Fatigue

Greg couldn’t relax after a hard day’s work. He had been working hard in the office for months, under the gaze of his new boss...

1.

          Greg couldn’t relax after another long day at the office. For months, he’d been working hard under the relentless gaze of his new boss, a younger, more successful man. He irritated Greg to no end�"better paid, more respected, and with his own secretary and office. All Greg had was a cluttered desk, a computer, and a lonely cactus on the corner. And the coffee. That vile liquid from the machine the office jokingly referred to as "caffeinated liquid"�"hardly worthy of being called coffee.

          By the time Wednesday afternoon rolled around, Greg was drained, already feeling like the week was over. He could have gone to a sports bar, had a drink with some friends, maybe relaxed and lost himself in the crowd of cheering fans. But Greg was allergic to alcohol, and besides, there was no game on a Wednesday. He was stuck with the dreary rhythm of office life.

          He trudged home, barely staying awake on the subway. As the train rattled along, a conversation between two women caught his attention. They were discussing some strange man with a meat cleaver who had been seen carrying a spine in a transparent bag. Greg grimaced, involuntarily moving closer to the door and giving up his seat for a pregnant woman. He couldn't understand how two seemingly normal women could discuss such nonsense�"most likely made up by teenagers, he thought.

          His station arrived, and Greg stepped off the train, still mulling over the conversation. He remembered something similar he had seen recently on social media�"one of his “friends” had reposted it from some bizarre group. But who needed social media friends? Greg had almost two thousand of them, none of whom offered anything of value, though occasionally, a post about fishing or boats popped up, which he liked. Fishing was his only hobby, but even then, he had little interest in looking for information, preferring to rely on pure chance.

          At the top of the stairs leading out of the subway, a few flyers were scattered underfoot, and Greg nearly slipped on one. It was like some stupid joke, as if fate was playing with him. "Bloody b******s," he muttered under his breath, steadying himself with the railing. He shivered as the thought of what could have happened if he had lost his balance ran through his mind. For a second, he realized just how close he had come to disaster.

          Greg finally made it home, thankful for the quiet. His wife and kids were visiting her parents, so the house was peaceful. The fridge was stocked with ready-to-heat meals, and all Greg had to do was microwave them. No need for sitting down at the table. He could eat on the couch, like a pig. He always appreciated these moments, but he also missed his family when they were gone. It was a bittersweet quiet, and he didn't mind it at all.

          His stomach rumbled as he opened the freezer. Without much thought, he grabbed a random frozen meal. A rustling sound came from the bag, and he paused, glancing down. The bag contained something oblong. Greg frowned, puzzled. It wasn’t the usual frozen food his wife would leave behind. He placed the bag on the table and examined it more closely. Inside was a piece of a spine�"meat still clinging to it in places.

          His blood ran cold.

          "Holy s**t..." Greg recoiled, slamming his back against the refrigerator. What was this? Had his son, Steve, played some twisted prank on him? But even that explanation didn’t make sense. He hadn’t been a fan of raw flesh since he was a kid, and he couldn’t understand where this had come from.

Is this a joke or something? he thought, his mind spinning. But as he poked the frozen bone, he realized it was real. This wasn’t some weird prank.

          Squeamishly, Greg opened the fridge to look for something else to eat, praying he wouldn’t find more bones. He sighed in relief when there were no other surprises.

Even as he lay in bed that night, Greg couldn’t stop thinking about it�"the spine in the freezer, the strange sensation of having something dark and wrong in his home. He ran through the list of clients scheduled for the next day, trying to focus on work, but sleep wouldn’t come.

          Then, a creak from the kitchen. Greg froze. He held his breath, listening intently. Another creak, followed by the sound of keys jingling as if someone had dropped them on the floor. His heart skipped a beat.

          Footsteps�"slow and deliberate�"echoed through the house, heading straight for the kitchen. The intruder was inside.

          Greg’s mind raced. Should he call the police? Or should he sneak out and call for help? He quickly decided that getting out of the apartment was the best move. He had to act fast. He couldn’t let whoever was in the kitchen catch him.

