Lives of Their Own

                                    Lives of Their Own

  Mel was caught in a desperate wrestle with the clothes filling the family room’s closet, packed as tightly as a deck of playing cards in their case, to reach the closet’s back wall.  The snapping and shearing of cloth told of her wedding gown’s demise, but through the sacrifice she had reached the storage’s posterior.  She slammed the door, perhaps a little too hard.  The thing might have heard her.
         
She stood alone in the closet, pulling deep breathes of air into her lungs that felt like thousands of tiny razors tearing her chest apart.  A trickle of brilliant red blood swam down her cheek, camouflaging itself amongst the thick dew of sweat dampening her skin.  Not that Mel could have noticed anyway, light was nonexistent behind the clotted wall of coats, dresses and suits.  The air was marked with the smell of Downy and mildew.  The panicking woman swallowed gobs of the tainted atmosphere and a dizziness swirled through her mind like a lazy tornado.

Mel knew this little shelter was a pathetic shield against “it”, yet panic, or perhaps even madness, had left her feeling unjustifiably safe.  In this temporary moment of security the recent trauma that had sent her running for her very life returned to Mel with so much power and vivacity she feared she was somehow living the nightmare over.



She had not been sleeping lately, tonight had been no exception.  The unnatural and disturbing green glow from an old alarm clock (2:35am) traveled across blankets and sheets to coat her beautiful face in its eerie light.  Between her and the clock Michael lay fast asleep.  He had always been a heavy sleeper, perhaps because nothing ever seemed to phase his unrelenting optimistic attitude.  They had been married for four years now, and it seemed only lately that this absolute indifference had become a problem.  She had thought that with their first child on the way he would start taking things, like paying the bills for example, a bit more seriously.  But his stubbornly passive attitude persisted.

Not that he didn’t provide well enough.  In fact he had been making tremendous strides in his writing career.  His last novel, a government/alien cover-up gone wrong, had sold over 60,000 copies and was even being recommended in several respectable book review circles.  He was a fairly handy guy too.  Just seemed to have a knack for knowing how things ought to go together.  Mel often wondered if that was why he wrote, just knew in his head somehow what each character ought to say or do, and when a surprising twist should suddenly be revealed to the reader, changing their whole perspective at the most crucial of moments.

And he was certainly passionate about her.  They had been high school sweethearts, became engaged during college, and had finally married after graduation.  Mel had believed that his lust for her would have faded a bit over the years, especially now that she wasn’t as young and slender as she once was.  But his eyes would still get that hungry glare every time she would undress to shower or go to bed.  It made her feel immortal in some ways, like her beauty, in his eyes at least, would last forever.



The thought of never being looked at again by those handsome brown eyes tore her drifting consciousness viciously back to reality.  Gone.  Dead.  Deleted, as the horrible “it” had said.  Tears began polluting her blood and sweat covered cheeks.  If she had been well rested she probably would have had the energy to cry, but her insomnia had robbed her of that ability, something she found herself very thankful for at the moment.  She had no idea how well the thing could hear and did not trust enough in the clothing as an insulator.

Mel’s breathing had finally slowed, though her insides still felt sharp and wounded from her recent distress.  The dull yet warm throbbing from the cut on her left cheek finally managed to earn conscious attention.  Mel grabbed a handful of random cloth and began wiping her face clean.  All at once the sweet salty flavor of tears and sweat and blood met her tongue.  She spit and wiped at her mouth for nearly a full half minute till the taste was only a dim phantom of its former intensity. 

Cold harsh air met with her sweat covered body, sending an icy chill right through her flesh.  All over she felt her exposed body become firm and rigid, and, for the first time since the moment the thing had arrived and peeled Michael’s flesh like one would peel an orange, Mel realized she was naked.  The chill brought a welcome coolness to her mind.  Standing vulnerable and shivering, Mel placed her emotions to the side and began to truly feel her surroundings.

“Ok Mel, think sweetie.”  The words came out as quiet as a whisper among whispers.  Sweetie.  She remembered her mother would call her that when she was very young and monsters were still only in her mind, not out in the world killing the man she had loved (still loved) with all her heart.  Sweetie, the last words Mike ever spoke, besides his blood-curdling scream as his flesh was ripped from bone and muscle.



