5 locks, 3 chains, 2 ropes. That was all that stood between me and the handgun in that little metal crate. My eyes found themselves trapped staring at the drawing on the side facing me, but my attention was quickly stolen. A guttural moaning, one all too familiar, broke through and overpowered the sounds of heavy panting and sobbing. I couldn’t tell if they were coming from me, although it didn’t seem to matter at this point. I think. I’m a strong willed man, my dad made sure of that. Whenever things needed doing I was always who they called on, and I’m proud of that. He was a rough man, but he did what was necessary to make me who I needed to be. Those pathetic noises were not there anymore. I think. My head hurt, it was unbearable. Can’t fucking take it, bugs crushing my skull to pieces. Can’t think good they won’t let me.
It was getting closer, I could hear it. I always could, I mean how could I not? It was wet, it was crawling, searching. I knew what it was searching for, maybe that is why I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. No, my whole body. It shook and shook, I can barely stand. It’s not fear, I know that for a fact, I know everything about that thing and what it can do. It knows the inside of my head well, it knows what neurons to play with in just the right way to make me shake, it’s not my fault. It even made my dad shake, and he was a strong man. He wouldn’t even shake when piloting through turbulence, whole plane shaking but he was a stone. Got through it, always got through it. Even he couldn’t get away from that thing.
My eyes darted back to the metal crate, I didn’t even realize but it was no longer hidden in that little hole I left it in last time. It was in my hands. When did that happen? I think I was distracted. The echoes of wet flesh and pained moaning was getting louder. Closer. The noises it made were the worst part. It would always mumble something but I could never make it out. I could always hear the laughter. It was subtle but I always know it’s there, hiding between the screams and agony. It’s taken many, that’s what makes it so big I think. It eats them up, slowly. It’s slow but it doesn’t matter, it always gets them after they’ve collapsed from exhaustion. Always running, but can’t outrun it forever, it’s tricky like that. When they scream and claw and weep and beg, that’s when it’s laughter becomes more obvious. The louder the wailing, the tastier the meal maybe. I can always hear them, that pain they felt right before they were gone, it’s like a memory of them. But it doesn’t have too good a voice box, the sounds come out different. Almost like the original, but these ones make me shake. I was shaking?
My hands grasped at the box. I couldn’t control anything, I think I’m on autopilot. Like the planes I used to ride on. I loved them, I think I was a good pilot. I always felt free and happy. I think. I can’t remember it much to be honest. If only I could be there now, am I right? Ha. Can’t think about them for too long, the molten nails driving into my head were hard to handle.
It’s mouths pressed up against the other side of the door, the sound of disgusting slobbering joining the symphony of torture. An abandoned shed in the middle of the woods was where I found myself, but I can’t control where it catches up to me. I have to make do, that’s what real men do. I had unknowingly already gone to work fitting the keys into the locks. 5 locks, 3 chains, 2 ropes. The locks fell off and the chains went quickly with them. Across the dimly lit creaking floor was what I needed, the knife that I left under the 4th floorboard on the left of the north wall, the wall that had those pictures on them. I put the pictures there to act as a preventative to myself, but I don’t think they ever work. I don’t even really notice them anymore, all that mattered was the blade which quickly severed the flimsy rotting strands which held the crate shut. I opened it and found what I needed to save my life, that beautiful chrome barrel. That mind blowing relief washing over me the instant I see it never gets old. All that was left was to use it.
Oh god the shaking. The rags covering my emaciated frame had long since saturated with sweat and tears and bile. My head was screaming, the screaming was ripping my fucking skull apart. I wanted to cry, but I know not to, can’t risk drawing attention, not in this state. Another tooth fractured off as the clenching became uncontrollable, the 3rd one to go this week I think. I don’t keep count as of late. I was dizzy, felt like being on a plane the first time. Told myself I would never get on one again but that didn’t last long. I really liked them, loved watching them, wanted to drive one. I was good at piloting ‘em, made me feel happy. Why won’t the shaking stop? How long has it been? They don’t let me think, don’t like it.
A trembling hand on the soft leather grip held the barrel pointing at the shuddering door. It was close to collapsing as I put my other hand on the rusted metal knob and pulled.
It was even worse than before I think. Three heads, although only one of them was intact, at least it almost was. Held together with webs and webs of disgusting red flesh, a branching network of gaping ruptures arranging the permanently mutilated faces of some poor sods in a haphazard manner. That’s where the screaming and moaning and crying and begging and praying was coming from, pulsating muscles straining as brown fluids leaked from the mass of human tissue in front of me. It’s legs, long since decayed and useless, were merely decoration. It chose instead to use the lanky assembly of many arms jutting and reaching and pulling along the flayed body of gore. A pathetic neck barely holding on, an infected gash that almost decapitated the trio prominently displayed. When it saw my face, I could hear the laughter, but it didn’t last long. The trigger gave way followed by a deafeningly loud bang and a wet thud. It felt so good. It was so relieving. The shaking was gone, long gone. Thank god, thank fucking Christ the shaking is gone. I finally felt whole again.
I closed the door knowing that thing was gone for a little bit. It always comes back, I know that well. But just getting away for a little feels so good, I can breathe.
I looked down at my hands, the empty chamber and spent casing looking back at me. There were lots of casings, the floor was covered in them, I don’t notice them often. I knew I shouldn’t have done that. I used to feel guilt and shame every time, but those are weak feelings, I don’t need them. I think. The gun back in the box, the lid back on the box, the locks back on the box. 5 locks, 3 chains, 2 ropes. I slid the box back into the little hole I made for it. That picture on the side facing me. Faces, ones that I used to know I think. A boy, a girl, a woman, a man, smiling and happy. Back in the hole, the plank of wood placed over the hole and the plank of wood covered in the dirty rug, the keys to the locks put back in the dresser, the knife put back under the 4th plank on the left of the north wall, the wall that had those pictures on it. Those pictures of a happy father, a happy mother, a happy son, a happy daughter. My face was wet, I was crying I think. I couldn’t think too great, a sound was distracting me. The distant and faint whispers of moaning, of crying, of screaming that were growing closer. I was shaking?
“Last time, I promise. I promise.”