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Pathi is burying his victim. Behind a wall of brick and mortar and mud and concrete. He does not know how to build a wall. His victim is alive still. This imprisonment his final torture. In the morning this will all be a dream. I am convinced now. Any minute I will wake. Out of this nightmare. I’m not mad. I’m just stuck in a bad place and I need to get out. The body count is rising outside. Pathi is discovering that he is nearly indestructible here too. Dangerous. I feel more focused now. Better than I’ve felt in a while. Under the circumstances at least. I look for ways to get out. The first thought that came to mind was to kill myself. Then surely I’d wake up. But what if I didn’t ? Chicken. The second was to kill Pathi. But I won’t. He is as much me as he is himself. I sit by the window and try to think of a plan. I can hear cement being plastered on. I can hear Pathi talking to his victim. I can see the absurdity of my situation. Pathi does not need me anymore. It would matter little if I went away. It is I who need Pathi now. Without him, what do I have ?

Pathi comes sauntering into the room. A happy smile on his face. He tosses an object at me. It lands with a thud at my feet. “Just fell off,” he says. I look down. A hand withered away into nothing. His victim. Just fell off. This would be a good time to wake up.

I’m in a bad place and I don’t want to leave.

<>I walk the streets alone. Nighttime is my time. There’s a man I’m following. For no reason. Out the story and into life has left me without direction. My rudder is bent out of shape. Writer man is scared and loosing his head. I don’t see why. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do. Just waiting. I enjoy killing. I know that much and I pursue it. Seems enough for now. The man notices me. Quickens his pace. I quicken mine. He turns and stares at me. It gives me pause. I think maybe I should follow somebody else. He comes towards me and that option is taken away. He grabs hold of me and shoves me to the ground. Taken aback for a minute. So used to fear in my prey. A counter attack never even crossed my mind. I overpower him easily enough. He has made me bleed. More proof that I’m real and I’m here to stay. I should show my blood to the writer man. Maybe then he’ll believe in me. Even now he tries to convince himself that I’m a boogeyman. Made up in his head and still there. Uh uh. Made up in his head all right but outside it now. <>I take the man home. Unconscious. He weighs surprisingly little. Tie him down to a chair. All mine to do with as I please. He made me bleed. I cannot find anything to gag him with. I take a knife. I shove my hand down his mouth. I hold his tongue and I begin to cut. A quick slash to sever the tongue at the root. Cut off the tip and he’ll still talk. A quick slash isn’t much fun. I take the knife to him slowly. He knows I’m taking away his freedom of speech but he can’t do a thing about it. A brand new God is what I am. Thanks to the writer man. He sits in the other room. Without a clue. Quietly going mental. The man on the chair is unconscious now. Pain does that to you. His mouth is flowing crimson. Keep him alive. Keep him alive. He made me bleed.

The man Pathi got home is still screaming. Louder and louder. Three days now. Why doesn’t he just die ? Stop screaming you stupid fuck! Stop screaming. I get up. I cannot take this anymore. Pathi’s gone out. I go to his room. I’m going to ask him nice to stop screaming. If he doesn’t I’m going to kill him. To hell with everything else.

A figure hunched in a chair. His feet in a bowl of water. I wonder what that’s for. Lacerations on his chest. He straightens his head as he hears me come closer to him. He looks at me. Still screaming. He looks at me. He smiles at me. I can only stare back. I cannot imagine the pain this man has gone through. I only thought I knew what Pathi was capable of. I know nothing about him. His mouth is a bloody mess. He opens his mouth as if to say something. I can see a gaping hole. Emptiness where his tongue used to be. He has no tongue. Pathi’s taken away his tongue. How the hell does a man with no tongue scream ? He smiles at me. <>

I run back to my room. I cower in the shadows. This is Endgame. This is me going crazy . I can still hear the screaming. Its not coming from that poor sod. He cannot scream. The screams are inside my head. I curl myself into a tight ball. I’m slipping further and further down. I wish for insanity. Make the screaming stop. Please.

