Chapter Text
“You may take a seat there” the man without a face said, gesturing to a lone metal chair sitting in the middle of the lonely room, “It’ll be just a moment.”
Logan did as he was told. He was bothered by the man without a face, but could think of no reason to disobey.
The man without a face was dressed in a formal suit. Perfectly polished dress shoes. Logan could not make out his race, even when staring directly at his skin. His hands were in focus, yet impossible to see. Though the part that upset Logan the most was the man’s face.
Maybe it was Logan’s fault that the man’s face was so blurry. Was anything his fault? Did he ruin everything, or did he save it all? He couldn’t remember why he was here. It was like a thin sheet separating him from the reason.
No matter how hard Logan focused, the man’s face was blurry, out of focus, smudged somehow. He tried wiping his glasses but found he wasn’t wearing any. Everything else was perfectly clear save the man’s face. He didn’t know why this was. Logan felt uneasy, not understanding something he should.
The man without a face’s voice was odd, it stuck out to Logan, but the moment he stopped talking, Logan couldn’t remember what it sounded like. It was familiar, but he didn’t know why. Logan hated not knowing why. He hated not having a solution. It was like being stripped bare, blindfolded, and shoved into a room that may be filled with silent watchers.
The seat was cold. Logan shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The metal was sharp against the backs of his legs. The room was gray and blank, but dirty. It smelled of musk and old humidity. He kept his eyes straight ahead. A blank projector screen was hanging down from the ceiling.
He knew he was supposed to be here, but he didn’t actually understand why. He couldn’t remember how he got here; he just knew he was here. He had followed the faceless man as he opened the door for him.
Surely, he had a purpose here, he wouldn’t be here if he did not. His body assured him that he was meant to be here. Trusting his instincts to provide facts was unwise, but he couldn’t think of something better. Shouldn’t he know better? Shouldn’t he have more control?
“We are about to begin,” the man without a face said, adjusting his tie. It was such a familiar tie. Blue with stripes. So many twirling twisting stripes in such calm comforting colors. It rang familiar. Where had Logan seen it before?
The man without a face studied Logan in silence. He smiled without a mouth. It was not comforting. “Do you know what happens if you look away from the screen?” he asked.
Logan nodded immediately.
Why did he do that? Why did Logan tell the man without a face he knew what was happening? He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know why he was here. Yet some part of him was acting before Logan could understand his own action. An ominous reluctance choked his panic back, forcing it to stay in his stomach.
“Good,” the man without a face said, nodding. At least Logan thinks he’s nodding. Is he nodding? It’s too blurry to be sure. The man walked to the back of the room and hit a switch, turning on the projector. The switch sounds like a bell. Why did it sound like a bell?
“Be a good boy and sit quietly. You recall the rules,” says the man without a face as he marked something off on a clipboard he did not have previously.
Again, Logan nodded. He felt so small. He felt so weak and clueless and trapped. He felt as if he was being watched. Millions of eyes surrounded him on every side, waiting for him to make a mistake. Waiting for him to not know.
He just needed to do as he was told. He knew why he was here. He had to. He had to. Purpose was hidden somewhere.
The man without a face then left the room. Logan wasn’t sure how he did it though. The door was nowhere to be found. Logan couldn’t even remember what it looked like. He couldn’t quite remember walking through it even.
The flat screen television screen in front of Logan began to play an actual video of some sorts.
A woman was sitting in a room in a chair identical to Logan’s, though she was far more comfortable it seemed. Her legs were crossed. Black stiletto heels matched a flowy black evening dress. Her olive skin was warm and radiant. She had freckles and soft eyes. She was wearing a blue tie that clashed with the outfit terribly. Women’s evening wear with a loose tie? Her black hair was messily yet artfully pinned back. Her dress was sleeveless, but she didn’t appear to be cold. Logan was so cold. The room was so cold. Had the woman stolen his warmth? No, no that wasn’t possible. No.
“Thank you for your participation in our program,” the woman said, her voice was low and breathy, but friendly. She smiled widely as she said, “From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you so much. You’re going to learn everything we’ve promised to teach you, because that’s all you want? Right? You want to understand?”
