It

It is cold. I am so very cold. I call home a space
between two cans of filth. Trash. Fops on one side and shit
on the other. My head rests against the can on my left.
s coldness is against my ear and it causes me to ache
after some time. The water from above, the heinous rain,
cascades down the brick behind me drenching me. I am so very
cold. A mix of rain and tear courses down the weary lines of
my dirty and once childish face. The dirt that has covered
my body for many months, once serving as a shield, is now
washed away exposing my pale skin to the torment of wet. The
alley is thin, like me, and strong and thus in contrast to
me. I look to one side and look in quiet agony and sickness
at the wealth outside of my home. If I could call it that
even. I see the carefully trimmed grass. So carefully
trimmed. Low to the ground. Shunted growth. Fiendish rows
of flowers. Drooping their broken heads from rain and life
in goodness. The rows of houses. Luxuriant, white, clean.
As if to defy the filth around them. To further the belief
that those housed in them are gods who may control the very
existence of those like myself. If their trash was cease. I
would cease. I live from their filth. Their wonderful
rubbish. I cry from joy and sustenance when i stumble upon
their waste in my frantic pawings for food. I can see the
voluptuous gold statuette in the center of the rich mans
park. There is a circle of walkway about this golden statue.
This monument to the fascistly wealthy. It is ringed with
white benches. An cruel halo. An ironic statement of their
angelic qualities. One might think that I would hate them
less as i am alive by that which they have no need for any
longer. But it is this which brings me hate myself and them
more and more daily. To know that i am tied to them. For
life i crawl to them. I make myself more hideously filthy by
the lake of their excrement by which i survive so that they
will give me more out of pity. It is by this which I live.
I dank cycle of pain and humiliation. I know they can see
me. They make no move to help me. And i make no move to
forgive them. I despise them. I would gladly cut out their
hideous tanned unworked throats and watch them choke in their
own blood. Staining their hideously clean streets. I would
drink their blood. I would let it hang on my lips and what i
did not swallow. I would spit back onto them that they might
to die i filth. Like i do not. I live cursed in filth. But
i have an existence. I am alive. Slave to their garbage
while they are slave to their possessions. This is why they
are no better than I. and I am certainly no better than
them. Their trees are neatly trimmed. Like their flowers,
broken. To show they world that they are gods even to the
plants. They must then make this rain to torment me. They
must laugh and cackle as they ring their fancy tables by the
window, by the fire, by the by. Mocking me. I can not see
them. They cannot see me. But we are aware of each other.
They can never be rid of me. As long as there is filth.
There is me. They more they rid, the longer I am sustained.
They longer they hold back their shit from me, they sooner
they choke on it. I am wet. They are dry. But it will make
no difference to either in the end. They will be wet in
hell. Drowning and burning at the same time. And I will be
at peace.

