Sanity is a Relative Sate.

Alex Brady is a regular office worker whose little bit of piece is disturbed by a fragment of a memory and the cascade of events it triggers.

She said, ‘I know what it's like to be dead.’ He couldn’t help but glance out the window with that thought. Why it was coming to him now of all times was a mystery that he cared not to delve into.

 

            “Alex you coming man?” called one of the younger men in the office. He looked over a little blankly, the younger man’s smile fading into a look of concern. A look he pulled off quite well, Alex couldn’t help but thinking. He mentally slapped himself; his new meds must be off. His thoughts were supposed to be controlled not jumping all over the place like this.

 

            “Are you alright Sir?” ah there it was, the boy’s only slip in his feigned concern. He was nervous too, nervous that he might be found out perhaps? The younger man only called him Sir when he was anxious. It was a rather endearing trait.

 

            “I think I’ll have to decline tonight Ian, I’m not feeling to well.” He said content with the normalcy of the statement. It wouldn’t be good for the boss to hear of his strange behavior, not after the fiasco last year. The younger man nodded and offered to help him to his car, an offer that he almost had to physically pull himself from. No it wouldn’t do for him to linger here; steadily he waved away the well founded concern and stood precariously, ducking under the five foot five arched doorway that leads into their realm of cubicles. His car was parked in the spot with his name on it, as always, the gas-efficient hybrid two person little skits-mobile. Yes, that was as it should be.

 

            “I know what it's like to be dead.” He tripped as his memory, it had to be memory, supplied her voice again. He refused to turn around, she was not there. She couldn’t be there. He fumbled with his keys but at last opened the door, and slipped into his comfortable car. Stared it and left the office’s allotted parking area. He began to pull out the little cell phone that the office had given him last year, but he remembered that the doctor’s phone number wasn’t programmed in. They’d just changed it; he had it written on a little piece of paper on his desk at home ready and waiting for him to remember to put it in the useless phone. He muttered darkly, looking at the green digital display of numbers, it was barely after five would the physiatrist still be in? No, he decided, it wasn’t worth it; he’d merely take an extra pill tonight and makes the appointments for tomorrow. That was all. Nothing to panic over.

 

            “Do you see the light?” her voice erupted again, if he didn’t know better he would swear she was there. He swerved violently, narrowly missing a large SUV, the soccer mom inside gestured rudely at him.

 

            “What a b***h…” her voice said, he refused to look. She wasn’t there. His meds were just not right and the memories were creeping back that’s it. Why he didn’t bring the bottle with him this morning was beyond his grasp. He sped up, but tried to keep within the legal limit, the last thing he needed was the cops to pull him over.

 

            “You can’t ignore me forever Alexanderrrr.” She purred. He flinched. He had felt her voice ghost over his neck, the same way she had always spoken; leaning far to close, well within his personal space and her rancid breath infiltrating his mind, driving him crazy. He shook the thought, memory, off and focused purely on getting home.

 

            “You know as well as I do, Alex, you took care of driving yourself crazy without my help.” She said, and for a moment he could see her. Reclining in the backseat, her favorite little black dress on, the one he thought made her look like a cheap hooker. Lipstick that was to red, like fresh spilt blood and other heavy makeup it almost seemed like a costume when she dressed like that. Then she was gone, and he didn’t have a backseat. Of course not, this little skits-mobile wasn’t that big, what had he been thinking? Reassured that she wasn’t there and his meds were simply not right he made it home. The basic little two floor bungalow that was a friendly shade of green set right out to put his tired mind at ease. It was familiar, and better yet it was right.

 

            “What a dump Alex.” Her voice rang out again. She would’ve been standing their, gray eyes cold and hard. Long platinum blond hair flowing in gentle waves framing her angular face, falling to her trim waist and never ending legs; He shook his head and hurried inside. He ferreted around in the mess of newspapers that endlessly lined his dining room table, but the bottle of pills that he sought wasn’t there.

 

            ‘Where are they, where are they?!’ he thought desperately turning around at the nearly imperceptible tsk from behind him. She was standing their, holding his bottle of pills. No, he knew it was impossible for her to be their. Impossible, damn it!  

 

            “You know nothing’s impossible for me Alex. After all, I know what it’s like to be dead.” She said walking towards him with her hips swaying.

 

oOo

 

The next morning Ian Niwa entered his office building with only a disinterested glance at the cop car parked out front. He sat in his cubicle like always depositing his jacket and briefcase by the chair and picking up the coffee that he regularly brought Mr. Brady. He had noted that the older gentleman’s hybrid hadn’t been in the lot but occasionally he too the bus, never did it occur to him that the man may not be in. When he entered his work friend’s office he was stopped by the sight of the Manager staring anxiously at two cops riffling through Alex’s desk.

 

            “What’s going on?” he asked looking between them all. On cop turned to him, a burly man with a graying handlebar mustache and recent grease stains on his uniform.

 

            “Are you an acquaintance of one Alexander Brady?” he asked huffily.

 

            “I bring him coffee in the morning and sometimes we go out after work, to clubs and such. Why? What’s happened to him?” he asked with a frown and a distinctly unpleasant feeling rising in his stomach. The cop held out a little Polaroid picture,

 

            “He was found like this early this morning by his neighbor when he didn’t see Mr. Brady collecting the newspaper as usual. Apparently he always picked up the newspaper.” Ian however had stopped listening his eyes locked on the picture. In it Alex no longer had a face, it was cut into shreds same with his wrists, he was slumped against the cheery blue wall of his apartment a message scrawled in his own blood across it.

 

            ‘She said, I know what its like to be dead…’ 

Author's Note

I dunno why it didn't show to begin with...I'm not technologically savvy enough to throw out theories.
Written for the Beginnings contest because I noticed that I can submit more than one piece. =) I'm actually vastly happy with this one although it's a bit darker than my typical stuff.
I used; She said, I know what it's like to be dead. (John Lennon and Paul McCartney)
I might submit this to the Insanity contest too, I think it fits rather well. =)

Reviews

[Jo]

Very dark, I loved it. You do, again, have some grammatical and spelling errors. I know it's not the fun part of writing, but it's necessary. Spell check is your friend! I really enjoyed this though. You've got an interesting style of writing and ideas. One thing on your story though: I felt the end was a bit rushed. And it seemed odd me a police officer would show a supposed co-worker a picture of his friend with his face ripped off. Especially immediately. I would take that a little slower and gradually let the police officer show the picture. Lead up to that, rather than just throwing it in there. That will also add more tension, too. The last part about the message though was perfect.