“You still awake Mel?”  His voice had been patient, but the surprise of hearing anything, other than the occasional snort, had caused her heart to skip a beat.  She felt embarrassed by her reaction, which in turn made her agitated.

“Why, you actually care about something for a change.”  She told herself she had meant it as a joke, but knew that wasn’t the case.  No sleep had made her absent-minded and quick to judge, and it seemed as though her mind couldn’t take anymore.  The haunting green light highlighted various curves along Mike’s face, as though taunting her all the more.

She could see he was offended, but, as always, just shrugged it off.  Probably telling himself that I didn’t mean it, she thought this and hated herself for it.  “You being grumpy, hun?  How ‘bout I get you a nice cool glass of soda?” 

“Glass of soda?  Do you even realize our situation?  I’m pregnant, Mike; wake up will ya!”

“I am awake,” he said with a smile.  Typical Mike, always the kidder.  Mel’s agitation was far more visible than she knew, and Mike quickly dropped the smile.  “Look, Mel.  I know we got a brat on the way.  I think about it all day.  Diapers, doctor bills, food bills, birthday parties, late night sex parties,” Mike winked for the last item but saw only a steely cold expression on his wife’s face.

“Mel look, its late, your tired.  School starts early and you gotta be at your prime.  Parents rely on you to raise their children thirty hours a week, and you can’t be doing that when you’re napping in class.”  She could only resist his patience for so long and she soon found herself becoming docile again, even a little sleepy.

“I just need to see that you care, that’s all.  I just feel like you don’t take life seriously.  I’m sorry for snapping, all right?”  Her smile was irresistibly warm and

Mike let the whole exchange fade into the night.  He always considered himself lucky to be with her.  His only fear was that she may realize just how beautiful she actually was and leave him for someone better.  She would say she would never do such a thing.  He would laugh and say, I know, you’re too cynical to see just how pretty you are.

“No worries, alright babe.  I am the teacher’s pet after all.”

Mel laughed lightly, it felt good to be at ease again.  “Too bad for me he’s also the most immature kid in the bunch.”

“Oh, now that hurts,” Mike said with a fake wince.  “You know there are serious repercussions to insulting your students, particularly the more handsome ones. 
Why don’t we start with that glass of soda and move on to a more intimate apology.”

“Sounds to me like the jury was rigged.  I demand a motion be filed.”  Mel always enjoyed these little role-playing skirmishes, partly because they were simple fun but mostly because Mike always had some clever retort. 

Mel watched as he removed his sheets and headed to their bedroom door.  His eyes were locked onto her partially exposed body during the whole ordeal.  Love and desire had taken over all the features of his face, seeming to force away every last residue of sleep.  “I think the accused can expect several motions to be filled by tonight’s end.  Best to just lay down,” Mike signaled the command with his hand, “and accept your fate.”  Mel and her impish smile obeyed the command.  She stretched her arms and arched her back in a fake yawn, a posture she knew would excite him.

“I eagerly await my punishment then.”  She gave him an exaggerated wink and watched him move about the room. 

Mel had always slept on the left side of the bed.  Even before they had lived together she seemed to be pushed away from the right, almost as though they were polar opposites.  A few times she had experimented with relaxing on the opposite side, but found herself only tossing and turning about.  A stupid quirk she knew, but there it is.  Because Mike slept on the right he was forced to travel the perimeter of the bed, and it was in this crossing the thing appeared.



A sharp twinge of guilt stabbed at her mind as she remembered all this.  She had been unnecessarily rude to Mike.  His last moments on this earth were spent arguing with the one who was supposed to love him unconditionally.  For an immeasurably short moment she wanted to jump from her hiding spot and let the thing have her.  Let it tear her limb from limb, eat her body and hopefully her soul.  Better than living with the guilt she now felt. 

But she knew that was wrong.  Mike would never hold a grudge against her like that.  And she truly did love him unconditionally.  Her only regret now was not making love to him one more time.  Not allowing their bodies and souls to connect in the special way only those who truly belong together are able.  This was not a time for regrets.  Mel touched her exposed belly and thought of the child growing inside.  The baby trusted her with its safety, even if it didn’t know it yet.  Her paused memory recommenced, still playing with its vivid intensity.



“Sprite sound good, sweetie?”