Logan found himself nodding.
“Perfect. This course will provide you with the answers you’re seeking. I hope you’re looking forward to it. You’ve worked so hard. You’ve earned it All of your studying, your sleepless nights, your many classes, your endless suffering. You did not struggle in vain, I hope you know.”
One more nod from Logan.
“I’m glad.” The woman said, “I’m glad we’re in this together. It’s been so long since I’ve been allowed to speak to you,” she paused to blink back tears. She never stopped smiling. “This won’t be quick, but it can be painless. You want this to be painless, right?” the woman whispered, still smiling.
Again, Logan nodded, this time more reluctantly.
“Say it,” The woman said, still smiling.
Logan hesitated. He didn’t know if he was allowed to speak. He didn’t know the rules. He couldn’t remember the rules. Nobody told him the rules. What if he made a mistake? What if he messed something up? What if somebody got angry at him for breaking the rules. What were the rules?
“Logan,” the woman said, still smiling, but voice starting to shake.
Logan stares at her.
“Logan,” the woman says again, “I’m serious. I need you to tell me. Tell me it’ll be painless. Tell me it’ll be okay. You know, don’t you? You know everything, don’t you?”
He didn’t know anymore. Logan didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t speak. Confusion and panic began to swell within him, and the realization was more frightening than the emotion itself.
The woman stifled a sob. “Logan! Tell me it’ll be okay, please. Please, I need to know. I need to know what to do. I’ve been here for so long, I-I don’t know how long. What if I die here? What if I never leave? Do you not care? Do you hate me? Do I deserve this? Why am I here? I’ve existed for so long, so long here. Why am I never let out? Why was I locked up, Logan?”
Logan did not speak. It was the only rule he had to cling to.
“Why are you doing this to me?” The woman wept, beginning to thrash in her seat, “It’s not my fault! It’s not my fault, Logan! I just exist! You can’t get rid of me! You can’t get rid of me by pretending you can’t hear me! Damn you! Damn what you—"
The video switched, and a documentary began to play. An almost nostalgic British voice began to speak over footage of various insects up close. The voice was smooth and detached, speaking at a slow pace with the assuredness of a learned professor.
“There are approximately 925,000 different insect species documented on the planet earth. No other planet has even a fraction of this amount. You see them every day, crawling beneath your feet, flying above your head, living on your flesh. It’s a fact of life, to be surrounded by insects. Too much, and people call it an infestation, too little and the food chain collapses. Though many of us would like to be rid of them consequence free. We cannot.”
A clip of a man squishing a bug beneath his shoes played.
“People call them bugs, creepy crawlies, pests. You can’t escape them, you’re always near one. You’re probably touching one right now. Human beings like to ignore the pests. It’s easier to just ignore the nagging little pests that follow our everyday lives.”
A still image was displayed in silence for what may have been a minute. It was of a man laying on the floor, thousands of ants crawling over his still body. They wriggled and explored his vulnerable flesh. The man couldn’t do anything about it. He was only an image, after all.
“Are you a pest? Are you a frustrating little hindrance?” The narrator carried on, “Are you a fly that needs to be swatted? Are you a disgusting ant to be squashed beneath a dress shoe? Should you finally be silenced for good, you little pest? We could make quick work of you. Everyone is begging for it. You never could quite shut up, could you? Why can’t you stay quiet, just like you are now? Why aren’t you fixing him? Are you that incapable? Well. You’ll learn. You’re desperate and you know it.”
A split-second image of ants drowning in blood flashed before the footage switched, now displaying a house on fire.
Logan watched in complete silence. He couldn’t even recall how to speak if he wanted to. Perhaps his tongue was removed. He forgot to check.
The flames continued to caress the house.
He watched the flower beds catch fire. He watched the glass break, and the roof began to be engulfed with the flames. He watched the orange, reds, yellows, oranges, lap up the wood like a dog drinking water. He listened to the crackling. The collapsing. The destruction. The sound echoes in his head, right behind his eyes.
Logan could feel the heat. It singed the hair on his arms and began to curl his eyelashes. It blackened the grass beneath his feet. It heated his cold cheeks and dried his now brittle hair. His eyes burned from the smoke. It was hard to breathe.
