Ten years ago, something crawled into my brain. I’m not quite sure what it was. But I’ve suffered the consequences.
Soon enough, you’ll suffer as well. I don’t know what that looks like, not for you, but you will feel pain. It will hurt in ways that you can’t imagine. And it will feel personal, like it’s meant for you and you alone. Custom made. You’ll try to explain it to others, but they won’t understand. They’ll claim to, but they’ll be lying.
Fuck them and their bullshit. You’ll feel your pain, but don’t worry: they’ll feel theirs as well, and it will feel personal. It always feels personal. Because it’s supposed to.
I was at work that night, ten years ago, saving lives and doing noble things, because that’s what I used to do. I heard the faintest buzzing sound, accompanied by a barely perceptible buzzing and I ignored it. Like I said, I was doing noble things.
I was saving lives.
The irony of that is fucking delectable.
The buzzing got louder, the vibrations more pronounced, and still, I tried to ignore it. I stood there and closed my eyes as the creature, my creature, flew inside of my ear, and whispered a single word:
“Death.”
The softest and loudest word I’ll ever hear. You don’t understand this, not fully, but you will.
I heard this, and I was floored, gobsmacked, whatever fucking colloquialism that suits you best. “Death.” A message, an omen, a harbinger of misery. All of my past sins revealed. All of my present fears realized. All of my future hopes and dreams, crushed.
I stumbled out of work, overwhelmed. What are you supposed to do, when the Devil himself decides to send you a message? Whether or not you deserved it, you’re one guy. You did your best. You did noble things. You saved lives. What the fuck are you supposed to do?
That night, ten years ago, I drove to a gas station. I filled up my gas tank. I snapped into a Slim Jim. I smiled at the clerk. And then I ripped his head off.
No, really. I legit walked behind the counter, he seemed like a nice enough guy, but he was kind of scrawny, and I’m not. I had this demon creature buzzing in my brain, and all I could focus on was death.
So I created death. It wasn’t personal. But for the rest of you, it will be personal. At least it will feel that way.
Side note: it never occurred to me to dip Slim Jims in the blood gushing from someone’s carotid artery, but not gonna lie, the shit added something. Savory and sweet, I approve.
The buzzing died down after that, until eleven months later. And then one night, it crept up on me, and then once again,, that voice. So soft, so loud. “Death.” Luckily for convenience store personnel everywhere, my gas tank was full when I heard that voice. Which sucks for the woman working at the front desk of the adjacent hotel. Sorry for your family’s loss. I felt badly, even sent them an Edible Arrangement, because at that point, I had no idea what to do with this buzzing in my head, this voice, this demon creature.
It’s been ten years, but now I know. I finally know exactly what I’m supposed to do. And now that I do, you will suffer, and it will feel personal, because it’s supposed to.
Happy anniversary. I’ll see you soon.