He couldn't leave fast enough. His legs sped him along at such a rate that he was breathless by the time he reached the car. Garry felt chilled-it was only an art gallery, though. Despite Guertena being an acknowledged genius, and somewhat controversial, this exhibition hadn't displayed those pieces. What they had chosen had felt somewhat dull, if he was honest. Yet, no matter what he told himself, Garry couldn't turn around. He stared at his own reflection in the car window and felt in his pocket to get his keys. Except, there they were, dangling in the ignition. He instead pulled out his old buntane lighter. He tossed it up, caught it, and put it back.
His phone was in the car as well. Garry had been to enough art exhibitions to know that they didn't appreciate cell phones and photography. Now he wished he had just turned it off and left it in his pocket. Well, at least he didn't have to work today.
"There should be a phone in the gallery," he said aloud.
But instead of going there, he walked down the street to a cafe. All the way there, he felt eyes on his back. He turned his head slightly. There it was, the floor painting that was always the star of any Guertena exhibition. Its mouth was gaped wide, and the eyes rested solely on him. Garry shuddered again and quickened his pace to the cafe.
After calling the locksmith Garry ordered some tea and sat as far from the window as possible. He sipped at the tea and ordered a small bowl of creamed spinach soup, house special. As he waited for lunch, his mind wandered. He tried to remember the pieces he had seen besides the floor painting. He had walked both floors, he was sure of that. But he couldn't remember the titles or pictures. He frowned, clinking his spoon in the almost empty teacup. There had been a large painting; he was sure of that. He mouthed words to hiimself, trying to recall the title and bring the image to his mind.
Garry prided himself on a good memory, particularly with art. He let the spoon fall and closed his eyes. He leaned his head against his hands, foot tapping with impatience. He was thinking so hard that, when the waiter put the soup down in front of him, he jumped and had to suppress a scream. He chided himself when the waiter left. He was not a child, and it was only an art gallery, after all. He ate soup to reassure himself. He'd feel better when the gallery was several blocks behind him.
He was drowning in an ocean abyss. He clawed his way toward the surface, but was held in place by invisible hands. He didn't want to look down. He knew that, below, huge, red eyes were looking up at him. Wide red smiles stitched together underneath matted black hair wanted to swallow him whole. He tried swimming harder, but he was no athlete. He soon felt himself falling back down into the darkness, chirruping laughter increasing in volume-
Garry sat up gasping down air. The room was dark except for a crack of moonlight, so he turned on his bedside lamp and got up to make put the kettle on and perused his cabinet. He pulled a cup down, put in a tea bag of lemon flavored ginsing tea, decaffinated, into it, then began pace as he waited for the tea to whistle. Unfortunately, that gave him enough time to remember his nightmare. He went to his door and locked it. Normally, when he was home, he just kept the door unlocked, feeling that his bedroom door lock did well enough to protect him and his valuables He double checked the locks, flicking them to the unlocked position and back just to make sure.
When the tea kettle whistled, he poured the water into the cup and went back to his room, double checking the locks of his bedroom door before he sat down. He put the tea under his lamp and sat back down on the bed. Outside the wind whistled against some trees, causing them to scrape against the house, a sound not unlike the scraping of a painting frame against a tiled floor. He played some music on his phone. Garry sipped the tea with his eyes closed, allowing both it and the music to soothe him. When he yawned, he settled back under the blankets and turned off his light...
...He was walking down a set of stairs. On either side tall walls thick with red paint loomed far into shadow. He continued down until he came into a small, red room. He found a small key and let himself out to a wider hall. In a vase by the wall was a fully bloomed blue rose. He took it out.
"Know the weight of your own life."
He spun and faced a brown haired girl with tear filled eyes. She plucked the rose from between his fingers and held his lighter beneath it, the tip of the flame licking at the bottom of the stem. She dipped the flower stem down into the flame, and Garry could feel himself burning. He tried to grab either the rose or her hand, but she danced back, unsmiling. The flame continued to rise around the flower in unison to the smoke thet rose from his coat and body. He coughed and tried to wave it away, stumbling forward. He thought he could hear the girl crying.
He was choking now. He'd fallen on his hands and knees, and ash filled his mouth and blinded him. He felt the tips of her shoes on his fingerstips. He tried calling out. He tried calling out. He tried calling out. Again. Again. Again. And then he screamed for the final time.
Garry didn't even bother with the light. He groped his way out of bed and went into his bathroom to take a shower. He let himself soak, still feeling the heat of the flame on his skin. He rinsed his mouth and spat, repeatedly. He didn't stop until he started shivering from the cold of the water. He turned it off the faucet and leaned his head against the side of the shower breathing as deep as his fear would allow him.