The window is fogged slightly as I near it to look out
upon the day. The gloom of which I must embark into. I take
the cup in both hands. It is warm and rimmed with gold. I
drink. The steam rising into my face, warming it, and the
fire of the coffee plummets to my gullet, where all of me is
warmed. The butler comes behind me. My coat in hand. It is
a fine coat. From far away. It is and expensive coat. I
hate my butler, for while he pretends to enjoy it, he does
not appreciate the honor i have given him of holding my coat.
None of them appreciate how I am keeping them alive. How I
must work to provide them with work. Nonetheless I raise my
arms and the butler takes a step closer and my arms fill the
sleeves of the coat. The coat is long and black. Nearly to
my ankles. Nearly to the tops of my leather black shoes,
their pointed toes gleaming in the firelight, freshly shined.
The coat has a hood. Some have taken to calling it a deaths
hood, for its supposed resemblance to that of the grim
reapers own cloak. I laugh silently to myself at their
piddling superstitions, to polite to laugh out loud. My
right hand extends for the umbrella that is not there. I
have caught the butler off guard. I smile as my back is
turned to him. It is a hard thing to catch a butler off
guard. All is silent when my fingers slide together in a
loud snapping sound that sounds like a whip. I can imagine
the butler
s cringe and I smile again. Almost instantly the
umbrella is in my hand. My heels click against the wood oak
floor as i stride to the floor. I notice a maid rush out of
the room to make a loop so the door will be opened for me.
She is late. I stand expectantly at the door as she scuttles
to open it. I will not be kept waiting bitch. And i push
her roughly aside as I exit. There is a break in the rain
and no need for my umbrella. I can see the golden goddess
statuette at the end of the street. Near the alley. The
filthy alley, that I have been trying for so many months to
have filled in. The water left of her bosom runs down her
belly to her golden thighs and off into the circle of
pavement where there is a pool of water with several leaves
from the trees. I almost think rain is good as it is water
which is cleansing, but then I see the filth that is washed
out of the cracks with the rain. I walk briskly down the
street. I am near the alley and I wish to get past it and
its beastliness. I am even with it now. I stop for a
moment. I know not why, only that I am compelled to stop. I
detect a movement in the shadows, a rustle of paper. As
something scuttles away from me. Or the light. My umbrella
at my side, I venture one step closer to the alley. I am
almost in it now. I can make out the outline of a small form
. A dark form. It is filthy here. Never having been in
this alley, or any alley for that matter, or any other place
so awfully filthy, i am thoroughly disgusted. There is
garbage all around. Some even from the fine houses of my own
street. It smells of urine and a deep staleness permeates
the air. Coming closer to the form, I notice it is a dirty,
filthy smelly boy. He wears a black cap. A tattered jacket.
A ripped shirt. Torn wino pants with a wet crotch that end
in toeless black boots. an empty bottle lies next to him.
He smells of alcohol. A wave of nausea washes over me. I
fight to keep from vomiting. Although it would only disgust
me and not add to the dankness of the alley.

Gotta dollar mister. Please mister. Only a dollar.
re a rich man mister. Please just a dollar. I
starving.
I am appalled that the cretin has enough nerve to talk
to me. Asking me for money to feed his alcohol addiction.
Yet I step closer to him. I look down and see the umbrella
rising up in the darkness. The boy creature does not notice
this movement. I take another step closer. By this time the
rain has started again. It pounds down on both of us.
Soaking him almost instantly and pouring off of the edge of
my treated hat. I squint to see him more clearly. The
umbrella is raised up to it
s full height in my hand now. In
a flurry of motion, i drop the umbrella onto the boys stomach
driving what little breath he has in him from him in a whoosh
of pain and fear and surprise and stench. He doubles over
and rolls to the side., Trying to scramble away. I hit him
again. In the back. He does not notice. He tries to get to
his feet, but I swing again and crush his nose. His hands
fly to his face as he utters a garbled scream as them blood
from his broken nose gushes down over his mouth. On the next
swing, the umbrella rids his mouth of his teeth and splits
his lip, sending more blood about the moldy alley floor. He
is against the wall now. I stop for a moment and look at him
trough the rain. The umbrella raised in my hand. He is
curled in a fetal position at the base of the wall, staring
at me through one eye, the other is swollen shut. A cut on
his temple drips blood slowly as do his lips. His hand is
cupped to his nose. He is crying. The tears mixing with the
blood on his cheeks and neck.

Please.
he whimpers.
I turn slightly with the umbrella still raised in the air. I
turn back to him, bringing the umbrella around into the side
of his head with a soft thudding noise. A wet noise, like a
vegetable being dropped from some height. His open eye
twisted back into his head and he rolled to one side. His
arms splayed out his head resting in a puddle. He did not
move. Taking a horrified step back, I turned to look to see
if anyone had witnessed my crime. There was no one.
Frantically I threw the bloody umbrella into a pile of boxes
and ran from the alley. Slowing to a walk as I reentered the
street. I turned back to the alley, looking for some sign of
movement. There was nothing. Nothing but rain. Lowering my
head against the rain. I turned away and continued on down
the street. The boy creature
s final cry ringing in my ears,
my heart pounding, a feeling of almost pleasure welling up in
my breast.

