believe. Older man, greying hair. Fairly muscular, and in surprisingly good shape for his age. He greeted me gruffly, and asked if I knew what was going on. “No,” I answered “But it's probably pretty bad.”. The elevator arrived. Floor seven is where they hold the... Devil worshippers. You know, the people who sacrifice virgins to Belial. Not quite as dangerous as the people who murder their entire neighborhood because their tratorous mind whispered the notion into their ear. But, still not the kind of people you'd invite over for tea.
Again, grinding to a screeching halt, we exited the elevator. Immediately I noticed something wrong. When you've worked here as long as I have, this is the most terrifying thing you can see. Not one, not two, but all of the inmates doors in my immediate vision were open. I saw a few corpses dressed in Happy Trails standard robes. Two were presumably shot, but one... that's the one that still terrifies me. Crimson pooling below him, running from the horrendous gash through his carotid artery. This wound was greatly complimented by the blood running from his own jagged finger nails.
I didn't even notice it, but I was lapsing into a coma-like state. Mesmerized by the body in front of me. Erik jolted me out of my trance, by slamming his hand down on my shoulder. “Damnit, we have to move quickly. There's no telling how many of the other guards are dead already.” The second Erik finished speaking, as if on cue the radio went off again. “The seventh floor is now being quarantined, for the safety of the other patients, and workers. All guard currently on the floor, but not with the seventh floor, but not with the main unit, make your way to the end of corridor D. Have weapons ready.”

Bleak Insanity, post 1.

Here you go. Enjoy.

--

Laughing. Eternal laughter. It almost seems boring now. How long has it been? Christ, I couldn't even say anymore. Must've been years by now. Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, hell even seconds and the miniscule particles the make up those. They all make up the same mess of destruction in the end. I still sit under this same stairwell. Seems like ages. Thinking back, I guess it's only been a few years or so. Maybe. Probably.
... But has it really been years? Spring moves to summer, as growing buds turn to blossoming flowers, only to die on the ground in the Wintry months. This is but a cruel mockery of our senses. Ow, what was that? Oh, another drip of blood in my eye. I think my head is cut. Maybe it's just my imagination.
I'm writing this down, you know. Well, I guess you'd have to know, if you're reading this, “Haha”. Hope when somebody finds this, its pages are readable. I think one of them got... something on this book. Everything simply runs to a crimson in my eyes now. My life is nothing but a shadowed mess from when this started, spattered with droplets of insanity and hope. Oh, I guess people might think I'm the crazy one. But I hope they see this for what it was. Believe me, I might be a little off, but these people are completely insane.
Trust me, I only work here. Security guard, have been for many years. The pay's pretty good, and so are the benefits. I started out as a janitor and worked my way up. That wasn't an easy task. I'll get back to the past eventually. The present is what's important. Damnit, it's hard to concentrate when all I can hear is that grating laughter. But as I've said, I'm almost used to it. This damned bleak insanity. Steals over you like the worst of diseases. Kills your sense of time, and your other senses as well, I guess.
Like I said before, I'm sitting here under a stairwell. It's kind of a safehouse of sorts. I don't feel as terrified here. Out there... one second could mean my death. Impaled, shot, stabbed, gouged or strangled. No soothing breeze to calm my nerves. No mother to say “There, there, it'll be alright tomorrow. You'll see.”. No sweet sound of a lover's imbrace. All alone, but not alone at the same time. Murderous people looking for me. Years I've been here, eh? I think I wrote that already. I wonder why nobody from the outside has come yet, but they must come eventually if you're reading this.
I guess I should write about where I am now. I've been rambling about nothing. This is a mental asylum. To be specific, Happy Trails Institution for the Mentally Unstable. Supposedly haunted by about a million ghosts, goblins and gremlins. All of these stories are lies of course. Reality is linear in execution. What's actually in here is much worse than a ghost, or some boogieman. One of the high-priority inmates here gets a hold of something sharp? Three years before this mess started, the old Number Five got his hands on a shard of glass. Twelve dead (Including himself) and seventeen injured before one of the other guards blasted through his forehead with his standard issue Glock. Grisly scene, I swear Five made a lunge at the guard before he fell to the ground. They covered it all up. Nobody cares about the lost souls in this hellhole anyway. Guess it'd be a good time to say we number our patients on their levels of insanity. Numbers One through Ten are the worst.
Number One is one terrifying bastard. He was commited here for the murder of an entire orphanage. Hundreds dead. Huge mess, they covered it up as well. Only ever saw him once, to my memory. He was the absolute visage of Hell. I looked into his eyes for one second, and I saw not one shred of sanity dancing behind them. He wanted to kill me, I could tell. Highest security I've ever seen. His room makes Alcatraz look like a Summer camp to be snuck out of to kiss in the woods. At least five guards posted outside his room at all times.
Damn, still laughing. Or maybe it's turned to screams now? I can't tell anymore. They flow together making an indulgence of pure emotion. Maybe I should go back to when this started. I know I'll never forget. Burned into my brain it is. I should give a little backstory beforehand though. A day or two before, to show the daily routine. Or maybe not. There were a few key players in this disaster. I'll go back to when I met them. That should do nicely.

Alright, fuck, first post.

Here's the deal. I'm bored, and I want to get some more writin' done. I'm going to be posting works of both poetry and prose here. Mostly horror related stuff, end of the world related stuff, or whatever the fuck I feel like.