“Yea that would be-”  Just what it would be Michael would never know.  For at that instance, out of the darkest corner of the room, Mel saw it appear.  First a glistening downward-pointing arrow of glowing sinew, the natural phosphorescence of life at the ocean’s bottom, then an impossible row of silver teeth coated in a saliva that looked very much like liquid mercury, then claws as long as her forearm, then a pair of golden eyes that looked surprisingly warm when paired against the deadly fangs and talons.  For a moment these lone features just hung in the darkness as though they were suspended from some sort of invisible strings.  For a moment Mel thought she was dreaming, or that her insomnia had begun manifesting itself through hallucinations.  Then the moment was over.

Michael, still staring at his unclothed bride like a hungry puppy who knows it will soon be tossed a treat, never saw the thing.  He crossed its path and then it pounced.  Out of the shadow Mel could see its form.  The thing seemed to be made of nothing but muscle and teeth.  Its body was an oily black that gleamed in the eerie light.  She could see it was humanoid, standing at roughly seven feet, but the exaggerated length of the arms bared an odd resemblance to a gorilla.  Its mouth extended roughly one foot from the neck and its teeth traveled almost the full perimeter of its skull. 

This was a thing made to kill, and kill is what it did.  All at once a claw fell onto its prey.  Splitting the flesh open from skull to buttock.  The scream was deafening.  Michael fell forward onto his knees and then to his hands, the way a child who has not quite mastered the art of walking would get around.  The cut was only skin deep but tremendous quantities of blood boiled from the huge gash turning him into a human fountain.  The creature moved behind its sobbing victim and, once again, raised its claws.  The talons dug deep beneath the ripped flesh and all through the house the sound of connective tissue snapping and tearing could be heard mixing with inhuman screams of agony.

With arms full of power it tore at Michael viciously.  Skin peeled away in ribbons of fleshy confetti.  Her husband’s blood filled the air like the little red flares of fireworks.  When all but a few patches of his epidermis had been removed the huge jaw opened to an unbelievable ninety-degree angle and, with the same merciless fury of its arms, fell upon flesh.  The arrow on its head waved violent with the rest of the beast.  Chunks of fat and muscle hung lazily from its jaw.  And so the thing continued, consuming all but the skin which it had tossed aside.  It lay now in a disturbing mass like a pile of dirty clothes.  Fleshy shreds and fragments poked out from the mound.  A birthmark was still visible amongst the leathery jumble.  When the thing had its full, it moved to the pile of flesh, placed one bloody paw on the pile, and hissed a single word through a high-pitched inhale, “Deleted.”

Mel had been frozen.  Her pupils had dilated to an impossible size, drowning out all but a faint slither of their former sparkling green color, allowing her to witness every detail of the slaughter.  She made no sound.  Her eyes never blinked.  She could do nothing but watch.  Watch as her husband was ripped and torn and chewed and swallowed.  Watch as his bright red blood painted their bedroom walls.  She could see a chunk of flesh, couldn’t tell of what sort, stuck on the speckled ceiling.  Not until after the beast spoke it cryptic message did Mel feel as though she could move again. 

And move she did.

The thing was still looking at the crust of its meal.  Mel did not hesitate.  She threw her body out of bed with a speed she did not know she was capable of.  All her muscles and bones worked for one purpose.  To run.  To hide.  To live. 
So pumped with adrenaline was her body that she did not even feel the things outstretched claw paint a deep red cut onto her soft cheek.  She was on auto-pilot and, Mel discovered, moved with far more grace and precision than if she had been trying to control herself.  When she reached the stairs she did not take them one-at-a-time, but rather in huge strides.  Twelve steps turned into three leaps.  At the bottom was the front door.  Her hand reached greedily for the knob and turned.

No response. 

Mel was certain it wasn’t locked, could see the ugly brass deadbolt pointing towards the hinges.  She shook the door demonically, screaming as her body rocked back and forth like the mentally deranged.  It was as solid as though it were an extension of the wall itself.  A quick glance behind revealed the murdering beast’s deadly head, with glimmering fangs and arrow, looking ominously down upon her from atop the stairs.

If Mel continued her helpless battle with the solid steel door it would take her.  If she tried to hide the thing may still find her eventually.  Already she could hear its body tearing through the doorway of her bedroom in an enraged effort to fit its bulk through.  A splintered section of molding sailed into the arch of her back.  Mel inhaled through gritted teeth at the severe sting the cracked wood had produced.  With great reservation she abandoned the doorknob and ran to the family room.  As she turned the corner she heard the thing crash its huge body into the impervious door.  The floor shook slightly with the force of the impact and on the wall to her right a photograph of her and Michael’s wedding dropped to the floor. 