I am lying amidst the boxes, silent and warm, though
quite drunk. The sun shines, through a break in the clouds,
off the golden ladies chest and reflects into my alley. A
slight smile, sarcastic, rises to my chafed lips as I think
Perhaps today will be better.
Then, there is a quick wink in the gleam from the golden
lady, causing me to look up somewhat startled, though not yet
afraid. Through the haze of my drunkenness, I see a dark
figure pass through the light and into the darkness of my
home. My heart speeds up rapidly, and I spit my new mouthful
of drink onto the filthy pavement in surprise. Since no one
ever ventures this far into the alley, I can draw no
conclusion other than this is Death himself, come to bring me
peace and the booze of the divine. And then I am sad again,
for I see that it is but a rich man.

Has he come to take pity on me? To give me money to ease my
pain?
I wonder to myself. It would not hurt for me to ask, and I
do. He does not speak, but rather takes a step to the side.
He is in the shadows and I cannot see his face. He is tall.
Tall, gaunt, and dark. One hand is in his pocket. The other
ominously at his side. He takes a step closer. Since he has
no other reason to be here, other than to help me, I am
unwary and take another drink finishing off my bottle. I
feel a sudden calm over me, ny back pressed lazily against
the brick. My clothes are damp and stick to me like a second
skin. I look at the rich man, he is only a foot away from
me. He looks so tall. As if his head is in Heaven and hi
body dwells on Earth. A damned Titan. My eyes widen as I
see the umbrella swing around from behind his back and buries
itself in my stomach. My body reacts before I have time to
be consciously aware of the pain. I roll to the side.
Feebly attempting to get away. I feel so tired, so very very
tired. The pain crashes down on me like a tidal wave at the
exact instant of the rich man
s second blow to my face.
Screaming, I put my hand to my face, feeling the warmth,
realizing that I cannot hear my scream anymore. I manage to
rise to my knees and I frantically begin to crawl away, like
a frightened baby in a desperate attempt to escape abusive
parents. It appears as though the rich man is on all sides
of me know, his blows raining down constantly about my back,
legs, and unprotected head. A hollow rushing noise fills my
mind, growing louder and louder like a train. A great
pounding hits my brain as if to fight it. This pain is
greater than any pain I have ever known, and it blocks out
the pain induced by the rich man. I whisper pleas, but I do
not know who to whisper them to, The man will not stop until
I am dead and this pain now entering my soul must surely be
that of overwhelming death. The roaring noise is shaking my
body now. I convulse ever faster as a white light fills my
minds eye. Brighter and brighter louder and louder. Then
abruptly there is nothing. Nothing but darkness.

