Imagine your entire life has been a dream.
What do you wake up to? Anything's possible, but for me it was an office with white walls and grey ceilings and plywood floors, cubicle after cubicle of bored people working their desk jobs. Sounds lame, but it was a nightmare compared to the dream. In the dream, I was everyone's beloved police officer, never got promotions but it was alright, because I had friends and a family who were proud of me. I'd arrested a lot of criminals and the city liked me. I was a busy man.
But that was all a dream. Now I'm stuck in an office with nothing but time and nobody gives a crap about what I accomplish on my free time. Do I have free time? Of course I do. After work, I go home to my dog and watch some movies. That's right, I've got a dog. A cute little brown Yorkshire terrier, his name's Terry. Why's his name got to be Terry? I can't say that with a straight face.
The first thing I notice is that Terry's not running to greet me like he usually does. He's not even on my bed or in the kitchen. He seems to have disappeared. I searched for him, yelling his name for at least an hour, with no success. Maybe he's out hunting for a girlfriend. I sat down on the couch, had some apple pie and watched some shitty horror film from last decade's first half, got on my laptop and went surfing for some amateur porn. Jerked off, ate supper and went to bed.
I couldn't sleep. When I finally got up thanks to my frustration, a clot of fur caught my eye under the closet. It was Terry, and he was dead. All bloody and guts torn out, skin twisted and some of his insides eaten. I took him to a vet to find out what had killed him, and turned out it was a snake. Bit him in the tail, but that wasn't what turned his fragile little body inside-out. No, there were fingers stuck between his ribs, gnawed off as his last heroic act.
I took the fingers to the police station after the vet pulled them out and cleaned them of the viscera, and the nice lady at the desk told me they'd run them through. Heading home with that off my chest and anticipating the results tomorrow, or the day after, I got on my bed with my laptop and wanked to a homemade video of a blonde fingering herself on the couch.
Next morning's paper had her picture in it. She was found dead behind a fast food place not too far from my house, her chest cut open and stuffed full of hair and guts that weren't her own; hers were torn out and missing. I took a deep breath and went back to bed. Fuck work.
I woke up with a girl in my arms, cuddling her like a lover. A very pretty brunette, although her eyes were cold and her breath like a winter breeze, sad and full of pain. We held each other tight, whispered promises we couldn't keep. I reached for her hand but she pulled it back, shaking her head with a frown. Tears came out, both of us cried until our love was a charred pile of maggots on the ground. I took one of them by the tail and made her swallow it, impregnating her with the dead and withered flesh of the Earth.
We named our son Jack.
She laughed, repeatedly kicking me as I laid on the floor in a fetal position. My hands trembled and I looked up at her naked body, scars and bruises clear as the sky. I tried to grab her but my hands slid over her leg like buttered bullets. To my horror I saw that I had no fingers.
The wind was cold but the street was warm with my blood. I hoisted myself up in one powerful push. I had to see his face. If I didn't, then my life would have no meaning. Yes. It was him. I tried to scream his name, but there was no sound. He cut my throat and stabbed me, but that didn't kill me. What killed me was knowing that it was yours truly, and I had killed myself; the one who could stop the massacre was the one who committed it. He didn't know it was me. How could he, when I wasn't myself? My hair was light and my body was fragile, stained with the incestuous impurity of ouroboric masturbation throughout the years. I was ugly and he knew it.
I looked at the mutilated body, but I didn't vomit or moan like the other officers. This was definitely the infamous Whitechapel murderer's doing, but the victimology was way off. He killed prostitutes and this was definitely not one; She was from a wealthy family as her clothing was expensive and her appearance was strange in the way that an angel was to the mother of Jesus, striking beauty in an awe-inspiring way. Fear, almost. This girl didn't belong here, but I couldn't put my finger on what it was that was so unusual about her.
Then it occurred to me that I had no fingers.