She prayed the impact would stun the beast for a moment, no matter how briefly.  Mel searched frantically for a place to hide till finally her eyes fell upon the closet.  Mike did not want to build the closet at first.  Said a family room was an odd place to store extra clothes.  They argued about it for sometime but in the end she had won.  For once Mel was glad for her stubbornness. 

Her hand clasped tightly onto the handle.  Nervous sweat coated her palm and made opening the door a difficult task, her hands slipped over the brass hardware as though it were coated in grease.  At first she feared that this door, like the one in front, would not obey.  Would leave her stranded for the thing to find and consume.  But at last it gave way.  She tore the door open so hard it damaged the sheetrock as it impacted the wall.  And there she hid.



Now what the hell should I do?  Even as she spoke the question she knew.  Mel was amazed to find her body becoming still, her fists clenching.  Anger and hate began to rush into her mind, drowning out the fear and sorrow with a cold efficiency.  Hiding was only a temporary solution, she knew this.  Fine.  She would not sit and wait to die like some coward.  She knew now what she must do.  Face the thing.  Fight it.  The absurdity of the idea allowed her to hope in the same way a child believes he can grow to be an astronaut or president. It was a fool’s hope, but it was hope none the less.  Far more than this coffin of cloth and plaster was offering her.  Perhaps she could even surprise the thing.  Catch it off guard.

With her new found resolve she moved through the lightless space with a purpose.  Almost instinctively she reached out and grabbed a sleek black cocktail dress, the kind with a slit that traveled just far enough up the leg to be risqué.  Careful not to make any noise, she pulled the dress from her feet up to her shoulders.  It was tighter around the gut and chest than she remembered, and realized it was due to the baby.  She was only three months pregnant and already the changes were occurring.  The thought gave her an excited chill.  She would not die here. 

She shifted through clothes again till she found a rather tacky but incredibly warm linen jacket.  Again, being as silent as possible, she removed it from the hanger and slipped her arms carefully through its pea-soup green sleeves.

Cold no longer a factor, or much less anyway, Mel darted her hands across the speckled plaster wall at the closet’s rear till she came across a smooth, cold steel surface.  A safe.  Her hands brushed against the rubber buttons of a safety lock, lighting a dim red as she pressed down on one of the unseen numbers.  The light was weak, but in this catacomb of darkness it seemed as bright as searchlights.  With great speed Mel punched in the code (8-1-3-0-3, their wedding date).  She was very grateful to find the numbers remained silent when she pressed them.  The door swung open with a soft “click” and a slightly brighter light activated in the safe’s overhead. 

Mel smiled a bit at the sight.  Around two years ago Mike had taken up hunting in an effort to “understand a character’s passion”.  He had purchased two firearms.  A Marlin Model 336A big game hunting rifle.  Wood grain shoulder mount and hand pump, all else is a polished steel black which eerily resembled the skin of the creature.  Crayon size bullets lay in a box on the safe’s bottom next to the rifle’s butt.  On a small shelf to the right sat a Walther P22 Compact Pistol.  Mike said he bought it for her to use at the shooting range with him.  She went reluctantly at first, but soon found the sport of shooting paper people as they moved along tracks a disturbingly enjoyable activity.  She would never admit to that of course, but loved it all the same.  The handgun was an odd mix of black and white, the bottom two-thirds a heavy black, the remaining portion a serene white.  Seeing the two guns side by side sent a wave of nostalgia through her cool conscious.



A glorious September afternoon.  Leaves still hung green despite the warm reds and oranges of fall fighting to make themselves known.  The fresh scent of foliage surged through the opened passenger’s side window of Mike’s then new Volkswagen Jetta.  Mel sat in the current’s center smiling cheerfully, relishing the smell of the day, the sound of the gushing wind and the feeling of her black hair being forced into wild tendrils.

On the car’s floor Mel’s feet fidgeted excitedly, bouncing her flip-flop against her skin in a methodical rhythm.  It was their anniversary and the one year seasoned bride was already brandishing an immaculate diamond bracelet, shinning stars in the high sun.  Mike warned her that their next location was a “his gift” and that more than likely she would rather sit in the car and listen to Pink Floyd or The Doobie Brothers, which was certainly saying something as she hated the two bands.