With silent urgency, Greg slid out of bed. He pressed himself into the wall, moving stealthily toward the front door. His hand gripped the handle and yanked it open. It wasn’t locked. He bolted out of the apartment, not daring to look back.

          He only stopped running when he reached the corner of the building, gasping for breath. A homeless man slept soundly in the bushes, mumbling something as Greg passed. It was a surreal moment, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, but something more�"something much darker�"lingered in the air. What the hell had just happened?

          Ignoring the homeless man, Greg peered cautiously around the corner, his heart hammering in his chest. From this vantage point, he had a clear view of his apartment's entrance, but there was no sign of anyone chasing him. He stood there, frozen, for what felt like an eternity�"twenty minutes or more�"waiting for something to happen. His breath came in shallow gasps, his mind racing with questions.

          Then, the door of the house creaked open. A man stepped out, dressed in sweatpants and a jacket, his hood pulled low over his face. Greg’s eyes narrowed as he studied the figure.           The man had an athletic build, moving with a quiet confidence that set Greg on edge. The stranger paused at the curb, scanning the street, his gaze flicking toward the subway entrance.

          Greg leaned further out from behind the corner, trying to get a better look. That’s when he saw it�"the keychain. It was unmistakable. The same one he had seen earlier, the one that had been in the thief’s hand when Greg had first seen him. This was the man who had been inside his apartment.

Fear washed over Greg in a cold rush. He spun around, panicking, and as he did, his foot caught the homeless man lying on the ground. The man groaned, mumbling something unintelligible, his words slurred. Greg barely registered it�"his mind was racing too fast.

          The hooded figure was moving now, closing in on him. Greg's heart pounded in his chest as he pressed himself against the wall, holding his breath. He hoped, desperately, that if he stayed still and silent enough, the man wouldn't notice him. There was no telling what this thief was capable of, and Greg wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

          The homeless man, still groggy from his earlier slumber, finally stirred. He got to his feet, unsteady but defiant. His voice cut through the tense silence.

          "What are you looking at, a*****e?! Get outta here, or I'll stab you!"

          Greg flinched, his eyes widening in horror as the hooded figure responded with lightning speed. He reached into his jacket, pulling out a gleaming meat cleaver. In one swift, brutal motion, the cleaver came down, striking the homeless man with sickening force. The man collapsed to the ground, wheezing, a faint red glow in the dim light from the streetlamp.

          Greg couldn’t hold it in anymore. A scream tore from his throat, instinctively pushing the thief away with all his strength. Adrenaline surged through his body as he bolted back toward the house. He had only managed a few steps when a harsh shove knocked him to the pavement. His knees hit the ground hard, sending a jolt of pain up his spine.

          "Don’t move!" A voice barked, and suddenly a blinding light was shining directly in his face.

          "Police," came the command, cold and authoritative.

          Greg blinked, disoriented, trying to shield his eyes from the spotlight that seemed to burn into him. Before he could react, a hand slapped down on his arm, pulling him to his feet. A metallic clink echoed on the pavement. Greg’s heart raced as he looked down and saw his own keychain�"the one the man had been holding earlier�"lying on the ground beside him.

          "There’s a man in there," Greg gasped, breathless. His words tumbled out in a frantic jumble. "He attacked a homeless man. And… and he wanted to kill me! It wasn’t my fault, I swear! I didn’t�""

          "I’m sure you are," the officer interrupted, his tone flat, as if Greg’s protestations meant little in that moment. The man didn’t seem to care whether Greg was guilty or not.

          Greg was pulled to his feet and guided roughly toward the police car. His legs felt like jelly, his mind a mess of confusion and fear. What had just happened? Who was that man? What was going on?

          As he was shoved into the back of the squad car, Greg’s mind swirled with images of the cleaver, the blood, and the chilling moment when he had realized the danger he was in. He could still feel the heat of the flashlight in his eyes, the weight of the officer’s grip on his arm, and the distant echo of the homeless man’s wheezing breaths.

