Another Momentary Lapse, Another Tragedy

20251015

Written for Bradley Ramsey's "First Indulgence" event.

Pain throbs behind my eyeballs. I hope that means I drunk too much last night, not too little.
My gummy eyes peel open and squint against the light.
Where am I?
Once shapes finally swim into focus I recognise my own hallway. Thank goodness. Maybe-
My hands are sticky.
Thoughts, slow and sluggish, don’t manage to form false hope before I look down and see the horribly familiar brown gunk coating both arms up to the elbow. I stink of iron. Copper. Death.
Shit.
Not again.
Getting up without touching anything other than the gross marks I’ve already left turns out to be a tricky manoeuvre. I end up back on the floor and have to take another crack at it.
Pain is receding. Vision clearing. I try to shout the bastard’s name but my mouth’s too dry.
Need to wash my hands anyway.
Stumbling into the kitchen, I discover this was my entry point; the back door is hanging open and smeared with coagulating gunk. Ugh.
I scrub myself clean at the sink. Mostly clean at least. Clean enough that I don’t make a mess getting out a glass.
After glugging a pint of water I try again. “Zareth.”
Silence.
“What the fuck happened, Zareth? What did you do?”
The TV clicks on, whining as it flutters through channels. It settles on the news.
“Oh fucksake…”
Rerun of the morning show. I put toast in and fidget. Waiting for the second shoe to come flying.
Then…
“An update on the tragic westside killings, which are now thought to be part of a decade-long case. Police report that an eyewitness to the latest horrific attack gave the following description…”
I sigh and rest my head in my hands.
Five foot eight with medium build. Male. Caucasian. Plain shaven. Sandy blond mullet. Dressed in a butcher’s uniform - great, Zareth must’ve seized control before I got home from work. Please tell me the dumbass at least clocked us out…
While the glowing red eyes aren’t a match usually, the rest of the description is good enough that I suspect my coworkers will be responding to the plea to call in with more info.
“You fucking idiot. Now what do I do?”
The TV crackles to a hairdressing show, mid-makeover.
“…Getting a crewcut isn’t going to throw them off, moron. I’d need full plastic surgery.”
Alright. The police weren’t at the door yet. I wolf down my toast and grab my bag.
Just this weekend past, I’d started to think that maybe, maybe, I wouldn’t need to keep my possessions in the hallway ready to leave at a moment’s notice.
Delusional. That’s what I am. Don’t think I can even blame my hitchhiking demon for that.
Ah, wait - best to change into clothes that aren’t… so messy. I’ll dump these somewhere.
Do I have time to shower? Nah, best not push my luck.
Instead I swing the bag onto my back, pull my hood low, and slip out the door and down the street. I’ll head for the city outskirts then cut north following the highway. Just… need to be careful not to push myself too far and pass out.
The bloody clothes get dumped in the river. My sim into a random sewer grate. I’ll find someplace that sells pay-as-you-go once the heat dies down. Pity it’s getting less common.
Then I’m wandering through semi-wild scrub just out of sight of the bustling motorway. As alone as I ever get to be.
“I thought you liked working at the butcher.” I grumble. “Hacking bodies up. Tasting blood on the air. I thought we could make it work.”
My old Nokia buzzes and crackles with a discordant jumble of voices, all unpleasant. All spouting excuses.
“What was it now?”
I expect more weaselling and blame-shifting. Instead the force of the memory sends me to my knees.
Walking through the park. Dark, cold, lonely. A combination I associate with the closest thing to safety I know.
I turned a corner and found a group of youths smoking by the old skate park. I didn’t bat an eye, didn’t falter. Kept walking. Minding my own business.
It could’ve been nothing. Didn’t have to turn into anything.
One of them called out. Tried to stop me. I sped up and kept my eyes on the path.
I don’t know what they threw, but it hit my head hard enough to send me staggering, clouding me into unconsciousness for that one crucial, terrible moment. My grip slipped off the reins and another, crueler driver was ready and waiting.
My body pivoted upright and closed the gap before the youths - barely more than children - finished jeering. The thrower’s juvenile glee at his peer’s approval morphed into panic and horror as my fingers encircled his throat.
Stop!
My hand didn’t just squeeze, it twisted with inhuman force.
Enough! I get it!
Joints cracked. Skin tore. Blood gushed.
I DON’T WANT TO SEE THIS!!
The nightmare fades. Not into blissful oblivion, the memory now seared into my mind. But at least I’m not living it.
I’m face down in the brush, my throat raw from a scream. Best get moving. Somebody might have heard. They might come investigate.
That can only end badly.
I stagger upright and forge on.
“They were just kids.” I whisper. Despite knowing the demon won’t, can’t, care. “You could’ve just run away! They wouldn’t have been able to catch-”
A dozen disdainful cacophonic growls rattle from my phone.
“You fucker.”
If I thought turning myself in wouldn’t result in worse bloodshed, I’ve have done it a decade ago. If I could find a way of killing myself which didn’t give Zareth an opening I’d have seized on it. As it is…
I fix my gaze on the horizon and continue my futile quest to outrun the stench of blood.

Prompt was “You wake up one morning with blood on your hands. It’s not yours. As you try to remember the previous night, you overhear a news story on the TV. The police are on the hunt for a dangerous serial killer, and the suspect’s description matches yours exactly…”