Nerve Endings

Written by: Robert Sharland
Night is falling, and as the hours progress, I am growing increasingly frightened by staying alone here in this dormitory. The door is locked, yes, with both the thumb-bolt and the key-lock, but it is of no consequence, for physical obtrusions do little to stop time from elapsing and hence destroying those unfortunate souls who stand in its fateful midst of indefinite.
My hands--their skin worn by age, bones frayed and bloodied by the malcontent of the events, which I will soon describe--are beginning to falter. I can hear the old grandfather clock ticking in such perfect rhythm; a mind-numbing, monotonous symphony as such is surely the work of Satan himself playing his hand out of cruel spite, for surely the bastard knows my troubles, my flaws, and the temperaments which will drive my mind further into the blackened well of insanity. Each tick of the clock seems to echo, intensity increasing to absurd, reverberative heights; each tick rings in my ears as if forewarning what is to come.
What, indeed, is to come? Ah, that is certainly the most
Enigmatic and unanswerable of questions. Time is quite a formidable opponent; quick, impactful, yet so goddamned secretive as it goes about its business.
I will tell this exactly as I remember it, though I cannot promise you an accurate re-enactment of these bizarre events. You have to believe me. Please understand that I am not a liar and I do not wish to deceive you in any way, nor I will I attempt to play trickery with my words. Should you find me guilty by the material presented here, in its specifications, so be it? Yet should you see me as innocent, do not expect to uncover any hidden truths for I assure you that there is none to be found. Should you be weary as to the truths given in this document, your efforts will go without pay and, until you discover that I am in fact a man of my word, I will bear the burden of undergoing a relentless firing of accusations.
With truth being spoken, and humbly honoured, I admit that my mind is a little hazy, though these events have only occurred a matter of days ago. I am seventy-six years old and I have lately been dealing with insomnia; my memory is quite an unpredictable thing, please understand this and come to sympathize with me, if you can. (We are both human, after all, are we not?)
But I did not kill anyone, you see. We all die at one time or another; that is an unchangeable fact from which there is no humanly possible deviation, and to me it seems rather silly to persecute someone for such a crime as the mere quickening of the process. I do not believe an act as such should be defiled with the filthy words to which it is often referred by the ignorant and sharp-mouthed. However, I do not wish for you to be misled by my own opinionated--and quite inconsequential to the matter at hand--beliefs; at least to the best of my memory, I have never touched anyone in a way that could be considered harmful. The blood on my hands is my own blood, my own turmoil, and, as always, I say this with the most sincere honesty.
A man whose physical appearance is as distraught as my own, and whose social capabilities are so limited as those that I possess, I have few close friends--unnecessary excursions from this house are rare. I live alone here and I keep to myself.
I promise you that I was shocked when I awoke that morning to see my dog, Lynnon, dead. The Doberman had been slaughtered, cruelly eviscerated and left in a bloody heap of torn flesh and broken bones in my front yard. I assure you that feelings of revulsion did overwhelm me, and, at the time, I wanted nothing more than to strike my vengeance upon whomever--or whatever--was responsible for Lynnon's slaying. But no, I did not cry; I am not akin to getting emotional about things, least of all death. Tears do not change the past, nor can they reverse catastrophical events, though there are billions of people out there who seem to believe it so. Until I noted a hatchet, its steel blade painted with Lynnon's intestines, which lay in the grass beside him, I had assumed wolves had attacked Lynnon.
It was cold out that morning. Rain from the preceding nights deluge soaked the ground, pooled on my walkway, and left an icy chill adrift in the air. Of all things on that bizarre day, I remember the frigidity. The cool winds, like sharp sickle blades, pressed against and almost pierced the surface of my skin (I swear that I could almost feel a trickle of blood); the skies foreshadowed the approach of yet another chaotic storm as black clouds from the distance neared; the grass glistened, almost silver, as it was overlain with frost. If not a dreadful setting, it held a strange poetic beauty, both disturbing and awesome.
I feel I am straying from the point. As for the reasoning of Lynnon's unbridled slaying, I had no immediate conclusion. I could not imagine why anyone would do such a thing to the animal. Also, it would have taken a great effort on the part of the slayer, for Lynnon is a large dog and is normally able to defend himself against virtually any predator. I have, for years, allowed him my trust in guarding the house from potential thieves (yet, of course, I did not rely the safe- keeping of my priceless property solely upon him).
The thought had then occurred to me that, perhaps, a satanic cult had been responsible for Lynnon's brutal demise. After all, the slaying did look a bit ritualistic, and satanic cults have often been known to kill animals as sacrificial offerings to the devil. Lynnon's head appeared to have been meticulously severed, as did his four legs; it was within the greatest probability that more than the solitary hatchet had been involved, for something more powerful would have been needed to dismember the cumbersome extremities with such clean, unequivocal perfection. A single, extensive slice began its route at Lynnon's upper spinal column, reaching down to his tailbone, which from there wrapped around to the belly and then took a smooth, neural course to the plexus region. The heart, also, appeared to have been removed with delicacy.