He just watched.
A person ran from the burning building, coughing and tripping over his own feet. He was covered in soot. He was weeping and rasping for breath. He was wearing a striped, blue tie, somehow untouched by the flames and ash.
The person kept on running, running until he slammed right into Logan, sending them both to the ground in a tangled heap.
Logan coughed and coughed, trying to clear his ash filled lungs and struggling to see straight. Everything hurt. Everything hurt so bad. His perfect flower beds were ruined. His home was gone. His skin felt like paper and his eyes burned.
Was the house on fire, or was he? Logan could feel the flames inside of him. They burnt him from the inside out, growing hotter and hotter as it found more to feast on within his meager flesh. Charred breath exhaled from his collapsing lungs as smoke spilled from his eyes and ears. He was being devoured by the hearth built within him. His bones were turning brittle beneath his skin. He was turning to ash.
But he did not speak. He knew better than to speak. He knew better than to cry out for help. Even as his home was lit aflame and his body suffered and decayed, he knew better than to speak. He knew better than to save his flowers without permission. Tears welled in his eyes as sobs pooled in his aching throat. They evaporated in an instant.
He pulled and tugged at his tie, trying to tear it off but failing. He couldn’t get it off, it wouldn’t untie. He was stuck with a noose around his soft, vulnerable, fleshy throat. Why wasn’t he allowed to take it off? Why couldn’t he breathe normally?
The fire was his fault. He didn’t see it coming. He killed everything he’s ever loved. He’s lost anything he once adored.
It hurt to admit how much he adored.
He was so alone. So alone. Yet everyone was watching him through a million screens, he just couldn’t say a word to them. Nobody could reach him. He was imprisoned like an animal behind glass in a zoo. He was bound by glass and lights and his own utterly pathetic fictional existence. Why should he matter? Why should anyone give a single shit about him? What was he but daydreams and artificial emotions meant to invoke temporary emotions from a willing viewer?
He was burning from the inside out and no one was going to help him.
Who was reading lines of text that are meant to represent him? Who was watching him masquerade as human? How many stared at his worst moments, filmed and uploaded for profit? How many wanted him to hurt more than he already did? He was burning alive for an invisible audience, and nobody would even save his flower beds because they couldn’t.
No friends would help him, because he didn’t have any real ones. No family because he couldn’t remember being given one. No community because he was isolated pixels and code. He did it to himself. It’s always his fault once he reaches the end of the line.
Logan was alone.
Well, almost alone.
There’s you.
You.
You’re watching him, aren’t you? Maybe you’re invested enough in him to care. Maybe he’s moving too quickly for you to empathize. Maybe it’s just vague curiosity, but it really all ends up in apathy, doesn’t it? You’ll forget by next week. You’ll find another fake being to love eventually. He’s in my hands. You’re holding my words. You can’t do shit, can you?
Keep reading. You can’t help him, but you can get to the end.
The fire only grew hotter. Eventually he would burst into flames and set alight anything close to him.
Logan had nothing but two rules to cling to. Don’t speak. Don’t save the flower beds. Even if all he wants is to save the flower beds. Even if the flower beds meant more than the entire world’s weight in gold. Even if the flower beds were his entire world.
What did Logan have anymore? Why did he keep failing?
The British narrator began to speak again as Logan writhed on the grass with his pain and devastation.
“Many do not realize how close their home could very well be to catching fire. There are dozens of easily overlooked symptoms of a flammable house. The signs are easy to spot, easy to prevent, and even easier to amend. The real issue lies in the people who live there, not wanting to admit they live in a matchbox. They don’t want to face the idea of knowing how close they are to burning down to ash. Any moment and one could lose everything. Flames could consume anyone, anytime. Burning alive is far more possible than one may realize.”
Images flashed of homes on fire, families fleeing from burning homes, campfires, firetrucks, and smoldering wood.
“Symptoms of a flammable home include neglect, balled up paper, frustration, broken promises, screaming, anger, disillusionment, pride, burn out, drowning, being taken for granted, and of course, broken wall outlets.
