That Terrible Accident

 

The team was inspecting the scene, photographing the corpse. Laying on his back, in his own bed, lifeless and dull.

”Sir, that's the director of the women's shelter.”

He was almost unrecognisable, marinated in his own liquids. The official autopsy would follow next week, but looking around, the cause of death was obviously either alcohol poisoning or choking in his own vomit. The kitchen was full of bottles, all empty. An opened container of windshield fluid. Exactly one dirty glass, with lip prints on the rim and its bottom containing a layer of what looked like said windshield fluid diluted with whatever alcohol had been the last to run out.

”It's unbelievable. Such a great man, with everything he's done for others. Who would've guessed he was battling this behind it all.”

”Oooh, you have a home bar!”, she'd said that night, admiring the impressive cabinet of bottles full of colourful liquids. ”Tee-hee, I don't understand any of these fancy drinks~ Come on, explain them to me!” And so he'd shown each bottle to her, explaining the expensive flavours, mixing them nice drinks to start their date right.

Had the police suspected anything and dusted the scene for fingerprints, they would've found only the director's own prints on each bottle.

”How about you make us another round to get properly in the mood?” She'd asked that night, after discreetly pouring her own drink away.

”Do you think it was... you know. Intentional? He HAD just divorced his 5th wife. I'd be suicidal, too.”

”Or he just drank without thinking.”

”How about one more drink, I want to try the green one!” She'd said, forcing a post-coital smile on her face. ”Oh, can you still walk? No worries, I'll do it!”

And carefully, with her gloved hands, she'd pulled out the windshield fluid from her bag and mixed it into a large, deadly drink. He was already too drunk to even realise she wasn't drinking with him anymore. She just sat there, watching him for hours.

”You know, your wife... well, your ex-wife, she told me you're a drunk. And what you do when you're drunk.”

”This will devastate our city. The victims of domestic violence have just lost perhaps the only pillar of safety they've ever known, to a stupid drinking accident.”

After losing his pulse, she'd wiped him swiftly clean and washed her own glass to match all other clean dishes in the house. She didn't have all night, couldn't afford to lose her perfect work attendance on the very day she needed an alibi. She'd gone back to the kitchen, and very carefully emptied all the bottles into a bucket to explain why he'd resorted to drinking windshield fluid, topping the gigantic cocktail with the condom they'd used. Those were the kind of evidence she needed to take with her, to make it into an accident.

The same kind of accident his ex-wives, and pretty much everyone in the shelter used to get themselves into.

 ---

Credits 

He Hurts Anyone Who Hurts Us

He kills anyone who wrongs us.

It started when I was little. My mother was on the brink of a divorce with my father when I was only 3. One night when he was intoxicated he came into my room to try and take me into the car by force. When my mother saved me and locked me in her room my dad left. He got into a crash with a semi that killed him on impact 5 minutes later.

Growing up, I always knew something was wrong with me. My mother would always say she loved me, that I was her world. But, underplaying her tone was a hoarse settlement of regret and.. perhaps hatred if I read too much into it. In third grade, a kid named Travis bullied me. Simple schoolboy teasing and nitpicking. One day, he tried to pants me in front of the class at recess but a teacher saw and stopped him. He was diagnosed with Leukemia 4 days later and died within the year.

I never understood why anyone who hurt me; whether he physically or emotionally died. We had a dog that bit me when I was 10, it got hit by a car later that day. I was sad, because I loved that dog despite it hurting me. My room had a mirror, and when I went to wipe my eyes full of tears that’s when I saw it.

It was a tall void-like creature, hunched over. It had no face, just a long body and long arms and claws. One of the claws rested gently on my shoulder. And my first instinct was to scream but no sound came out when I opened my mouth. A gentle shushing sound whispered in my eardrums and I knew I could never speak about it again.

As I shifted into my teenage years I became more rebellious. I had a lot of shitty boyfriends who abused me, mentally and physically. Most ended up dead within the couples of weeks of our petty breakup. When I turned 18, though, it all changed.

