Fal-tio -C

A woman's scream from a television woke me up. My whole body felt heavy, exhausted. The couch I'd been sleeping on was hard as a brick, and a dull ache throbbed in the small of my back. From a nearby room, probably the kitchen, I could hear the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of knife work.

My head pulsed with a vicious, splitting pain. I clutched it with both hands, a reflexive gesture to keep it from popping right off my shoulders. An EMP… a reaction like that… who was this necromancer who knew how to overload raw Ventium?

Now that I thought about it, where was I, exactly? Ventia, for sure, but… I looked down at my hands. They were unhurt, the skin smooth and unbroken. But the radiation, the bolts that had torn through them…

I was in a dream.

God, dammit! I thought I was done with these. I thought I was done with my father.

I forced myself to look around. The apartment was modest, almost suffocatingly so. The walls were a pale, sun-faded yellow, covered in framed pictures of landscapes and smiling, unfamiliar families. The furniture was dark, heavy wood, polished to a dull sheen. A worn, patterned rug covered most of the terracotta tile floor. On a small table by the window sat a ceramic vase in the shape of a swan, its neck arched gracefully. Beyond it, I could see a small, closed door—a dispensa, a food pantry. A thin, dark red line of liquid seeped from underneath it, a stark, ugly stain against the clean floor.

Wait. A swan?

My heart hammered against my ribs. I rose from the couch, my legs trembling, and picked up the vase. It was cheap, the kind of thing you win at a fair. I could see small dents and imperfections in the glaze from a sloppy fabrication process.

But I remembered it. I bought it for her as a gift. This… this was my wife's apartment. 

I raised and with trembled steps picked up the vase. It was a pretty cheap piece of work and I could see small dents and imperfection from the fabrication.

But I remember it. This… this is my wife's apartment.

My heart skipped a beat. Why was I so anxious? I'd killed her before. It would be quick.

I tightened my hand into a fist, but a tremor ran through my arm, betraying my resolve. I'd already finished business with my father. It was her turn, right? That was the deal.

But this wasn't real. I hadn't come to our old home physically. I was a ghost in a memory. What was I supposed to do? My mind was a chaotic jumble of thoughts.

"Dinner's ready," a soft voice called from the kitchen. Her voice. It wasn't angry or afraid. Just… normal.

Whatever. I decided to just see what happened. I took three steps towards the kitchen door before pushing it open.

I was met with the overpowering smell of stewed peppers. My wife, dressed in casual clothes I vaguely recognized, had cooked peperonata. She stood by the stove, a picture of domestic tranquility. Nothing seemed out of place about her. Not her attitude, not her…

But what, exactly, was in place here? I could barely remember having dinners with her. Was this even my memory, or was it a fabrication she'd constructed for this little reunion?

In any case, I took a seat at the small table. She handed me a fork and a plate piled high with the stew. I started digging in. It was good, I had to admit. Surprisingly nostalgic.

"It's your favorite, remember?" She had a sweet, gentle smile on her face, but I could only shrug in response. Was I supposed to remember enjoying her meals? My memory of her was blood and screaming, not quiet dinners.

I should just get straight to it.

"Why am I here?"

Her face twitched, a tiny spasm under the serene mask, but her expression didn't change. I realized with a jolt that the smile was forced, painted on. "Well, you tell me," she replied, her voice smooth as glass. "I also wonder why we've met again."

"Am I dead?" For once, I genuinely didn't know. My real body had been in a very bad state, and I wasn't sure how much damage that Ventium EMP had truly done.

"Who knows… probably not," she said, that fake smile never wavering.

"So you do know." She picked up her own fork and tried to take a bite of the stew, but her mouth wouldn't open. Her jaw was locked shut by the force of her own smile.

"Why are you still torturing me like this?" her voice was strained, muffled by her clenched teeth. "Can't you just let me rest?"

"Even if this were my doing, I'm not exactly doing it consciously," I said, my own confusion mounting. "For one, I thought I was done with these dreams. I killed my father."

"It's not like this is the first time you've killed your father," she retorted, the words sharp despite her physical restraint. "Why did you think it would change anything?" She brought both hands up to her face, trying to physically pull her lips down, but they wouldn't budge.

"Well, my father isn't here," I pointed out, picking a large piece of pepper from my plate. I placed it on my tongue, savoring the flavor. It was… diluted. Faint. "If I was still hung up on him, he would have attacked me by now…. So, you say this is my favorite meal?"

"Can't you just let this end?" she pleaded, her whole body trembling now.

"I wanted it to end, too," I said, the words feeling hollow even to me.

"Liar!" she shrieked, throwing her fork at me. I caught it easily in my free hand. "At first, I thought I was the one punishing you… but no matter how much you were hurt, you just kept going. Over and over again. Your past victims came for you, they hurt you, and nothing happened. You just went on and killed more." She grabbed her face again, her nails digging into her own cheeks as she fought against the smile. "Why are you keeping me smiling!?" she screamed, the sound raw and full of a terror that had finally broken through the facade.

Then, with a resolve that was utterly alien, she picked up her steak knife. She didn't hesitate. With two quick, slicing motions, she cut through her own cheeks, carving a bloody, weeping frown where the smile had been forced upon her.

And I only watched. I didn't feel a thing. Not surprise, not horror, not even pity. Nothing.

"I thought... we thought we were punishing you," she said, her voice a wet, garbled mess. Blood dripped from her mangled face onto the table. She pointed the knife at me, her hand shaking. "Do you think being hurt in a dream relieves you of your crimes? That any of this justifies what you did?!"

What was she even talking about?