Mel insisted that wouldn’t be the case.  She was open to anything he found interesting and commented several times on how nice it was seeing him away from his laptop.  Mel felt the car slow.  She opened her eyes to see her beautiful gift reflecting light in a nearly blinding array.  Beyond the glittering jewlery hung a sign that made her heart sink. 

McGAVEN’S SHOOTING GALLERY:  WE BRING THE HUNT TO YOU

Mike turned the car into the dirt parking lot and parked on an odd angle in front of an abandoned shed with screen windows and weathered wood shingles that had adopted a grayish tint.  The engine died out and the couple exited the vehicle.

“You’re kidding me.  Please tell me you’re kidding me.”  Mel’s mouth hung open like a fish out of water.  The roar of a rifle answered her question.

“I warned you, babe.  Floyd’s suddenly sounding pretty good, ain’t he.”  Mike eyed his wife cautiously.  It may be his gift but it was their anniversary which meant everything came down to her decision.

Mel put on her aggravated expression she used when she wasn’t really aggravated, but wanted Mike to think that way.  She waited till the slightest hint of disappointment glinted in his eyes then said just what he wanted to hear.

“Fine.  You can play with the guns.  But I will not be subjected to another round of Dark Side of the Moon.”  She eyed him sternly.  “If you get to shoot, I get to shoot.”

“Thanks sweetie, you’ll love it I promise.”  Mike was beaming excitement.

“But…”  Mike’s face dropped as Mel spoke his least favorite word.

“But what, love of my life?”

“But when I get bored we are out of here.  Deal?”

Mike laughed.  Like he had a choice.  He agreed to her conditions then headed to the trunk just as Mel was asking the question he had been waiting for.

“So, do we rent the guns or what?”

“What.”  Mike pressed a button on the car’s remote and the trunk bounced open.  Inside were two neat boxes; one long, the other short.  Each displayed a remarkably formidable looking firearm.  “This,” Mike said picking up the smaller box, “is yours.”

“Oh no.  Oh hell no!  Are you crazy Mike!”  Mel felt like she had just fallen down a flight of stairs.  A gun!  She had no interest in owning something used to kill people.  Mel took the box from Mike, holding it at arms length as though it may explode at any moment.

“Just give it a shot.  I’ve still got the receipt and if you don’t like it I can return it tomorrow.”

“Well keep that receipt close because I do not want this thing hanging around the house.  God Michael, of all the stupid things you’ve done this has got to be the King Shit stupid.”

Two hours came and went.  Mike had the time of his life, but his shoulder was feeling bruised from the powerful recoil and his stomach felt as though it were collapsing in on itself.  In the cubicle next to him Mel was firing intensely.  With two hours of practice under his belt Mike felt he was a decent shot, could probably hit a beer can from twenty yards.  Compared to Mel, though, he couldn’t shoot for shit.

Twice they had traded off weapons and twice did she prove a better shot.  The silhouetted people targets moved up the tracks bearing holes throughout the entire body.  On one particular target she had shot a mock smiley face.  Mel called her work “Mike the Mindless.”

When first she had fired the sidearm she had expected to find it distasteful.  That it would be loud and painful.  Mike assured her that it was calibrated to be used easily by those who have never fired a weapon.  He had been right.  There was recoil, but not the tremendous knock-back she had expected.  She closed her eyes at the sound of the gun firing, thinking the bullet may somehow ricochet back and land her and her new bracelet stone dead.  When she dared look again she was amazed to see a tiny hole of light in the center of the paper-person’s chest.  Even more surprising was the rush, the thrill that filled her entire body.  Mel had always told herself she was a girlie-girl, but knew in reality she was a tom-boy.  While her friends were out getting pedicures she had been hiking mountains, while they were getting their hair dyed she was arm wrestling her little brother’s friends.  But through it all she had always thought of herself of dainty, till today.  The energy of the gun, the feeling of power it presented her, this was the Mel that had been hidden for so long.  Mel found herself perfectly still, serenely calm when aiming her shots and before long she was one of the best shooters in the gallery.

“Ready to head out?”  Mike watched her from behind the safety glass.  He was sure she would be.  Hadn’t she been disgusted at the very sight of the guns?  She turned to him, pulling off her heavy plastic earmuffs, and smiled.