People who hurt me lived on just fine. Mean girls in college didn’t get effected and if a coworker was rude to me their life went on just as normal. I decided to take a risk and look into the same mirror. I drove over to my moms house and hung out with her for a little, and when she went to use the restroom I walk to my old room, peering into the mirror.

There wasn’t anything. No dark and hollow beast lurking behind me. Nothing. Maybe I was finally free if it’s curse, to be bound to it in some way shape or form. I’m 26, married and I’m having my first child, on my second trimester, and things are going great.. until this month.

I walked into our bathroom and was getting ready for bed, when I saw him standing behind me. I quickly looked down, gasping lightly as I held my breath. I felt cold claws lay against my stomach. I hear a voice whisper in my ear, the same one I heard when I was 10.

“Child..” it rasped, before flickering out of sight. The next morning i drove to my mother’s, demanding to know what was going on. She sighed and settled me down to explain,

“Your great grandmother was involved with witchcraft and spirituality.” She began, “She made a pact with a demon; protect the women of her bloodline past her and hurt anyone who wrongs them; in turn they dispute their undying loyalty to it.” She said, shuddering slightly. My mouth gapes in disbelief,

“Why haven’t you told me before? Why now when I’m about to have my son?” I ask, tears staining my eyes. My mother casts me a sad look.

“Because he is going to kill your baby.”

I stare in confusion, “What do you mean he is going to kill him?”

“He only stayed around me whenever I was about to have you,” She explained, trying to keep me calm, “I had an emergency C-Section, I almost died due to the amount of blood I lost that day. Since your baby is a male, he will most likely kill it before or during birth if he causes you any complications.”

I tense, I say goodbye to my mother and leave. When I get home I invest with a priest to get the house blessed next Tuesday. I’m still sitting here waiting for them to come. I’m scared. I don’t want my son to die.

God, please protect my baby. 

---

Credits

I Decided to Try Bungee Jumping

 

You know those tales of bungee jumping gone wrong? Yeah, I thought they were just urban legends too. That was until I decided to take the plunge myself.

Life had always been a whirlwind, but lately, it felt like a tornado tearing through everything I held dear. The demands of my high-powered job in a bustling metropolis left me with little time for my family. My wife, Sarah, and I had once been inseparable, but the relentless pressure of everyday life had chipped away at our connection. Our love had turned into a mere routine, and the arguments had become more frequent, more toxic.

Late-night meetings and early morning conference calls had become the norm. My kids, Lisa and Marco, grew distant, their laughter echoing less often through our home. I tried to make up for my absence with lavish gifts and weekend excursions, but I was merely patching up the cracks with band-aids.

One evening, after another heated spat that had ended with slammed doors and shattered glass, I found myself walking the lonely streets of our neighborhood. I needed air, space to think, to escape the confines of a crumbling marriage. The weight of our unresolved issues was crushing, and with each step, my frustration grew.

As I wandered aimlessly, my mind a tumultuous storm of regrets and frustrations, I stumbled upon an advertisement for an adventure weekend. Bungee jumping, it promised, a chance to leave everything behind, if only for a moment.

The thought gnawed at me. A desperate attempt to rediscover the parts of myself that had been lost in the chaos of life. Without even realizing, I texted my old friend Fred, my confidant, the one who had been my rock through thick and thin.

We had shared countless adventures in our youth: road trips to nowhere, camping in the middle of nothing, and that unforgettable backpacking trip through Europe. Fred had always been the one who brought out the spontaneous side of me, the side that had been buried beneath the weight of adult responsibilities.

His response was instantaneous, a resounding "I'm in, bud". We both needed this break from reality, a chance to reconnect and find ourselves again. The weekend couldn't come soon enough.

And then the day arrived. The bridge loomed before us, an imposing yet exhilarating structure suspended over a deep, rocky gorge. The scenery was breathtaking, a stark contrast to the troubles we were leaving behind. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I stood on the edge, Sarah's resentful words still echoing in my mind.

Fred clapped me on the back, a reassuring grin on his face. "You ready, Alex?"

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I-... I need to do this."