I assumed I could get the police over to inspect the situation, and I believed it would be--for the most part--a painless effort since the animal slayer, clumsy in his work, had left the hatchet behind for fingerprints to be detected. I did not know who could have done this; I was not sure who would have an adequate reason to kill Lynnon, for, once again; I have always kept to myself. I have never bothered anyone, and neither has Lynnon.
From the distance, I heard a faint rumble of thunder.
"Dammit, Lynnon," I whispered under my breath. I was slightly sarcastic, yet not jokingly so...exhausted, wasted from another sleepless night, too tired to deal with this. "Couldn't have picked a better time to bite the nail, could you, fella?"
Though it was understood that a reply from the deceased Doberman was in no way expected, nor, of course, would it have been naturally possible, I for some reason stood silent and awaited a response nevertheless. This may be further indication of my blossoming insanity, true--and I speak of this with the coldest of sorrow, be assured--yet please keep in mind that I have not slept in several weeks and my mind has lately been distant.
I looked at my watch. It was eight thirty-five, A.M.
* * *
Oddly enough, I no later discovered that the telephone lines had been corrupted during the previous night's storm and I was unable to contact the police for proper authoritative assistance. Much to my inconvenience, the tires on my car had been slashed and the engine had been flooded. My house is settled deep in the countryside and the nearest place of residency is four miles north of here.
In the physical sense (the only sense of which I dare speak, for those existing elsewhere are those which I fear), I am alone here.
That evening, my mind haunted me with disturbing images of my sister, Annette. I imagined her panic-stricken face as she was being pursued by a creature hidden within the darkness. Her midnight hair hung in tangles down her face, her eyes were imperceptibly deep and radiated with desperation; her red lips were pressed tightly together as if to stifle a crippling scream. As she walked, her entrails--spilling from the deep lesions that spanned ruthlessly about her naked body--created a crimson trail on the ground over which she passed. There were footsteps approaching, very quickly, yet the face of Annette's aggressor remained hidden behind its dark mask.
As you may be able to imagine, from the events I have so far told you, I was beginning to get a little cautious. Perhaps, in more accurate terms, I was becoming paranoid and very weary of my surroundings. Though only for a brief period of time, I would find myself startled at the sight of my own shadow. Believing there was something hiding in the darkness, I would cower like a child when the lights are turned low.
I suppose if this is Satan doing this to me--forcing these morbid images into my head--he is doing a commendable job. That evening as night fell, I was afraid beyond belief. Afraid beyond comprehension, beyond any silly childhood fear, beyond anything that I am sure you have ever experienced. And I am still afraid. As I write this, sweat pours from my brow. I swear that I can almost hear its footsteps as it approaches, you see. The clock ticks. It rings in my ears and I can do little to drown it out.
Yes, I have tried sleeping, but, as I mentioned earlier, I suffer from an incurable case of insomnia. Perhaps my lack of sleep can be held somewhat accountable for my distraught, exhausted frame of mind as of late, but I assure you that I did not kill anyone or commit any drastic measures under such proposed delirium.
You have me listed on file. You have my entire life sketched out in hard copy before you, do you not? The records you hold explains that I have multiple personalities, correct? They explain that I am not mentally stable and that I have a history of schizophrenia. I realize this, so I am asking you to please note that I am not, nor will I ever be, blaming the occurrences of which I will speak (as well as those, rather tame in comparison, of which I have already spoken) on my diagnosed mental disorder. I did not do anything rash, be aware of this.
That evening, I roamed the house aimlessly as irrational thoughts spun inside my head, dizzying me, threatening the endangerment of my further psychic stability and pressing me on the verge of madness. I thought of death, especially that of my sister. I imagined Annette's mangled corpse lying cold at my feet, those eyes staring into nothingness; I imagined Lynnon's torn body--dead as he had been in the grass earlier that morning, but, by God, so alive, so vigorous, so strong in the manner with which he approached me, so vicious and relentless, apparently unfazed by his disgusting disfigurations--pursuing me with teeth exposed and eyes gruesomely oppressive; of all things, I imagined the dark figure of Death presiding--almost hovering above the ground, his flowing robe descending as an angel's no doubt would--in the distance, and it was I for whose soul he sought.
With respect for my soul itself (and, yes, hers as well), I prayed that I could call Annette, talk with her, and make sure she was all right. Also, company would be something appreciated with greatness unknown to any man who has not experienced the hellish events that have that day haunted me.