Seeing my blank expression, she slammed her hands on the table, again and again, the impacts echoing in the small kitchen. "Say something!" she screamed. In her frenzy, she brought her hand down one last time, accidentally driving the knife's point straight through her palm. A choked gasp of pain escaped her lips. She tore the blade out and threw it across the room where it clattered against the wall.

She clutched her head with both hands, the one now bleeding freely, and started to cry, her sobs ragged and desperate. "Why are you doing this to me?!"

"What, exactly, am I doing to you?" I asked, my voice calm, almost bored. "From where I'm sitting, you're the one hurting yourself." I gestured with my fork towards the blood she had splattered across the table and floor. "You give me too much praise if you think this is some grand scheme I've cooked up. You aren't even real."

"But I feel!" she screamed, her voice cracking. She lowered her hands, pressing the uninjured one against her chest as if to hold herself together. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I… feel. Why do I feel? I don't get it."

"You're asking the wrong question," I said, remaining perfectly still. "The real question is, why don't I feel?" I leaned forward slightly. "Why do you believe that I am capable of making you feel anything when I can't do it myself?"

She froze, the question hanging in the air between us. I took the opportunity to take a long, slow breath.

"Today, I saw my girlfriend. In the real world, it's been three days since we last saw each other. In another dream I just had, it felt like a month. Normally, when a man sees his lover after so long, he'd jump into her arms, maybe even cry with relief. He would enjoy the moment."

I paused, letting the silence stretch. "In my case, she was injured. Broken. A normal man would have cried, feeling her pain as if it were his own. Yet all I could feel was disgust because she was covered in dirt. Annoyance that I had to touch someone covered in grime and blood."

The mangled creature that used to be my wife leaned in, her ruined face now only a foot from mine. Her breath was sour.

"So I ask you again," I said, my voice low and even. "Why do you think a person as insensitive as that would be capable of forcing you to feel pain? For me, pain is just a memory, an abstract concept. Aren't you overestimating your own rationality?" In the first place she gives herself too much importance. I can't even remember her name.

"I…" she started, but the words died in her throat. She couldn't look me in the eye.

We stood there for a few seconds in a stalemate of her raw agony and my absolute emptiness. And then I remembered.

"Where is Emily?"

The question brought a sick, twisted smile to what was left of her face, a horrifying expression to master with both cheeks cut wide open. Without another word, she turned and walked towards the closed pantry door, the one with the blood seeping from underneath. She opened it, gesturing for me to follow.

She led me to the dispensa, the small pantry I'd noticed earlier. Taking a key from her pocket, she unlocked the door and swung it open, pointing inside as if revealing a grand spectacle.

And it was, in its own grotesque way. Emily was inside, folded into the small space. Her limbs had been cut almost all the way through at the joints, then crudely tied with rope to keep them attached. The air was thick with the coppery, stale smell of old blood; she must have been in there for days. Dark, discolored bruises ringed her eyes, a clear sign she hadn't been fed. Yet, somehow, she was still alive, her breathing shallow and ragged.

My wife stood there, her body language open and exposed, as if bracing for a violent outburst from me. But I didn't bother. I just looked from the mangled girl back to the mangled creature who was once my wife.

"You know," I said, my voice flat, "maybe you deserved your suffering."

She scoffed, a flicker of pride in her ruined face. "And you, for one, deserve to have your loved ones hurt."

I raised my eyebrows, genuinely confused. "Loved? You must be even dumber than I thought. Just a day ago, I abandoned this girl to go die with my father. I chose to kill myself."

"What?" she asked, the pride vanishing, replaced by pure surprise.

"You didn't know?" Now it was my turn to be surprised. "How conscious are you, really? If you're a memory strong enough to keep haunting me, you should know what I'm thinking…"

"What? No, I—"

Before she could finish the pathetic denial, I slapped her hard across the face with the back of my hand. A dry chuckle escaped me.

"Maybe you're right," I mused. "Maybe you are a prisoner. But not in my mind. Someone else is torturing you, putting you in these situations for their own amusement."

I didn't bother with Emily. What was there to help? She was barely conscious, her eyes glazed over. I wasn't even sure she recognized me standing there. This was a dream. None of it mattered.

I walked back to the hard couch, pulled it away from the wall, and felt behind it. Just as I remembered, my fingers found the hidden compartment I'd cut into the frame years ago. Inside was a pistol. A Beretta. I grabbed it and turned back to my wife.

"Do you think this changes anything?!" she growled, her voice a low, hateful rasp.

"No," I said calmly. "It doesn't."

I shot her twice in the chest. The first round slammed her backward. The second made her lose her balance, and she slid down the wall, leaving a wet, crimson smear behind her. She instinctively clutched at the wounds, but her expression made it clear she knew it was a useless gesture.

I glanced down at the gun in my hand and noticed something odd. It was a factory-new model, pristine and untouched. Strange. I would never use something so clean. It made me look like an amateur.

"You know," I said, my voice echoing in the quiet apartment, "I think you have this all wrong. The fact that your supposed torture repeats itself doesn't mean I'm the one causing it." I took a step closer to her dying form. "Weren't you religious? This could just be your purgatory." Heck, I can barely even be called a person.

"And?" she whispered weakly, life rapidly leaving her body.

"Maybe… and I mean this with all sincerity," I continued, "this whole thing isn't about me forgiving myself for killing you. Maybe it's about you accepting that you died and finally letting go of the hatred that came after."

"Y-you… are… delusional," she stammered, her voice slowing to a crawl. "I-in no way-y…"

Ugh. She was taking forever to die. I didn't let her finish.

"Yeah, maybe you're right," I said with a shrug. "Maybe I am just insane."

I raised the gun to my own temple and pulled the trigger, ending myself with a bang.-*-*-*-*-*-*-*