And in the back of his mind, one thought repeated itself over and over:

          How had it all gone so wrong?

2.

          “Mr. Madison, when was the first time you felt the urge to kill?” A chubby man with glasses sat across from Greg, his voice calm and professional. A couple of uniformed police officers stood nearby, their arms crossed, eyes sharp. The atmosphere in the room was stifling, but the man’s tone remained steady. “We want to help you.”

          Greg blinked, disoriented. He had been expecting something different�"something about the thief, the man with the cleaver�"but not this. He struggled against the handcuffs that were firmly fastened to the table, feeling a rush of panic surge in his chest.

          “I don’t understand... You caught the thief? The one who killed�"” His voice trailed off, as he instinctively reached for his hands, but they were locked to the cold metal of the table.

          And then, the voice he never thought he would hear again. “What the hell are you asking them for, friend?”

          Greg's heart skipped a beat. His head snapped toward the sound, and there�"standing in front of him�"was himself. Or at least, the figure before him looked exactly like Greg, but dressed in sweatpants and a hooded jacket, the same hauntingly familiar features. He stared, eyes wide, mouth agape.

          The room seemed to close in on him as the man in the hood leaned forward, a twisted grin spreading across his face. “What’s that?” the hooded Greg asked, voice low and mocking.

          Greg’s eyes darted between the man in glasses and the hooded figure. He shook his head, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. “Who is it?”

          The man with glasses raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean, Mr. Madison?”

Greg’s breath hitched as the hooded Greg shrugged nonchalantly and began pulling small, signed packets from a large bag, laying them out on the table.

          “This is your client... And this too... These two we can’t remember where from anymore,” the hooded Greg said, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.

          Greg’s stomach churned as he read the names scrawled in black marker on the packages. “Your boss is Shane. That was a funny one. You don’t remember? You don’t remember... I do. Another friend helped us out. He was kind of flashy, white coat, police badge. You sure you don’t remember?” The hooded Greg pulled out three more bags and laid them down in front of Greg. “Look who’s here to see you.”

          Greg’s throat went dry. The names on the bags sent a chill through him: Stacy. Steve. Christina.

          “Those trips to the in-laws,” the hooded Greg continued with a mocking tone, “That was a good idea. I wouldn’t have thought of that. Honestly. You’re smarter about some things. But...” He sighed and shook his head, his voice turning darker. “But you’re so squeamish. Like a girl. I had to do all your work for you. Good thing Parker, the one in the bathrobe, helped. I thought he’d give us up. But he didn’t.”

          Greg's mind reeled. His eyes flitted from the names on the packages to the mocking figure across from him. Parker? Bathrobe? His mind scrambled to make sense of it all.

          “Why would he do that?” Greg managed to rasp out, his voice barely a whisper.

          “This?” The hooded Greg gestured toward the packets on the table. “So, you’re the one who’s always whining about how they’re bugging you. The ridges, they’re literally eating away at you. So here I am... Or rather, we are… Me and... you.”

          Greg’s chest tightened, and his hands shook as he struggled to understand what was happening. His mind felt like it was splitting in two.

          “Mr. Madison?” The man with glasses spoke up again, his voice gentle but firm. “Do you see something? Are you with us?”

          Greg’s gaze flicked back to the man in glasses, his mouth going dry. “Did... did he do all this?” He nodded toward the hooded Greg, barely able to form the words.

          The man with glasses looked at the hooded figure with a curious tilt of his head. “Who’s ‘him’?”

          Greg’s heart hammered in his chest. He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come out. Instead, the hooded figure repeated, with a cruel laugh, “Who’s ‘him’?”

          Greg shuddered and grimaced, lowering his head to the table. “I was just tired... I was resting,” he muttered weakly, his voice breaking. “He did it all...”

          The sound of his own voice, pleading and broken, filled the room. Greg squeezed his eyes shut, unable to look at the man with glasses any longer.