He got out and dried himself off as thoroughly as possible. He went into his bedroom, leaving the door open so that he could have light without bothering with the light switch or the lamp. He blindly took clothes out of the closet and drawers. Once he was dressed he grabbed the coat he'd worn that day since the lighter was already in his pocket. He left the house, locking the front door behind him as he went.
Fortunately, the gas station wasn't far down the street. Garry had walked there out of old habit, not bothering with his car. Once there he bought a pack of cigarettes and a refill for his lighter since it wouldn't have enough fuel for what he needed. He then walked without picking a destination. Each cigarette was finished like it was a potato chip: the next one lit up before the previous ones could hit the ground.
He slowed down once he felt he'd walked far enough and just stood under a streetlight. He lit his penultimate cigarette and took his time. He'd forgotten how the action of smoking soothed him. The thick click of the lighter. The brightness of the flame as he lit the cigarette. The steady weight of the lighter in his free hand. He cleansed his lungs with abrasive smoke before breathing out slowly through his nose; he watched the patterns as light filtered through.
Out of the corner of his eye, Garry spotted a flash of movement. He looked up to see someone disappearing into darkness. He heard a scraping similar to wood over concrete. He realized that he didn't recognize the street he was on. He called out, but no one answered him. He checked his watch, but it had stopped ticking.
"C'mon, really?"
He shook his wrist and put the watch against his ear. When there was still no tick, he cursed and leaned against the telephone pole. He heard more scraping and turned toward the noise. Cracking in the night air was the Guerrtena exhibition banner, seemingly suspended on nothing. But the shape inside it was morphing. Slowly, the image of a blond girl with bright blue eyes took the monster's place. She turned toward him, eyes bright with hunger; she smiled to reveal a red mouth with long red teeth. A bell tolled deep and slow, so loud that it shook Garry's field of vision. He was unable to move.
"You could've waited," said a young voice.
Something tugged his coat, and the brown haired girl with red eyes stood before him. He reached to touch her, but she drew back. She took a palette knife out of her dress pocket. By now the girl from the banner had climbed down. Her hair hung in tangles, and bits of her flaked off like paper ash. The smaller girl lunged, piercing his heart whie her companion tackled him against the wall. He could hear and feel his bones cracking. The knife worked its way deeper into his chest. The blond girl grabbed him around his neck and began to choke him. Behind her, the girl with red eyes looked on, her expression incomprehensible. Garry blacked out-
-and woke up from where he had fallen asleep under the streetlight. The cigarette had burned itself out and fallen into a grate beside him. He rubbed the grit from his eyes before pushing himself into a standing position. The street was empty except for him. The pitched cries of the child echoed off buildings, but he couldn't see anyone. He picked a direction that seemed right. Eventually, he turned into an dead end alley and saw a painting hanging at the far end. It was so bright that, as he approached it, he didn't notice the alley growing darker. He tried to read the plaque under it: #### World. His mouth moved soundlessly as he tried read the word he couldn't recognize, but the meaning slid from his grasp no matter how far he reached.
"This way, Garry."
He turned around. The small girl from earlier stood there. Now she held a freshly picked red rose, her eyes wide and devoid of the maliciousness that had been there before. Garry felt his chest tighten and tears forming. He stepped toward the girl with his hands outstretched, and she smiled.
"That's right; I know the way out."
She turned and began walking into darkness back the way he had come. He hurried after her, not daring to speak. After a few minutes she disappeared. He was lost in the darkness. He groped forward along walls. Hands from nowhere pinched and grabbed, but, if he could only find her-he could apologize. What was her name? He'd call out to her.
If only he could remember her name. Yet, no matter what the syllables he spoke, they cracked like windows pelted by rocks. He began sobbing, his whole body shaking with the effort of it.
If he could only remember-if he could-if he-
A young lady sat at a cafe with her friends. She talked about how the other morning she had seen a young man groping along the walls of the local art gallery. He was mumbling incoherently and tears were running down his cheeks. She had walked up, intending to offer help. But, when he looked at her, she became frightened. His eyes were wide and wild, and his hair was in disarray.
"I don't remember!' He had grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.
Then he had fallen to his knees, pressed his head to the ground, and resumed sobbing ("I'm sorry! I'm so sorry-!"). He reached for her, and she ran.
"Didn't you call the police?" a friend asked her.
She shook her head.
"Don't worry about him," said someone else, snidely. "The world finds a way to take care of his type. It'll be easy to move on."