Scream

< style="font-family: arial;">Pathi’s gone for the night. He’ll be back in the morning. He killed three policemen last night. The martyrs’ families rioted and in the bargain more policemen were killed. A state of Chaos that had been brought into control. But chaos all the same. He’s managed to escape detection but he cannot hide forever. He will not hide forever. It’s only a matter of time before Pathi dances with chaos. I still don’t know how. It doesn’t really matter anymore. I fight for my sanity. I try to. Pathi is not real. I just made him up in a silly story. He scares me. I do not know his mind. I do not know anything anymore. Everything confuses me. I try to make sense of it all but fuck it man! It’s too fucking much. This is what I cling to. As long as I know that I’m all fucked up I’m sane. The minute I think this is all fine and dandy ? That’s when I’m insane.

Pathi came home last night with a woman. She was dead when he got her. I don’t know what he did with her. Pathi ignores me. I think I can escape now. But running and hiding was never an option. I sit here. Every day. Waiting. This is all going to reach flashpoint soon enough. I must be there for endgame.

Pathi has not gifted me anything else. A part of me is disappointed. He feeds me still and lets me have free reign of my house. Why am I thankful about it. My fucking house. His house too now. His house too.

Welcome to Endgame sold ten million copies in India. I’m sitting and chatting with Simi Garewal. How does she keep her clothes so spotless white ? Screams. I ride in a limousine wear Armani and smoke Havana. Screams. I sleep with the most beautiful women in India. I’m a fucking celebrity. Screams. Nothing drowns the screams coming from the next room. Not one of my million fantasies can block the screams. Pathi got him with him when he came in. He refuses to die. Just screams and screams and screams. How long can a man go on screaming ? For as long as it hurts I guess. Pathi is relentless. The man screams. I’m in the middle. Like a tomato between two slices of bread. I need help. I cannot do this on my own. Help.

The wig maker

< style="font-family: arial;">He walks the streets. Every night. By day he stays home and stares at me. That is all he does. He does not need to sleep. He smokes his cigarettes, drinks his Imperial Blue and stares at me. Every day. I try to sleep but I fail. I can only imagine what Pathi does every night. Yesterday he came home covered in blood. Drenched. I asked him if it was raining. He smiled. A smile that left me feeling cold and numb. I should have kept my mouth shut. He threw a bag across the table. “For you,” he said. It took me a while to figure my present out. It was a scalp. The skin still on it, the hair wet with blood. I’m not sure what I thought. “Why ?” I asked him. “ ‘Cause you’re going bald writer man.” The same dead smile on his face. There was nothing left to do but try it on.

< style="font-family: arial;">Pathi and I get along fine now. He does what he wants to. I sit in my corner. Pathi feeds me, brings me my booze and cigarettes and drugs. I cannot really complain. The wig has done wonders for my hairline. I preen in front of the mirror. Happy. Life would be perfect if not for the stench of dried blood and decaying skin on my head. Pathi is beginning to attract attention. A report in the newspaper about a man found scalped, his throat slit with a knife. I read dispassionately. I should be throwing up and feeling sick but nothing. Pathi walks in with the groceries. Blood on his clothes again. I do not ask him what he has done. I’ll read about it tomorrow. I take the bags from him and make myself an omlette. Nothing really shocks me anymore. A part of brain says none of this real. Another part begs me to kill him before its too late. I thought it was all ready too late. Still, can kill him. I think he’s waiting for me to try. I think that’s what this is all about. He’s waiting for me to type the magic words. Kill him. Now. I cannot. Just doesn’t feel right. He’s as much a part of me as I am a part of him. I’m stuck. Stalemate.