          The officers flinched, their hands twitching toward their weapons. But the man with glasses raised a hand to stop them, his calm demeanor unwavering. “No need for that, gentlemen. Mr. Madison isn’t dangerous right now. But very interesting...” He folded his hands in front of him on the desk. “Get Detective Parker.”

          Greg felt a chill of dread settle over him as he sat there, helpless, in his handcuffs. His mind raced as the seconds dragged on, but nothing seemed to make sense. The door to the interview room opened, and a tall, lean man in his mid-forties walked in, wearing a tired expression. He surveyed the scene without a word before folding his arms across his chest.

          The hooded figure immediately kicked Greg in the shoulder, making him wince. “There. That’s him. Our Parker. The white coat lover,” he said, with a twisted laugh.

          Detective Parker’s eyes flicked between the two Gregs with growing irritation. “Well?” he asked, his voice edged with impatience.

          The man with glasses stood up and spoke quickly, almost as though he had been waiting for this moment. “My patient. In all the times we’ve talked to him, he’s never once let a second personality near me. But it was clearly present. I think it’s the same case we had in Beijing.”

          Parker’s face remained unreadable. “And what’s the reason?” he asked, his gaze flicking to Greg, who was still staring at the hooded version of himself, trembling with fear.

          “Overwork,” the man with glasses said, sighing. “Fatigue, in a word.”

          “Overwork? So you’re telling me I need a vacation too?” Parker smirked, clearly not impressed.

          “That’s not necessary,” the man with glasses replied, dismissing the thought. “Such pathologies occur in a small percentage of people.”

          Greg felt his stomach churn as the hooded Greg laughed again, his voice dripping with mockery. “Hear that? You have a pathology. Overwork. A nerdy word, I think.”

“Shut up,” Greg whispered, jerking his shoulder as if trying to shake off the second self standing before him. “Shut up,” he repeated, louder this time.

          Detective Parker exchanged a brief look with the man with glasses, then gave the command for the officers to take Greg out of the room. As he was led toward the door, Greg caught the detective’s eyes. His chest tightened as he saw Parker’s expression shift for just a moment, his gaze flicking to Greg as he whispered under his breath.

          “Shut up.”

          The words echoed in Greg’s mind, filling him with a sense of impending doom. He took a shaky step forward, his heart in his throat, his body trembling. As the officers ushered him down the hall, he could still hear the hooded Greg’s broken, mocking voice in his head.

          “You’ll turn in and steal everything on us. Yeah? You’re not a detective. You’re an a*s with ears!”

          As Greg was escorted out of the room, his steps heavy, his mind still reeling from the encounter, Detective Parker lingered at the exit, his expression unreadable. The air in the hallway felt thick, oppressive, and Greg’s pulse quickened as the door closed behind him with a muffled thud.

          Greg’s eyes flicked toward the shadows where another figure stood, just at the periphery of his vision. It was a man�"no, a second Detective Parker�"exactly the same in appearance. The only difference was the white coat he wore, pristine and sterile, contrasting sharply with the worn bathrobe Parker had been wearing moments ago. The white-coated man was bent over a table, methodically placing small, sealed bags into a larger canvas sack. Each bag seemed to contain something unsettlingly grotesque�"human spines, their curvature unmistakable even through the transparent plastic.

          Greg's stomach churned, and he could barely suppress a gasp, but he was too far away to make sense of it all.

          Detective Parker�"the real Parker�"glared at his counterpart with something close to disgust, a subtle tremor in his voice when he spoke. “Let’s keep quiet. You get caught, means you get caught. We’ll find others.”

          His words hung in the air, ominous and laden with an unspoken threat. There was something unsettling about the exchange, an undercurrent of danger that made Greg’s skin crawl. The detective’s usual calm demeanor was gone, replaced by something darker, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice.           The white-coated man didn’t respond right away. Instead, he straightened slowly, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Parker's. His gloved hands remained steady, the bags of spines clinking softly in his grasp as if they were nothing more than mundane objects.