Wandering the house that evening--my own footfalls hard, indecisive and fast against the wooden floor beneath my feet--questioning the very reality to which I had devoted my entire life, I once again imagined Lynnon had (yet only in my deceptive subconscious) arisen from the dead. His furious eyes, brilliant with blazing anger, gazed into mine.
No, no, no, Lynnon is dead--he now lies deceased in the front yard, incapable of such a retreat, of that I am certain--but oh, how is it that he now stalks me in such a powerful manner? How is it that the dead has arisen, how is it that the dead WALKS BEFORE ME?
I cowered--shaking unbelievably--in the corner as he approached me. Little did my petty attempts at salvation--throwing volumes at Lynnon's head, over tipping tables in his path--succeed at warding the vivacious dog.
I looked at my watch. It was six twenty-two, P.M.
* * *
Believe me that it was to my liking when I discovered that Annette had been killed. I found her body, which was eerily as I had envisioned, lying in my own closet. True, it had appeared much as I had imagined in the grotesque images that was played out in my head with such astounding detail, yet let me assure you that I had acted no part in Annette's death.
In fear of her returning from death--from her being resurrected as I imagined Lynnon (which had, of course, been in falsity; I had later checked on Lynnon and he did in fact lay dead, unmoving in the yard)--I found an axe from the shed and with it I repeatedly struck Annette's corpse, further mutilating her body. You must understand that such an act, though admittedly violent, was necessary because I would not live with the notion that Annette could, at any time, awake; such was the extent of my skepticism.
Do you understand the potential pressures introduced by the dissolution of hours on a clock as time progresses? If observed by inquisitory eyes, the elapse of time can be a truly maddening thought that--presented to an already-weak and certifiably unstable conscience--can have a colossal, crippling effect on the human psyche. However, I do not wish to delude you into believing that such a thought is a blatant admission of my guilt; as I said earlier, I am not responsible for these crimes. Never did I wield the hatchet that had slain Lynnon, and never did I lay an antagonistic finger upon my dear sister until, of course, after total certainty of her loss (which even then had been an effort made strictly in self defence). My goal is to reiterate the truth, let me tell you; it is the virtue of time that is responsible for all that I have so far told.
Standing above Annette's corpse--a slight, dank breeze blowing through an open window behind me, the air ill with the scent of her blood--I gripped the axe with my frail hands. The weight of the weapon was tremendous as I pulled it behind my head and prepared to strike the mangled corpse with yet another disfiguring blow; I felt I would not be able to complete the task to a satisfactory level.
My mind raced and little could I decipher the rapid, incoherent thoughts by which these brutal events have slewn in scores. Scores, hundreds, seemingly "thousands" of insane and illogical mental ramblings overwhelmed me, preyed upon me, thoughts by which not even the deepest of concentration (should mercy enough be found to concentrate in the midst of this insane jumble) could discern to the most simplistic, basic forms; maddening thoughts that succeeded not in nurturing comprehension, and only in weighing my mind deeper, further, exasperatedly into a disordered state of utter confusion. Oh, how I wished to clear my head! How I wished for these meaningless thoughts to disperse!
With a tremendous anger previously unknown to my otherwise gentle and forgiving conscience, I carried out a swift, concise blow with the axe. The hit landed in Annette's neck, decapitating her, and--appearing as effortless as a child quelling an insect beneath his boot--crushing her petite frame with the weapon's supreme force.
Ah, the million thoughts that spun inside my mind! A vast array of brilliant colours; meaningless and inconsequential sounds; pictures to which I could not place significance; voices whose utterance gave no known, discernible phrases, whose syllables did not form recognizable words; all these insanity’s whirred inside my aching head.
With the axe, I struck the unmoving Annette once again; the hit collided firmly to her chest.
It was then that I fell backwards, too exhausted to proceed further. The thoughts did, with reluctance, disappear and, clear-headed, I was soon able to form sane, rational thoughts. From my lips came a grin and a slight, indistinct chuckle, followed seconds afterwards by an unstoppable, wailing laugh.
Surely the fact that I was able to find humour in my violent behaviour--and in remembrance of the incomparable mental pain--is enough to prove my competency, correct? I believe the fact that I was able to overcome such atrocities in such a short period of time is an outstanding achievement, and is perhaps evidence to the enlightenment of the possibility that I have not at all a weary mind, but indeed a far superior one.
I sit here in the dormitory now. I will say again that I have taken necessary precautions, and I have locked the door. But I can hear the clock. I can here it ticking still, despite this! Certainly it seems a sensible action would be to destroy the clock, yet I know better than that; time is not borne of the essence of physics, but quite the opposite.
Hesitantly, I look at the clock. It is well past midnight...
The End