“What, now that I’m having fun!  Sorry Mike, you took me here, you’ll have to wait till I’m done.  Remember the deal; we leave when I get bored.”  Mel, still looking at Mike through the protective glass, dropped her earmuffs back into place and fired a shot clean into the target’s gut.  Mike frowned as he realized the bullet had pierced the very spot his hunger pains were screaming from.         
   



Mel dropped the pistol’s clip into her open palm, checked for ammunition.  Loaded, that would save time.  She slammed the magazine into place and cocked back the hammer.  Mel placed the Walther on its shelf to examine the rifle.

The Marlin was barren of bullets.  She thought of leaving it behind.  Surely a few shots from the pistol would be enough.  Her mind retorted instantly.  Not surely enough. It was difficult to operate the loading mechanism in such tight quarters, but with the aid of the safe’s glow she managed to load six live rounds into the firing chamber.  A leather gun strap lay in a messy pile on the ground.  Mel tossed the strap over her shoulder and placed the pistol over her left breast.  A new sort of adrenaline began tainting her blood, much different than when she had fled only moments ago.  She was the huntress now.  The thing her prey.  And while it certainly was a powerful and deadly beast, she had a vendetta and, most importantly, she could see it! 

With the cumbersome jacket and dress removed from the stack of garments, a space had opened allowing her to peer through to the closet door, which consisted of slats rather than just a solid panel.  What little moonlight there was shone down on the creature.  It stood only six feet away, carrying itself slowly through the open space of the family room.  The glistening arrow on its head darted left and right with the rest of its skull, searching helplessly for its prey.  The warm and welcoming glow of the eyes became small slits as it looked on.  Mel watched feverishly as it passed right by her viewpoint.  At its current course it would soon arrive in the dining room.  Mel waited till only its back was visible, she approximated they were ten feet apart, and began her attack.

She pushed the door open gingerly, praying that it would not creek.  The creature continued its slow tour through the house, unaware of her actions.  When the gap in the door was wide enough she lowered the barrel of the Marlin till it was level with her target.  The scope was for long range shooting and Mel found it difficult to tell what she was zoomed in on.  She would have to trust her long expired experience to hit the target.

The crosshairs centered on what Mel believed to be the things back and, after a deep and heavy breath, the trigger was pulled.

A thunderous echo erupted through the house, lingering for nearly a full minute before disappearing into obscurity.  The tip of the barrel shot up like a high-powered rocket from the incredible feedback.  Mel was thrown clean off her feet and landed hard against the closet’s wall before rolling into the row of clothing and eventually onto the floor.  She pulled herself to her feet, using the rifle as a crutch.  For a moment she thought she had missed.  The creature made no sound of anguish.  It turned to look upon her with those same gentle eyes.

Mel watched as it began to walk towards her.  She forgot all about the pistol.  The sight of the glowing eyes and claws and teeth and arrow had paralyzed her yet again.  But then the impossible happened.  It fell.  Not dead, she was sure of that.  But unable to stand, unable to pursue.  The shot had pierced the creature’s leg with such force it left it hanging by a few meager strands of meat.  And for a moment they just stared at each other.  Mel with green eyes that shone with hate and fury and rage; the creature with those deceivingly warm almonds of golden light. 

The thing tried to move, stretched its long arms out in front of itself and began trying to pull towards Mel frantically.  The fear left her.  The creature looked pathetic now, struggling like a child who had scraped its knee.

“Fucker.” she spoke coldly at the thing, not caring if it understood her or not.  Out of the cramped closet she regained her shooter’s posture, eliminating nearly all the compromising recoil.  And again she lowered the attractive black barrel and fired.  This time cleanly removing its left arm at the shoulder.  Blood so black Mel though she might be staring into the vastness of the universe sprayed violently from the separated appendage.  The smell of gunpowder filled Mel’s nostrils for a second time, and she relished the scent.  Breathed again just to taste it in the air.  The taste of her revenge.  The taste of justice. 

          Another shot at the other arm, another explosion of black.  The thing lay there.  Still not dead, but also not moving.  The one loan limb still connected firmly to the body twitched and contorted in what Mel sincerely hoped was agony.  Her eyes dilated again, like an animal observing its kill, relishing the site of its triumph.