The instructor went through the safety protocols, and my heart raced as I realized the moment of truth was approaching. Fred and I stood side by side, nerves and excitement intertwining. As the countdown began, I glanced at him, and we shared a nod. In unison, we leaped off the edge, our shouts carried away by the wind.

And then it happened.

The initial freefall was exhilarating, a fleeting taste of freedom that swept away the weight of my troubles. The wind roared in my ears, drowning out the cacophony of worries that had plagued me for months. For those precious seconds, it was just Fred and me, suspended between earth and sky, with nothing but the rush of adrenaline binding us together.

But as the bungee cords reached their limit, reality began to distort. It started as a subtle shimmering at the edges of my vision, a trick of the mind that I dismissed as a product of my heightened state. However, the unease grew like a knot in my stomach, and panic clawed its way up my throat as the world around us twisted and warped.

Colors became a frenzied whirlwind, merging and clashing in a chaotic dance. The ground below stretched into impossible shapes, and the sky above fragmented like a shattered mirror. I tore my gaze from the surreal panorama to look at Fred, hoping for some reassurance in his eyes.

Except... we didn't stop descending.

Fear wrapped its icy fingers around my heart as I realized that something was horribly, terrifyingly wrong. The laws of physics, of reality itself, had been shattered. The bungee cords that should have rebounded us were no longer taut but instead extended infinitely, dragging us further into this nightmarish abyss.

As we plummeted through the gaping maw of the void, my desperation swelled like a stormy sea. I clung to Fred, his grip on my hand the lone lifeline anchoring me in this ever-shifting reality. Day folded into night, and the passage of time became as malleable as the contorted scenery around us. We were adrift in a dimension where the laws of nature had frayed into impossibility. Even though everything was pitch black, we could still see as if we had all the light we needed.

Fred's infectious laughter, the very sound that had carried us through countless escapades, was now but a haunting echo. His once vibrant spirit had dimmed, like a fading ember robbed of its fire. His gaze, once brimming with mischief and camaraderie, had turned hollow, as if his consciousness were slipping through the cracks of this fragmented existence. I screamed his name, a primal plea to seize him from the clutches of this eldritch descent, but my voice seemed to unravel into the cacophony of the swirling abyss around us.

Amidst the surreal chaos, I clung to my phone, a fragile link to the world I had left behind. Its inexplicable battery level, frozen at 71%, became my sole connection to a semblance of normalcy. I etched marks on the fabric of time, using the device to anchor me to reality even as reality itself warped beyond recognition.

Desperately, I turned to the vast expanse of the internet, hoping to find someone who could help untangle the mystery that had entrapped us. However, the replies were few and far between. The people I once knew, my wife, my kids, didn't even know I existed anymore. The familiar world I had known, along with its intricate web of human connections, had unraveled into an inexplicable puzzle, ensnaring me within this cosmic void.

And so, if by some extraordinary chance you are reading this, heed my plea. If you've experienced the enigma that's overtaken my life, reach out across this void and connect our worlds. I'm unraveling, my sense of self slipping like grains of sand through an open hand. My faithful friend Fred is fading, his presence diminishing like a distant star swallowed by the night. I stand at the edge of complete isolation, ready to fall endlessly through this shattered reality, devoured by the insatiable grasp of the void.

This could be my last words. Please, help. 

---

Credits

Like Glue on Skin

I guess I'm blinded with a bag, strapped to a chair. Butt naked with the world spinning in my eyes, although I'm too out of it to know if there even is a world. Or eyes. I can't gather myself. Too... what's the word... Can't regin to bemember whow or hen I was drugged...

”How are we today?” A sickeningly sweet tone woke me up. He was imitating my voice, and I recognised his. I remember him. He used to be my patient, one of the crazy-crazy ones. But I never imagined he'd be dangerous to anyone but himself.

”Hello, Patrick. What are we doing here?”

”Justice stuff,” he replied, ”You ruined my life, you know. Are you aware of that?”

”I'm sad to hear you experience it that way. But this isn't justice, Patrick, we can't kidnap people. Do you understand that's insane?”