The rain began again and wet me rather harshly as I have
no umbrella. Abruptly I turn around and cross the park and
the street. I stop before the golden goddess statuette. She
is the only witness to my heinous deed. She swivels on her
pedestal chained to her by men and eyes me accusingly.
Thunder booms over head, lighting crashes, as if it means to
strike me down now. She bends down, lower and lower, her
shiny wet hands reaching out for me, a look of hate on her
face. I scream and duck down into a ball of fear. All I can
do is cry fearfully and await her heavy blows. Blows that
will break my bones one by one so that I may feel the pain of
the boy creature. I imagine her fists ripping into me and
tearing out my heart and holding it to the sky, and a final
bolt of lightning causing it to explode in a wild burst of
blood and fire. There is nothing. No blows, no pain, only
the wetness of my childish tears on my cheeks. I cautiously
raise my head and look at a patch of sunny sky and an unmoved
statuette, holding her head high, no where near my direction.
I leap to my feet and run for the safety of my home and
servants. Thinking frantically of an activity that will
divert my line of thought from that of guilt. Bursting into
the house, I find my staff unawares. The maids are chatting
and the butler sits in a soft chair smoking. I want to laugh
at his look of surprise as my bedraggled figure rushed into
the house, but I am too afraid. I storm up to him and slap
him, as if more violence will help me.
Fetch me clothes you lazy bastard.
I scream at him. The cigarette falls from his moist lips to
the plush carpet as he bustles from the room in search of the
goal which I have given him. I turn to find the maids lined
in front of me, their heads hung shamefully. One steps
forward with a cup of coffee, another for my wet coat and
hat. I am surprised that none comment on my lack of
umbrella. I turn and walk slowly and heavily up the stairs
toward my chamber, where I hope the butler has laid out my
fresh garments, and perhaps drawn a forgetful bath. I can
feel the hateful stares of the maids as they wait for me to
leave their sight, that they might speak in conspiratorial
tones of killing me in my sleep, though none of them will,
m quite sure. I enter the huge room that I call my own.
Two walls are lined with books to the ceiling. A door in the
middle of each. I have entered through the door in the right
wall. One wall is a huge window, with double glass doors
that lead to an immense balcony where I can look out upon the
town which I own and control. Though I am fortunately not
allowed a view of the alley as it is on the opposite side of
the house. The final wall is bare except for a door that
leads into my bathroom where I hear water running. There is
no sign of the butler, but my dry clothes are laid out on the
silken bed. Slowly I remove my damp clothes and
undergarments and enter the warm land of rich man
s water.
It is here that I am content to forget all that has happened.

Where am I? Where am I? Oh it is warm here. I am so
warm. So comfortable. But it is dark? Where am I?
You are safe. That is all you need to know. You are
finally safe.

Lately in the night, I am asleep in my down silken bed.
I am suddenly awake. I do not know why. There was no noise,
I am still deathly tired and my arms and side muscles ache
terribly. I notice that it is terribly cold in the room. I
detect a movement to the far side of the room, near the
window.

s that there?
Dammit, who
s there?
It is impossible to cover the tremor in my voice. Reaching
to the side of the bed, I grope for the lamp that I might
turn it up and flood the room with light. After much
scrabbling about, my trembling hands finally fall on the
lamp. Shuddering I turn it on and face whatever terror may
be awaiting me in the supposed safety of my own home. A
silent fearful pray reaches my lips and escapes but fails to
calm me. My heart pounds ever more rapidly. My forehead
leaks cold sweat. My eyes expand with a terror that is
unimaginable as my gaze falls upon the intruder in my room.
Near the window, there are two red chairs, Velvet red and so
very tall. I swear that before this moment, there where no
such chairs in my room. In one chair was the boy. The dead
boy creature, whose life had ended by hand. My smooth and
unworked hand. The second chair was empty. I stared
incredulously at both chairs and realized that the empty
chair frightened me more than the experience of seeing the
dead boy
s ghost, for the empty chair was projecting a huge
black human form on the wall with the original form of the
chair. I stared at the empty chair long and hard, there was
absolute silence in the room, trying to convince myself that
it was indeed empty, but as I looked harder at it, my eyes
dry from staring, I could see that it was shimmering as if
something not quite completely transparent was sitting in
front of it.

Do you fear the guilt for what you have done to me, or do
you fear what I will do to you in return?
Queried the boy. I could not speak. My mind raced for
excuses as to why the boy
s death was not my fault, but I
could find none. I looked into the boy
s dead eyes and I
could see that he knew this. A flicker drew my eyes to the
wall and I could see, from the strong light of the lamp, that
the mysterious apparition in the empty chair was now
standing.
You would be surprised by the after life, rich man. It is
all heaven, and hell is on Earth, and for those few who have
no hell on Earth, then one will be supplied for them. I have
come to give you your hell rich man. You are from this
moment forward condemned to immortal invisibility. You will
deprived of all human and inhuman interaction. You will
deprived of love, hate, and all other feeling given from one
human to another. Finally you are deprived of your ability
to die. Your ability to be at peace with yourself and the
world. I condemn you to everlasting solitude, as I once had,
but I have found peace and you shall never.
I screamed once in pain, pain from which there is no end, the
pain of beyond death, and then my existence vanished. My
clothes lay in a pile on the bed and I stood naked and
shivering before my demise and it was smiling.

