Anonymous

My eyes opened lazily as I rolled over to check the time.  5:30.  On a normal day, I would have had to start getting ready for work.  Ahh, work.  I went to Yale, full ride.  Graduated cum laude, so I got a nice fancy corner office, personal secretary, and big paycheck, right?  No, no I didn’t.  I got a cubicle, an average sized salary, and an entire office of co-workers who don’t even know my name.  After six years at this job, I have gone nowhere.  I had to do something to change my luck, and when I saw the chance, I took it.

         But back to today.  You see, the department that I work in got the day off because the boss called in sick.  I had a good feeling about today.  Today was when I would make myself known.  The day I would cease being an anonymous peon.  In the next 24 hours, I am going to shape my destiny, and make all the world know my name.

         Enough talk.  I got up and rolled out of bed.  Shuffling over to the bathroom, I turned the water on as hot as it could go.  To some people it might be unbearable, but I reveled in the pain.  After about twenty minutes, I got out, dried off, and got dressed.  I left my room, went downstairs, and fetched the newspaper from my stoop.  I looked out at the quite suburban neighborhood.  Even at 6 a.m., it was still dark as pitch, the only illumination being provided by the yard lights scattered throughout the street.

         Closing the door behind me, I walked into the kitchen.  The granite countertops may have put me back a month’s pay, but they really made the kitchen just pop out at you.  I dropped the newspaper on the island and walked to the coffee maker.  Gotta love automatic coffee machines.  I took out the pot and poured a cup.  I didn’t wait for it to cool.  Just like my shower, I loved the pain the scolding hot coffee inflicted upon my throat and stomach.  With the pot and cup in hand, I awkwardly opened the basement door and headed down. 

         Now, my basement is not exactly ‘big’ to guests but that is because a large part of it is behind a door that I keep locked at all times.  I set the pot and cup on a small end table near the door and dug the key out of my pocket.  Unlocking the door, I dropped the key back in my pocket, picked up the pot and cup, and stepped into the room, filled with darkness that my eyes could not penetrate.           

         I shut the door behind me, and flipped the switch, bringing the fluorescent lights dangling from the ceiling to life.       

         The room was rather large.  I build it myself about four weeks ago, just waiting for this day to come.  The dimensions were roughly fifty by fifty feet, and the walls were covered by my favorite thing to collect: torture tools.   

         I walked over to the center of the room were there was a man, eyes wide with panic and terror, tied to a chair.

         I smirked as I walked up to him, holding up the pot, “Morning boss, want some coffee?”

         “Where the hell am I?” he very rudely shouted.

         “Now, come on, Mr. Watson,” I sneered at him, “Is that anyway to treat your host?  Now, one thing at a time.  Would you like any coffee?”

         “Go fu—” but before he could complete that very, very insulting remark, he made the most wonderful, the most beautiful shriek I’ve ever heard.  He had good reason too; I poured the pot of the scolding coffee onto his face.

         I shook my head, “Now, I do not want anymore of your crude language, understand?”

         He just sat there!  He just sat there trying to shake the coffee off of himself.

         Fed up with his blatant ignorance of my words, I smashed the pot against the wall, and picked up the sharpest shard I could find and pressed it against the boss’ cheek, right below the eye, “DO YOU UNDERSTAND!”

         “I—, I—” he stammered.

         That wasn’t good enough.  Not by a long shot.  I applied more pressure and cut down the to the cheek, savoring every second of his screams.

         “Yes, yes, I understand,” he choked through his tears.

         I stood up and dropped the shard to the ground.  Stepping back, I started to walk around him, “I bet your wondering how I got you here, aren’t you?”

         He lifted his head and stared at me.  The look that he gave me sent chills up my spine; not the fear kind of chills, but the kind you get when you’re having the most fun you’ve had in your life.

         I decided to disclose the ‘How’, ‘When’, and ‘Where’.  Might as well, he probably wasn’t going to be around very much longer, “You remember that bar you went to last night?”

         He nodded his hung head, and I went on, “Well, after about your fifth drink, I took action.

         “You—very foolishly—left your drink unattended while you went to the bathroom.  All I had to do was simply walk by and drop the pill into it.  After you downed that drink, you may remember things starting to get a little fuzzy.  I volunteered to take you home.”

         He started to laugh, which made me concerned; he was in no position to laugh, “You’re stupider than you look.”

         Although I couldn’t see it, I could feel a worried look creeping onto my face, “What do you mean?”

         He looked up at me laughed, “Well, idiot, the bartender, or someone must have seen you.  And when the police see that you and I aren’t at work today, they’re gonna know it was you.”

         The chill on my spine left, as I felt the worried look melt away and be replaced by a wide smile, “That’s good.  Very good.  Let’s break it down.  One, people did see me, and guess what?  I don’t care.  And two,” I said, putting on my best mocking tone, “you called in sick today, and gave everyone the day off.”

         His confident look faded away, “What?  I didn’t do that!”

         I smirked and said, “Well, your voice is very easy to imitate.  Especially since you’re ‘sick’.”

         I started towards the wall, running my hands along the equipment, stopping at a large bowie knife.

         “What—What are you going to do with that?” he stammered.

         I stepped behind him and knelt down, “I just love this one.  I cuts real nice, cleanly.”

         “Please, just let me go.  I won’t tell anyone anything,” he begged.  I loved it.

         “Well, being the reasonable person that I am, I will give you a chance to save yourself.”

         His head shot up, “Anything.  I’ll do anything you want.”

         I pulled down his right sock and tapped the blade against.  The blade was sharper than I thought, as that action alone drew blood, “What is my name?”

         “What?”

         Continuing the tapping, I explained my little game to the unwilling competitor, “Well, you see, I am fed up with the treatment I receive at the office.  Not a single person there knows my name.  Sooo…, if you can tell me my name, I’ll let you go.  You get three guesses.”

         He looked at the ceiling, and guessed, “Scott Pluto.  From Dallas.”

         He screamed as I cut his right achilles tendon, the punishment for an incorrect answer, “Wrong.  Guess again.”

         His face winced in pain as he guessed again, “Jake Melvin.”

         I waited a few seconds, to mess with him, before swiftly slicing his left achilles, through the sock, “Wrong.  This game is fun, isn’t it?”

         Tears were starting to pour down his cheeks, knowing his life was hanging by a thread, “Virgil Keadering.”

         I stood up, and walked in front of him, “That is a very good guess.  But, it’s wrong.”

         Panic flooded his eyes and he started shaking his head, “No—No, give me another chance!  Give me another cha—” but he was silenced by my bowie tearing apart his throat. 

         I must have stood over his body for longer than I thought.  The room had no windows or clocks, so there was no concept of time within its walls.  I was snapped back into reality by the door to the room being kicked down by the city’s fine police department.  Four uniforms circled around me and one of them checked Mr. Watson’s pulse.

         “He’s dead, sir,” he said one the other three officers, who were pointing their pistols at me.  I’ve always hated guns.  So impersonal. 

         “Drop the knife,” the tall white one said.  I complied.  My plan did not consist of getting shot to death in my own home.

         One of them grabbed me, and slammed handcuffs onto my hands, “Virgil Keadering, you are under arrest for the murder of Montgomery Watson,” and he proceeded to read the rest of my Miranda Rights.

         I laughed as I said, “I’m not going to be anonymous anymore.”