"This, doctor, this is sanity. See, I stopped taking those pills you gave me."

"We shouldn't do that, now should we?"

"Cut the 'we'-bullshit and talk to me like an equal human being," Patrick snapped. "You changed my pills. Admit it."

"Patrick, when a person's mind..."

"Shut the fuck up, I was perfectly sane! I had ADHD, and a good medication for that! But when I got YOU as my doctor, and YOU started giving the pills, everything went to shit!"

"Sometimes, coincidences can..."

"I had a tox screen," Patrick said. "Yeah, paid myself sick for that."

Oh.

I see.

I shifted my weight from one buttock to the other, and Patrick knew how to read my silence.

"You know what it felt like?" He sniffled, "That shit you gave me. Made me feel like... tiny balls of glue on my skin. Stuck to my arm hairs, fingers, eyebrows, like I'd been wrapped in old masking tape and covered in its residue. I'd keep pinching it between my fingernails and plucking it out, but there was always more. Always more, everywhere. Pinch, pluck, pinch, pluck, pinch, pluck, everywhere!"

"The side effect you suffered was an extremely rare one, you can't blame me for..."

"What did you do with my real meds?!"

I hesitated, and answered quietly. "I sold them. That stuff really sells, and I honestly thought you'd be fine with another medication. That you wouldn't even notice the switch. But listen, we can split the... actually, you keep the money. It's just fair."

"I don't want your filthy money!"

"Then why are we here!?"

Patrick pulled the bag off my head, my eyes hurt from the sudden burst of fluorescent light. I saw his figure looming over me, reddish brown and crusty all over. His bare muscles twitching where his skin used to be, before he'd ripped it off, pinch by pinch. His eyeballs staring at me with burning fury, perfectly round now that he didn't have eyelids anymore.

"I told you. Justice stuff," he replied as his bare, and I mean bare hand reached over to pinch my cheek. Really hard. 

---

Credits

I Hate Beggars

 

I hate people who beg for food, money and clothes. I hate begging in general and you can rightly assume that I don't give anything to charity. I despise those that keep begging others for assistance and I come from a place where one had to work for everything for themselves. It should be made illegal to beg, and those that beg should be sent to prison. It just touches me the wrong way when someone begs to me for whatever reason they need or want. I hate begging and I despise begging, those that beg should be killed off. There should be no begging in the 21st century.

In past eras they imagined the 21st century to be a utopia of some sort but the 21st century is the most disappointing era. I have this woman that keeps begging me for money everyday and it's starting to really irritate me. Everyday she begs for money and I have to say no, but my tone is getting angrier. She thinks that because she is a woman it would bring her some more luck than if she were a man. All men and women must learn to stand on their own two feet, it is important that struggle is felt everywhere. This woman always asks me for money when she sees me.

Then a boy comes up to me and begs me for food and clothes. I have a little respect for the boy as he is asking for clothes and food and not money, but those things still require money. I started to get angry at the little boy as he kept nagging me for certain items. This little boy thinks that because he is a little boy he could get something for it. I know how these beggars work and I'm no fool, I can see their begging network at play. It's disgusting to beg and I would rather starve and die than ever beg.

Then that damn woman comes back to me again and this time she brings more ammo to the begging fight. She has a baby in her arms and she is begging for money with a baby in her arms. I was furious at what she was trying to do and I will not fall prey to her scheme. That baby is a weapon and such shameless acts shouldn't be accepted in society. Then that little boy comes to aid the baby carrying woman. I knew they were working together and I was disgusted, I truly was.

I tell them to come with me into a room and I shoot them. Now I have got to figure out what I tell the police about killing my own family. The police don't have problems with men's own families begging them for money, food and water. 

---

Credits

I am the Second Cynthia

Have you watched that new series? ”Coincidences”. What a stupid name.

It was no coincidence he resembled Ted Bundy, even if they portrayed it that way. He'd studied Ted Bundy's behaviour for the sole reason of replicating it. He was charmed by the idea of hunting people with pretended harmlessness.

