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The Hogs of Entropy 0058
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| | ...Hogs of Entropy Text Files Present... | |
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| | "The Smile that Couldn't be Forgotten" | |
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| | By: Mogel | |
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He didn't want to see anymore. He hated himself. He hated his
life. He hated everything. He closed his eyes tightly. He squeezed with
all his might to make them close more and more. He bit into his lip. He
felt his head vibrate. The blood rushed to his head and he became very hot.
and he fell.
He had no idea how long it had been dark.
He opened his eyes again, bringing bright light and air back into them,
and his eyes had their brief moment of pleasureful relief.
"What's going on?" he thought to himself. He slowly pulled himself up
by holding onto the toilet. The room seemed brighter than he remembered it
before he fell. Looking around, he saw this was the bathroom. The cold,
purple walls, the stupid blue rug, and, of coarse the toilet. He took a
step over to the mirror above the sink and gazed into his eyes. He was sad.
His eyes were bloodshot. He knew he was sad about something, but he
couldn't remember what exactly. He didn't recall anything, not even his
name.
"HELLO!?" he said in an almost weeping voice. "Oh my god. Oh my god.
I can't remember who I am. Like in books and in movies and in Television and
I can't remember anything and who am I!" were the thoughts racing through
His head. He looked directly into the mirror again to see his eyes, pushing
his long brown hair away and gazing into his young confused blue eyes. Were
those tears in his eyes? Tears from what? "HELLO?!!!" He screamed out in
desperation for someone, anyone that he might know to come running to help
him. What if he lived alone? What if he didn't know anyone? Who could
help him remember something? Anything!? "I just need to relax. That's
all. If I relaxed then I'd remember. If someone was there then they'dve
come." No one came. "I need to look around this place. I'll 'member
things..." he thought.
He began to open up the rickety bathroom door, but then while turning the
doorknob, he stopped. This was a scary prospect. Whatever he would find out
here was HIS. He would see himself as someone else. He could be anyone.
What if he was a monster? What if he was horrible? He could be some devil
worshipper with chained, molested children and sheep in his living room.
Anything could be there. And what made it worse was that he remembered
anger. Rage. He remembered feeling very sad about something. He had to
remember who he was, but at what cost?
He put it out of his mind and turned the old doorknob and took a step
out. He saw, what seemed to be an old man's den. There was a stuffed head
of a deer over the fireplace and an old wooden desk in the far corner. He
wasn't old, so the likeliness of this being HIS house seemed to vanish.
There were still an uncountable amount of unknowns.
He shuffled through the papers in the desk. Someone named Arthur Talon.
Was that HIS name? Nothing was there, but bank papers. Bills. Money to
pay. No information. He looked on the desk. There was a single, solitary
picture of a woman. A beautiful, red-haired woman that smiled to the
camera. A smile that couldn't be forgotten, and yet he had. His heart
melted at her. He knew her. He loved her. WHO WAS SHE!?
He threw the picture frame against the wall, cracking it to pieces, and
slid the inner picture out. He stuffed it into his pocket and when on
rummaging through the desk to find nothing helpful. He moved onto the living
room. A large room with three couches and several doors. One open with
steps leading to a basement. Another to a bright blue kitchen, and still
others leading to hallways. He took a step toward the kitchen when he
noticed something in the doorway of the Basement. Blood. Fresh, red blood.
A rush of anxiety hit straight to his stomach. He saw a flash of white.
He began to shake, unconsciously at first, and breathe fast. "Oh my god." he
thought to himself. "What is going on? What has happened? What am I going
to find down there?" Every instinct in his mind told him to run away as fast
as he could, and to hide. Hide forever, for he had done something
unspeakable. Now it was something unrecallable. WHAT WAS IT!?
He took his first step down to the Basement. There were no obvious light
switches, so hopefully he'd find one at the bottom. It was dark. Another
step. It would be so easy to run away. It would be so easy to not see or
remember whatever was down there. But every ounce of intelligence told him
to go on. Another step. He felt faint. He felt like he was a spirit. He
imagined flying above the city and psychically forcing every door in every
home to come flying off the hinges, and he wanted to run across ever single
one and look at people's lives. Each home a different universe, and yet they
were all the same. He thought about how easy it would be to just jump into
another man's soul and live their life. Not his own. Another step. What
was down there? What was he going to see? Another step. He began shaking.
He saw his hands tremble. He saw his hand's shadow tremble. Another Step.
He could still run away and hide and never come back. Another Step. His
stomach began to ache intensely. If he only could remember his identity it
would become so easy. He could just remember and he wouldn't have to walk
down these stairs and he wouldn't have to see what he had done. What had he
done? Maybe it was nothing. Maybe that was just red paint there. Another
Step. Fear griped him. He stopped walking. He turned his head up to the
light of the doorway above him. Would this be too much for him? He held his
breath, and went down the stairs.
There was a light switch. He trembled. There was a foul smell in the
air. Melissa. Her name was Melissa. He remembered it. The fear pushed it
out of him. Yes! He could remember. Like an instantaneous blur of cool
air, he remembered it all and it all flushed back in him in a second.
His name was John Blevins, he lived in Washington, Maryland. He was a
Musician. Guitar. Bass. He played in a Band. He was 25 years old. His
father died 2 years ago. He was married last year. Melissa.
He loved his wife. Loved her with all his heart. RAGE. He remembered
that too. He hated. He hated her and loved her. He hated him totally.
Arthur had destroyed them. Arthur had stolen her. RAGE. He bit his lip
feverishly again. He gripped his fist tight and felt his finger nails dig
into his palms. He hurt himself. RAGE. The pain was back. The light. He
forgot to turn on the light. He forgot even the worst of coarse. How could
he have wanted to remember? The rage, the rage..it had soaked into his soul.
He burned inside. He burned forever because of her. He flipped on the
light.
Melissa was dead.
John didn't want to see it anymore. He didn't want to see anything
anymore. He went numb. He walked to the kitchen in a ghost-like state.
He pulled out a kitchen knife and stabbed himself. He staggered back to the
bathroom and looked one last time into his eyes. He couldn't believe that
he had done it. He couldn't believe that he was now looking into the eyes
of a murderer and he cried his last tear.
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Copyright (c) 1994 HoE Publications and Mogel #58 --> 02/04/95
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