        Mel tossed the Marlin, its steel now hot from the energy of its payload, to her side.  She knew she had shots left, knew it would be simple to end the thing with one more blast from its long and heavy bullets, but she wanted it to be done with the Walther.  With the gun Mike had given to her.  She removed the holstered gun from her its cool leather strap above her chest, savoring the cold feel of the handgrip, the way the weight balanced perfectly in her grip. 

        Revenge.  You’re not supposed to want it.  You’re not supposed to love it and pursue it.  Well to hell and back again with that.  This is for you Michael.  For all the love you have given me, emotionally and physically.  For all the years we spent together and for all the years we won’t be able to.

          She pointed the handgun squarely at the beasts head, pausing for a moment.

          “You probably have no idea what the fuck I am saying do you, you little shit.  Probably looking up at me and saying what the fuck is this girl.  Bet your thinking all kinds of things like that, huh?”  A curiosity poured through her ecstasy and began contaminating her thoughts.  Something wasn’t right.  “But, and this is important you shit, what’s with the arrow, and when you killed Michael,” (she shot a vengeful bullet into his gut) “did you not say ‘deleted’.”

          Of all the things Mel expected, which consisted of nothing, the thing’s reaction was the most unexpected.  A laugh.  One so hideous and evil Mel felt every hair on her neck become as rigid as though they were made of steel. 

            “Foolish little whore.”  Its words shifted between inhales and exhales, more hissing than actual speech.  The sound seemed to come from somewhere deep inside the thing’s body.  “I am a servant of the creator!”

            Mel felt her confidence leaving her as quickly and violently as the blood had left the creatures severed limbs only moments ago.  She spoke in a false voice, hoping to convince some of the departed confidence to return to her.  “Don’t feed me your bullshit.  Creator, what the hell are you talking about?”  She had meant it to sound powerful.  To sound like a demand.  But it only fell from her tongue as a helpless inquiry.

            Again the cold piercing laugh spewed from the things mouth.  It seemed to linger just as long and harsh as the gun shots had.  “Why surely you know what the Creator is.  The Creator brought everything into being.  And I am his servant.  Not a creation but the tool by which he creates.  And destroys of course.”

            “You mean God?  God?!”  The thing nodded.  “Impossible, God would not send some monstrosity to our home at night.  Wouldn’t have his servant viciously tear apart a good and honest man.”  Tears returned.  More vicious this time.  Not because she had mentioned Mike, not because she was being reminded of his death, but because she could find no lie in the things voice.  Only confidence and honesty.  Here it lay dieing and it could only laugh.  The idea attacked her mind with as much ferocity as the thing had attacked her husband.

          The warm eyes met her own.  “Oh how little you know of God.  But I feel I am at an unfair advantage here, for I know your name, I know who you are.  But you do not know me.  Well let me introduce myself, I am called Cursor.”

          “Cursor.”  The word rolled stupidly from her mouth.

          “Precisely.  And now that we are acquainted let me tell you why your victory here means nothing in the end.  You see, you are merely a character, an idea on a page.  It is the Cursor’s job to put you onto the page, to give you life.  It is also my duty to remove poor ideas.  You and your husband were poor ideas.  A story that, in the end, had no real point or purpose.”

        “That’s not true, life is a purpose in of itself.  There doesn’t need to be some great end.  Living is enough.”  Mel raised her gun again, but this time without the confidence of before.  It was an act to try and return some confidence to herself.  A desperate attempt to try and counteract the stream of tears now falling from her cheek and onto her smooth breasts.

        “Life?  You think you are alive?  You are nothing pixels on a computer screen.  Thoughts in the head of a young man trying to make a writer out of himself.  And, unfortunately, your characters were sub par.  Not alive enough, not vivid enough to capture the imagination of readers everywhere.  And so I was placed here to remove you.  To replace you with something better.”

        The possibility of it seemed too massive to be real, too huge to be possible.  A sudden insignificance entered her mind and infected her soul like a plague.  “You have no proof of this.”  The words left her weakly.

         The Cursor’s words were slower now, fainter.  Its time was almost over.  “I did not ask you to believe me.  Truth is not dependant on belief just as believing is not dependant on truth.  But you will recall your front door.  It was stuck I believe.” 