          Greg’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the silent interaction, the tension between the two men palpable. There was a weight in the air, a secret, and Greg was beginning to understand that the world he had stumbled into was much darker than he had imagined.

          The white-coated man’s gaze flicked briefly to Greg, who stood frozen in the hallway, then back to Parker. It was as if he was weighing something�"whether to speak, whether to reveal more�"but in the end, he said nothing.

          Instead, he simply nodded, his movements calculated, and continued his work, the faint sound of plastic crinkling under his gloved fingers filling the silence.

          Greg, still shaken, took a step back. His mind raced, trying to process what he was seeing, what he had just overheard. It was clear now�"this was no ordinary police investigation. There was something far more sinister at play, something that he was now entangled in.

          Detective Parker’s eyes flicked to Greg for a moment, and there was something in his gaze�"something dark, something calculating. He didn’t speak, but the message was clear. The path ahead was fraught with danger, and Greg had just unwittingly become a part of it.

          With a final, lingering glance at the white-coated man, Detective Parker turned and followed Greg, his steps slow but deliberate, as if he were deciding how much to reveal. Greg’s mind buzzed with the fragments of conversation he had overheard, but none of it made sense. He only knew one thing for sure: he was in over his head.

          And the worst part was, he didn’t know who to trust anymore.

***

          ‘I can't believe what they come up with. I’ve read so much that I’ll be afraid to go outside.’

          The woman finished her tea and closed the tab on her browser.

          ‘You’re telling me,’ her exact copy replied, twirling a meat cleaver in her hands."

Reviews

[Einstein Noodle]

two Gregs, two Parkers and the white coated man ... meat cleavers and spines with meat ... oh my ;) i took an on line, free class on short stories and gave it a go a couple times on my own but just can not find the "story" .. your "Fatigue" is universally relatable, says i ... any working stiff of any kind knows that feeling .. I'm left wondering ... quite bewildered in your closing .. the woman closes her browser ... with her doppelganger twirling the cleaver .. super mysterious .. unsettling for sure ... with your close i am in an untrusting state of mind and don't want to go to bed. :) peace and joy .. thank you for sharing ...
E.

[Yana Larson]

Thank you for the warm review. I'm glad you were able to experience the story.

Yes, overwork is a scary thing, it can push the psyche to all sorts of unpleasant consequences.

As a horror author, I will say that you can take inspiration for writing a story from a certain song to help set the mood for the macabre. Or just look around at some of the darker sides of people. People carry a lot of interesting details.

For example, you look at a man sitting in his car in the parking lot of a coffee shop. He's thinking, he's flipping through something on his phone. What's on his mind? What's eating him? What is he looking for in his phone? Maybe he's following someone? Who? Why is he doing this? What's he trying to accomplish? What are his dark motives? Is he up to something bad or does he want to save someone from impending terror? Is evil really evil in this story? Is good good in this story?

Relax, listen to yourself. Which of the seven sins is that man in the car preparing to commit? Or is he saving someone from those sins? Think about what makes you personally terrified and share your experiences with the reader in this story. Sincerity will resonate with the reader..... And don't worry about the complexities and inconsistencies at the beginning. A diamond becomes a diamond only after polishing - write without thinking, listen to your inner writer. Don't be afraid to cross out what you're not happy with and rewrite for a new one.

First and foremost, YOU should feel that you have written a piece of work that you feel comfortable reading. The right readers will come.

Good luck!!!!

[Einstein Noodle]

thanks for that Ms. Yana! :)

[Jeyanthi]

Really horrific..
Split personality are called caught with pathogens ..
How DP found out... is there any continuation?

[Yana Larson]

As for the sequel, I don't know yet. But anything can happen 😇

[Jeyanthi]

Good to know...
Seeing original works of the writer.... gives the good feelings...

[Yana Larson]

😇😇😇😇😇

[Jeyanthi]

I read this...
Horror...
You have humor sense in Horror...
(I will comment back).. 🙏

[Yana Larson]

I'm glad you liked it))) They say that when you laugh - it's not so scary