"Good
bye you sick fuck."
Said I to the boy, and then he, the shadow, and the chairs
where gone to wherever or whoever they had come from, and I
was left tasting the bitterness of my final words, and the
boy's lack of reply. Now I am alone. I am kneeling on the
floor in the center of the room weeping like a baby. My
butler had heard my last scream in his world and had come
rushing into the room, only to find an empty room and a pile
of clothes.
"Good God." he whispered. "the master has been taken."
A maid had come in behind him, and was watching the terrible
scene of the butler looking frantically for me. At his
words, she quickly crossed herself and fled the room. The
butler following shortly. I knew I would never see either of
them again.

I had no idea where I was. The voice, deep and rich,
had been soothing me for some time now. Except I had no
perception of time. I could not tell if the voice had been
talking for years or seconds. I could not see it, nor could
I see myself. The voice was retelling my life to me, and
then it was listening to my response. I felt something from
it whe I described hate. I spoke more of the hate towards me
and the hate I felt back. I spoke of my killers hate, and my
hate for him. This seemed to intrigue the voice and it asked
if I should like to see my killer again.
"Perhaps we could take some kind of revenge on it." it said.
"Yes perhaps we could." cam my somewhat eager reply.
Next I knew, the darkness had lifted somewhat, and I was
aware of being in a room. I knew instantly that this was the
room of the hideous rich man. That the voice had brought me
here, to bring upon the man, the pain he had brought upon me.
We sat in two plush red chairs, that faced the inerior of the
room, giving us a view of the rich man's bed and his
slumbering form beneath. I leaned forward so that I could
smell his richness. His foppishness. His sweat on the
bedclothes. As I did so, my foot dragged ever so slightly on
the floor making a scraping sound, and giving proof to my
belief that I was flesh again, at least for a short while.
The man heard the noise and sat up. His voice dripped of
terror as he spoke.
s that there?
Dammit, who
s there?
I did not reply, nor did the voice, which sat in another
chair beside me. I smiled as I heard him rustling about in
the darkness of the chamber, presumably for a light so he
could look upon whoever had entered and disturbed his
slumber. I was beginning to grow impatient when he finally
turned the light on. It was amusing and yet sad to view his
pathetic look of terror when he looked upon my familiar face
and what little bit of the voice that was visible. I turned
ot to look at the voice but could see little much more than a
shadow.

Do you fear the guilt for what you have done to me, or do
you fear what I will do to you in return?
I had decided
that it was time to speak.
He could do nothing but stare. He did not even attempt to
beg for his life. A silent tear ran down his rich face as he
began to realize that I was surely here for revenge. At this
moment, when I saw his sad expression, I knew what I must do
to him. And thus I said.
You would be surprised by the after life, rich man. It is
all heaven, and hell is on Earth, and for those few who have
no hell on Earth, then one will be supplied for them. I have
come to give you your hell rich man. You are from this
moment forward condemned to immortal invisibility. You will
deprived of all human and inhuman interaction. You will
deprived of love, hate, and all other feeling given from one
human to another. Finally you are deprived of your ability
to die. Your ability to be at peace with yourself and the
world. I condemn you to everlasting solitude, as I once had,
but I have found peace and you shall never.
The man could do nothing but shriek and moan with pain and
terror. This was an action that struck the voice as rather
amusing for it began to chuckle under its breath. The man
moaned one last time and raised her tearstreaked eyes to meet
mine.
"Good bye you sick fuck." said the man, and then he vanished
before my eyes.
His final scream was cut off as his sentence of solitude
began. I could only smile as I watched his end and the voice
returned me to the world of the dead. The world of the dead
is a hideously beautiful place. Hell is the world of the
rich man's. Living dead and alone forever. Heaven is my
world, a world at peace with itself.