Mel nodded, almost obediently.  She thought back to other similar instances that only now seemed to make sense.  Students gone from her class, buildings vanishing entirely, television channels displaying nothing but emptiness. 

    “Because there is nothing beyond those doors.  No world left, for I have deleted it.  Removed each player, every setting.  That is, each but you and here.  But it does not matter.  You, your unborn child, and everything else will soon be cast into nothingness.  So shoot me, freeze me in place.  My master will not care.  A minor inconvenience.  And soon you will be nothing.  Less than death, less than blackness.  Pure nothingness.”  The Cursor laughed.  Long and hard, heavy and cold.  The sound was more than she could bare.

         One after the other, each remaining bullet flew into the skull of the Cursor.  Empty shells dropped to the ground, dancing on the hardwood floor before finally coming to a rest.  And when the clip was empty Mel kept firing.  For nearly a full minute, releasing then squeezing, then releasing, then squeezing.  When she was finally done her useless act she wept.  Tears disappeared into the deep black silk of her dress.  Her exhaustion could no longer stop the sorrow from voicing itself.  Terrible wails of pain and loss and despair traveled every quarter of her home. 

         To her right the fallen wedding picture lay face down.  She lifted the photograph and saw…

         Only her.  Alone in the beautiful white dress, smiling jovially.  And she realized, with great and all consuming horror, that she no longer knew what was missing from the photograph.  No longer knew why she wept.  Her finger traced the spot on the photograph where she thought something belonged.  A sickle of glass made a clean slice through her finger.  Blood trickled, but not the brilliant red she expected.  The heavy and endless blackness of infinity.  Her body and mind, to exhausted to handle this shock, collapsed into a darkness that matched her new blood perfectly.


                                              ***
         
“Damn computer.”  Harry sat at his desk, fuming at the machine’s inability to do a simple task.

         “What’s the matter?  Freeze up on you again?”  Harry’s fiancé, Jen, put her head gently onto his shoulder, a gesture which always relaxed him, and lately he had needed the gesture a lot.

         “Yeah, every time I try and delete something it always gets to a certain point then freezes up.  I’m never gonna make deadline if this stupid computer doesn’t stop jamming.”  Not for the first time today an agitated sigh escaped the young and highly inexperienced writer.

         Jen lent him a patient stare and Harry felt his frustration fade.  “So what happened exactly?”  she asked.

          Harry pointed his index finger nonchalantly at the computer screen.  The word Mel was spread randomly across the glowing white page.  “I don’t know, for some reason I can’t get rid of that name.  Tried everything I could thing of, but there it is.  What sucks is that it keeps freezing whenever I highlight it too.  It’s not really a big deal though.  I’ll just restart the frikin’ computer, delete the whole file, and hope this damn cursor quits dieing out on me.”  His still pointing index finger traveled from the screen to the tiny reset button.  The display flickered for a moment, and within thirty brief seconds had returned back to the desktop.  Harry dragged the cursor over the little document icon titled “Mike, Mel, and little Mark”. 

    “Well why are you deleting the story in the first place?  You always keep everything you write.”  Jen handed Harry a glass of Sprite she had poured for him during the system’s reboot.

      The writer looked at his fiancée with a deep sadness in his eyes.  “I know.  Trust me, I don’t want to delete it.  I know it sounds dumb but I feel like these characters have lives of their own and that in some way I’m just taking dictation.  But I have to make a choice.  There’s only room on the floppy disc for one story and this isn’t it.”

      “Well then why don’t you just copy it?”

      “See that’s the odd thing."  Said Harry.  "I can’t do anything to the story.  Can’t edit it, can’t save changes, can’t copy or cut it.  So that leaves me with deleting.”

      Jen looked skeptical, “Can’t you just use another floppy?”

      “Last one and tomorrow’s deadline day.  Or as I like to call it, D-Day.”

      “Well don’t worry about it too much, Harry.  You’ll do better next time.  I have faith in you.”   

      “Thanks sweetie.”  Harry spared one last look at the story he had toiled to write, thought about what he had just said.  How it really did feel like dictation.  How these characters seemed as real to him as anything he had ever known.  That he was as much the recorder of events as he was the creator.  “Sorry guys.”

      Right-click.

      Delete.

      The cursor worked fine.  The characters, including persistent Mel, were gone.

      “No biggie,” Harry told himself in a forced optimism.  “Plenty more where that came from.”