A coincidence means that two or more things, despite happening independently of each other, add up to something for someone. A coincidence was that all three of us happened to be called Cynthia.

Nobody ever realised this, because it was so exciting. The "Cynthia Killer" made such delicious headlines. But in reality, he didn't even know our names before the police came asking questions. The directors of the show made up some sob story about his ”childhood love” called Cynthia, as a weak explanation for why he was so interested in us. But he only chose us because he thought he could get away with killing us.

And he did.

The evidence against him was extensive. He was the prime suspect, and later the only one. The police spent years searching and interrogating, and everyone was certain it was him. But he never confessed, and our bodies were never found. Nobody could prove we were dead. So he walked out a free man.

And now people are buying subscriptions to see Coincidences, portraying the tragic story of a hurt little boy who grew up to be accused of a triple murder just because he cOiNciDEnTaLLy resembled a famous psychopath.

He's famous, and I'm just ”the second Cynthia”. A plot device for telling his story.

The writers of that show made up some shadowy crook, ”the real killer who was never caught”, so they could show artistic interpretations of what really happened to us Cynthias. I got 32 seconds of screen time when my actor was buried in Oakwood Creek (or in reality, somebody's back yard that played the part of Oakwood Creek in the show).

Since the writers couldn't use any of the places the police had really investigated, they had to choose the most reasonable disposal site out of the ones that hadn't been searched. A place near where we lived, where nobody would find us. They just looked at a map, made some measurements, and pointed to a secluded little corner in Oakwood Creek. ”Yup, that's where I'd bury three bodies”.

And that happens to be the exact place where he really did bury us. That's coincidence for you.

But instead of being awarded for their investigative journalism, the writers are handed Emmys. While I'm here with my bones bare, since everything I had to rot has already rotted away. My skeleton fingers coincidentally intertwined with those of the third Cynthia, who was just... dumped on top of me. We're right here in the ground, where the internet's most popular series showed us to be.

And nobody has still come for us.

Instead, they're sending love letters to the man who hid us here. 

--- 

Credits

I Can't Stop Thinking About the Roman Empire

 

I can't stop thinking about the Roman empire and for the past year I have been thinking about the Romans. The Romans have done so much in their time of superiority. They had conquered so much land and successfully placed their influence on so many religions and cultures. 

The roman empire have been living in my mind rent free for a whole year. It has taken over my life though and I am struggling to function properly. It's just crazy how much the Roman empire had done for the world and now they are just gone. They only exist in the history books and on TV channels.

My girlfriend Stephanie really needs my attention. A couple of weeks back when Stephanie managed to get my attention away from the Roman empire for a bit, I wrote 'I love you Stephanie' on the work table. We work at the same office. 

Then ever since i had written that, everyday somebody has been carrying it on and keeps on writing 'I love you too Stephanie' and more people seem to be joining in. We have tables covered in 'I love too you Stephanie' and she is clearly freaked out by this. She wants me to do something but I am constantly thinking about the Roman empire and how their civilisation worked.

Like when I was meant to go to HR about whoever keeps writing 'I love you too Stephanie' on tables and walls, but I was distracted by the road works. I couldn't help but just observe the road works and this reminded me about the Romans and their wonderful road works. 

I was also meant to have a private word to some coworkers who me and Stephanie thought were behind the writing 'we love you too Stephanie' on the tables. I never got round to it as I was distracted by the rivers and ponds. It reminded me of the incredible Roman aqueducts they had built and I really wanted to be part of the Roman empire.

Then we found 'we love you too Stephanie' inside our cars and inside our homes. Stephanie was freaking out now and she was too emotional to call the police. I had to do it but I got distracted by the Roman empires rules and infrastructure. 

The Roman empire were truly amazing and I keep seeing the Roman empire and hearing the Roman empire. I really need to force myself out of it and to stop myself thinking about the Roman empire.

Then one day when I snapped out of day dreaming about the Roman empire, I found Stephanie all stabbed up with the words 'we love you too Stephanie' all over her body. 

Her death reminded me about how the Roman emprie dealt with death. 

---

Credits