A blinding flash goes off in my head. I cannot see. I cannot open my eyes. I cannot. A huge neon sign suspended amongst nothing. Welcome to Endgame it says. Lights flashing like a cheap bar and restaurant. Welcome to Endgame. There is nothing left to do but laugh. And I laughed and I laughed and I laughed.

dancing with chaos

I sit wide awake at 3am. I should be sleeping but I can’t. I wrote him a face. I’m scared of dying. I asked him if he’d like to look like a cross between John Constantine and Wolverine. A wholly unremarkable face in the end. I don’t even remember it. He’s out there now. I read a short story like this once. Something…something Dr. Shade I think it was called. Pathi is real now. Right here. In my city. Its becoming easier and easier to think of this as a game. Easier and easier to start playing. I think I’m going crazy now. He’s still sane. Cold, hard, armed with a plan and dancing with chaos.

write me a face

I killed Pathi too soon. But then again, did I ? Kill him I mean ? It had started to suck no ? Like a vacuum cleaner. But I didn’t kill him. Left him in limbo. Ready to be shot by Baava. Smile for the camera dead man. The only decent thing in that bit was the title. I carry home quarter bottles of Romanov. A twenty pack of cigarettes will last me through the night. Pathi is just a figment of my imagination. I’m pretty sure of that. It all started as a fun little story I spun for my bloodthirsty little nephew. There is no Pathi. So who’s the fucker in the long black coat following me ? huh ? He’s gone when I turn around. He’s not around when I’m riding through town. But every time I walk home from the wine store, the cyber café, the grocery shop, he’s there. I can sense him like an insect on my neck. Flies away before I can crush it. I should kill him off. I should. So why don’t I ? I don’t know. Because I can’t. So now he’s following me. I don’t know how, I don’t know why. He’s fucking following me ! It was just a joke, it was just a joke, it was just a joke. Oh god I’m sorry.

Four times today. He makes no effort to conceal himself now. Its like he wants me to see him. He lets me see him. I know he’s there. Behind me, in front of me, brushing past my shoulder. He’s everywhere. I rush home every evening. I stay in a cell. Nothing can get in. Nothing can get out. I try my best to live normally. Still, the few people I meet regularly begin to remark on my nervousness. He’s every where. Every where. Why ? How ? I’m scared. I know he’s coming after me. I know I should have killed him. Not too late fool. Kill him. Now. Can’t.

I don’t go out anymore. It was like he was sitting on my shoulder. An evil malicious presence. not human. Not animal. He smells like nothing. I’m so scared. The doors are locked the windows boarded up. I do not switch on the lights. I live in darkness. I must plan a way out of this. But panic will not let me mind work. Beyond fear. Blind terror. I know everything he’s capable of. I know what he can do. This is not madness. He is.

I’m not crazy. Nope. What scares me the most. ? He’s not crazy either.

There is only one thing to do. Kill him. Now. I turn on the computer.

From behind me. A sandpaper cough. A voice. Rough and almost unintelligible. “You forgot something.” I turn around. For once the wheels on my chair make no sound. I look. He’s there. Right there. Not eight feet from me. Sitting on my bed. Legs crossed beneath him. Still in a long black coat. I cannot see his face. My mind has switched off. Images register but there is no feeling attached to it. Completely numb. I ask him, “ What did I forget ?.” His face comes out the shadows. Or what should be his face. There’s nothing there. Nothing at all. Empty space. Like Omega in Dr. Who And The Three Doctors. He bends slowly, a little towards me. Answers me. “ To write me a face, Mr. writer man. Write me a face.”

a canary yellow cage

I ride the streets in my canary yellow cage. Loud and scary at 1am. I drop a friend; I drive. The streets are empty. Completely fucking empty. Parked vehicles but there’s nothing moving on the roads. I come home. Stuck in the middle of bad voodoo. A cloud hung over me like stale cigarette smoke and powder from a snooker joint. Light a hundred cigarettes right now or my bad voodoo will rub off on you. I hurry to lock the gate. Come inside. Don’t wake anybody up. You do not want questions. Paranoia. Very powerful. I write as I think and most of what is say will be rubbish just as this is. I will delete all of this or maybe not. Maybe I’ll put it up on chronicles. Nobody reads that anymore. Hehehehehe… hundred cigarettes. What I meant was write without thinking. Thank you. Or maybe not.