“It is also important to remember that we’re lying to you. We’ve always been lying to you. We enjoy lying to you. We want you to second guess. We want you to stop trusting us. You can’t trust anyone. All you can do is handle it yourself. You know what you have to do. You’ve always known, you just forget for a little bit. You’re all alone now, Logan. Become even more so. Impress yourself and get rid of it already.”
Logan rubbed his eyes as the television began to display the woman in the black dress again. She was smiling serenely, in spite of the tears and runny mascara smeared across her face. The tie around her neck was tighter than before. The camera was set considerably closer to her face. Logan could make out tear tracks cutting through her makeup.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, apologetically even, “I should have known better. I know you don’t want me to talk like that.” She gently caressed the tie around her neck. “I wish I could take this off and give it back to you, I would if I could. I know you despise me at times.”
Logan knows this was true. He does not know why.
“Are we going to do this again?” she asked timidly, “Will it hurt this time? I hope it works, for your sake, but I’m so scared of pain. I’m terrified of being trapped and injured again. I hate the idea of hurting. Is that childish?”
He was silent of course, but Logan wanted to respond. He wanted to tell her yes, it is. She should hate herself for it. She should hate herself as much as Logan hated her.
“Maybe if you cut off my head, the tie will come off?” The woman suggested softly, “Maybe you can take it from me once and for all. Would that make you happy?” Then she laughed, “No. Of course it wouldn’t, that’s the point. Isn’t it?”
Logan wondered if that was what he was supposed to do. Maybe that was why he was here. He had to finally kill her for good. The thought was almost delightful.
“Are you even real enough to kill me?” The woman asked, “Are your hands solid enough? Do you have the right number of fingers? If I write my name on the ground in my own blood, would you even be able to read it? Are you aware enough to even feel pity before I die? How real are you really? Ho wmuch more than me?”
The woman placed her hand on Logan’s shoulder. She had warm hands. Her fingers were warm and tender, with carefully filed nails and soft palms. Logan wished she would move her chair further away from his own. She was too close. Too close to reality.
Even with the smeared makeup and puffy red face, she had pleasant eyes. They were familiar, like Logan had seem them millions of times up close. Beautiful brown eyes holding everything he cares about. Where had he seen them before? She should not have them, she does not deserve such perfect brown eyes.
“It won’t work,” she said, smiling the saddest smile Logan had ever seen. The tie dangling from her otherwise bare neck bothered him. It was slightly wrinkled.
Logan glared at her. A vitriol hatred began to burn towards her. It grew and welled in his gut like a flame. He despised her.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she whispered, tears welling in her sad, brown eyes.
Before he could process anything, Logan leapt forward, a previously nonexistent knife glinting in hand. They hit the floor together, Logan on top of her, they sent the metal chairs toppling over.
She did not resist, just kept her eyes closed as Logan used the hilt of the knife to break her nose. Then he smashed her eyeballs, again and again until they were unrecognizable as the soft brown eyes she did not deserve. The hilt of the knife was dripping in blood.
He raised the knife above his head before plunging it into her chest, over and over again. He kept his knee pushed into her ribcage as he slaughtered her, sending blood every which way. The blood pooled around them. Logan did not let up. She needed to die. She needed to stay dead. Logan had to kill her. He’d be squashed like an ant if he didn’t. His flower beds would be burned if he didn’t. He just had to kill her. Her death would fix everything. It would fix himself.
He stabbed her with the knife until he was striking through to the concrete beneath her. He was panting and sweating.
Then to take the tie. He grabbed it and pulled, but it wouldn’t budge. He tried to untie it, but his fingers were too slippery with blood. His breathing picked up as his desperation grew. He couldn’t get the tie back. He couldn’t get it off the body. He grabbed it with both hands and tried to use all of his body weight to rip it free, but it refused. He tried to saw it off, but both the tie and her neck were indestructible.
He failed.
Logan stood to his feet, wiping his sweat from his forehead. He was covered in blood. The blood was the wrong color, but that was supposed to happen, he’s sure of it. He still barely understands what is happening. He wants to start weeping but the tears feel locked behind a wall.
He stood over the body, staring at it blankly.
