Every single day.
Every single day it's the same.
Never did anything change, this was just the way of the world.
"Mr. Moran, tell me why you keep coming here?" the therapist's voice buzzed in and out of my consciousness. As I lay there, I felt dizzy. What point was there in focusing? My finger twitched for the trigger of a phantom gun, my teeth gritting against a cigar that wasn't there. "Mr. Moran, please try to pay attention."
"I'm paying attention," I growled in my low gravel voice. She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between her forefinger and thumb. A clipboard sat idly in her lap, unused. Those were the first words I had spoken today. I expected that to be it, too.
"Mr. Moran," she paused. "Sebastian, please, if you want me to help, you have to tell me what the problem is."
My vision blurred and faded back to black, colors swirling in my head. I was sick, sick and tired of what my life's become. In my mind, bang! Reload. Repeat. The taste of grime and dirt. That was what living is. Not this.
Then I heard it. The click of the barrel of a pistol.
"Don't move," a new voice purred. I cracked one eye back open to see the therapist still, sweat running down her face. Behind her was a man, not very tall, but rather good looking. His hair was slicked back and his eyebrows looked drawn on. He stood with an air of importance, taunting me silently with some unspoken secret. This man was a king. No, he was more than that. He struck something deep inside me. He wasn't an ordinary king among men. No, not ordinary in the slightest. Inside his shadow was a beast waiting for a worthy opponent to show up. He wouldn't just kill you. He would devour you. He was king of the monsters.
He grinned when he noticed me watching. "Now, you're going to tell me a name. Don't stutter. I need the therapist who tended to John Watson."
She choked out a name, but all my senses were focused on the man. Every fiber of my being told me to run, except my heart. It pounded harder in my chest, but didn't issue a command. "Boring," he whispered suddenly.
His finger pressed down on the trigger and I let out a small involuntary sound of yearning when he blew her brains out. She fell forward lifeless, blood oozing from her head. An undefined craving hit me suddenly. I missed death. How I missed death working mere meters away from me. Never did I expect death to come back to me as such a sharp dresser. He walked over to me and bent down so our faces were centimeters apart. I held my breath, wondering if he could hear what I was thinking. He ran a pale finger along the scar under my eye, causing me to shiver slightly. He slipped a business card into my coat pocket.
"Who are you?" I managed to get the words out, but they weren't demanding. They were, if nothing else, in awe. I knew who he was. King of the monsters, a physical form of death. Perhaps this was the one that would finally get me. He bit his lip and brought his finger up to his mouth.
"Shh, tiger, curiosity killed the cat."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single cigarette, taking my significantly larger hand and slipping it inside. His touch was cold, nearly lifeless, like some sort of snake. Clearly he didn't smoke if he only had one. Was he expecting to meet me? And with that, he walked off. I sat up, cigarette in hand, business card in pocket. A dead woman was on the floor, still spreading her scarlet insides. I fumbled a little and got out a lighter that I had kept, even though I supposedly quit. I set the cigarette on my bottom lip, letting it burn a bit before clicking off the lighter. Click. Like the sound of that pistol. I took a drag, closing my eyes in thought.
I've been so bored. So antsy. But here's a chance. Opportunity just walked in and handed me a smoke, and what was I doing about it? I sat there, looking like a fool. I made up my mind quickly.
I would find that king of monsters, against all the sane judgement I have left. And he'll show me how to live again.