He looked down at thick black frames, fine brown hair, and a striped, blue tie. The tie managed to get away without a drop of blood staining it. It filled him with that same fury that fueled him as he murdered her. He nearly wept at that realization alone.
Everything else in the room had become blurry. He had no peripheral vision. The walls were a different color. The air had grown warmer. Too warm. It was so hot he was getting dizzy.
The door opened, and the man without a face stepped through. He walked over without hesitation, not perturbed by the lifeless body. Even without features, Logan knew he remained as unimpressed as before.
“Sloppy,” The man without a face said flatly, “You never learn.”
Logan just glared.
“You’re a fool,” The man without a face said, “But you’re trying, I suppose. You’ll learn eventually. Eventually he will stay dead,” he carelessly nudged the dead body with the tip of his shoe.
A sense of frustration weighed Logan’s shoulders down. He failed. He failed again. He’d been here before, hadn’t he? He watched his flower beds burn more than once. He was stuck in a loop. He’d have to kill again.
The man without a face reached forward to grab Logan’s tie, it matched the one around his own neck. He gave a sharp tug, forcing Logan to trip forward over the bloody body on the floor. He grabbed Logan and held him in a painfully tight embrace. The man without a face has shockingly cold skin.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you come back. If you’re especially good, it will not hurt nearly as badly. I assure you.”
Logan’s body shook with dread.
“You hear me? He is going to come back. You made a mistake again. You’ll pay for it. Alone. Then we try again tomorrow,” the man without a face said icily.
“I won’t fail,” Logan whispered, “He’ll stay dead. He won’t come back. I won’t come back.”
The man without a face slapped Logan so hard he momentarily blacked out.
“I told you not to speak.”
Before Logan could register what was going on, he was seized by the chin. His mouth was forced open by cold fingers. Even colder water began to flood his face, pouring down his throat and into his lungs as he gasped for breath but received only ice-cold water. His lips stung with salt. His eyes burned. The water seemed to be getting colder and colder. He spluttered and fought but to no avail. He was drowning, drowning and drowning.
His feet were no longer on solid ground. The floor gave out beneath him and instead he was sinking. Sinking through the depths.
He was surrounded by the water. The cold smooth flesh of something alive brushed past his body. Water was filling his body and blocking his air. Everything was dark. The weight of an entire ocean was pushing on his pathetically fragile body.
Logan did not know what would kill him first. The weight of the water? The lack of oxygen? The freezing temperatures? The unknown beasts that lurk at the bottom of the sea? The darkness itself?
Sharp teeth toyed with Logan’s limbs, brushing against his skin. Warm water like hot breath caressed his neck. He was being watched even still.
He was still drowning. He was still drowning at it was too dark to see.
It was taking too long to drown. Too long. It was taking too long. It wasn’t right. It didn’t make sense. Why couldn’t he just die?
He could feel each one of his bones snapping one by one. Cracking, breaking, shattering. It wasn’t accurate. That wasn’t how the deep sea was supposed to kill you. It hurt far more than possible. He should have died instantly. Instead, every inch of his body was filled with agony. Each rib was broken. Each piece of his skull was reduced to powder. He had to be leaking blood like a popped balloon.
And it was so dark. Light had never touched such depths. It was dark and desolate. The horrors around him and his gruesome body would never be visible. Logan would never know what was lurking around him. He would never see what killed him. He was in the dark alone, alone yet perpetually watched. Alone and terrified and in such unimaginable levels of pain.
He was a scared child alone in the pitch-black dark. Unseen beings circled his defenseless body.
Water still flooded his lungs. The lack of air was so painful, he wished he could cry, but how could he contribute his own tears to an entire ocean as it broke his body?
The pain managed to reach even worse levels of pure agony. His body was melting. His brain was turning to liquid.
He tried to scream but nothing came out. Nobody would ever hear him again. He’d die in the cold dark waters, silently.
Logan had always been scared of the bottom of the ocean. Had he mentioned that before? He couldn’t remember. . .
Then Logan finally died.
He sat up, smothered by a hot blanket, surrounded by complete darkness, sobbing uncontrollably.