Black Tiled Concourse: Part Nine

My limbs remained frozen through the entire scene.  Over and over again the stranger’s mutilation of his own face played itself in my head, taunting me even after he melted to the black tiled floor.  I suppose it should have disturbed me, but instead I became bored with the repeated image.  Perhaps it was the lack of blood, or the man’s seeming disinterest in his own death . . . it’s a mystery that I never want solved.

The real torture, in actuality, came from my disabled movement.  It annoyed me that out of all the shoppers in the mall, none would rescue me from this state of inanimation . . . and yet I was grateful that no one came, for I did not wish for any of them to become involved.

With time, the place became desolate.  Even the women and their attacker had been moved without my noticing; I had payed too much attention to my own paralysis.  But it wasn’t long after their removal that I was freed, for a reason which I know not.  I started joyfully for the escalator, but still never reached it.  A deafening alarm sounded just steps before my destination, followed closely by cold hands lifting me into another reality.

Wake up, they whispered rudely.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Eight

I found him only a short distance away from the crime scene, stopped conveniently in front of the mall security office for a reason I could not decipher. It would have been so easy to catch him right there . . . but a twisted part of me wanted to watch and see how he would finish this. I hate being human.

Strangely, I no longer felt anything. No fear. No anxiety. I froze where I stood yet again; the murderer was within the reach of my arm, but I could not raise it sufficiently to touch him. He looked at me with now empty eyes, then straight ahead from where he stood. Finally he raised his weapon to his chin, and with the same grin he had shot me earlier, shoved it up into his head.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Seven

Unaware of their attacker’s approach, the women were given no opportunity to react. In one quick swipe, the mother lost the top third of her head; the daughter had only been scalped. It was a mistake that the girl had survived that strike, but the suited man took no heed and left her for dead. The victims did not fall, however; instead they remained as statues at the foot of the escalator. There was no blood, but I knew that the mother had already died. Only after this was I allowed to move again.

I immediately gave chase to the killer. The fact that I had nothing to fight or contain him with was no concern at this time; I could not let this man get away.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Six

The first I saw of him was the machete. Its round, rusted blade burst from the ferns at the end of the terrace, held tightly by its wily master. He moved swiftly from cover to victim, slowing just long enough in the middle to grin at me. I could finally see his eyes–his menacing, bloodshot eyes.

Every attempt I made at warning the women failed. Words were useless; not a sound escaped my mouth, no matter how loud I thought I shouted. Neither was there any doubt in my mind that my feet could move; I just wasn’t making any progress. In desperation I waved my arms, but to no avail.

I no longer had any choice but to watch the cruel deed.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Five

Little more than thirty feet were left between me and the end of the hall. Two escalators stood in the center of the intersection, guarded by a number of vending machines and benches. There was an elevator, too, with glass walls on all sides. It had just arrived on my floor, spitting out a mother and her daughter. The girl was beautiful . . . fifteen, maybe sixteen? Her strawberry blond hair fell in curls around her shoulders–a trait obviously gained from her mother, who looked only slightly older than her. The two of them dressed fashionably, which at this point came as no surprise to me. . . .

What was I thinking? This was no time to be lady watching! I had slowed down too much already; I didn’t need this. Yet something about these women captivated me . . . the same bond I felt before with the suited stranger, except this one to me was more of a fascination than a stressor. It wasn’t until after the girls turned their backs to me, however, that I sensed anything distinctly wrong.

I knew where he was hiding.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Four

Our race did not last long before an intersection with other halls snuck up on us. We both looked ahead at it; there was only so much time before the terrace ended and my rival would be forced to join me in the open. The thought both comforted and frightened me. My opponent knew this, and took advantage of a golden opportunity as I debated with myself as to which emotion I should accept. No sooner had he done so than I awoke from my confusion . . . but I was too late.

A quick moment of silent panic returned me to my original habit of watching the shoppers. They were only pawns . . . unknowing game pieces in a larger conflict. The queen hid somewhere in the mass of commoners, and I was in check. One wrong move, and . . . I didn’t want to think about it. My attention span had already lost me my adversary; I had little–if anything–left to lose.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Three

There–to the right! He looked like the rest, but I just knew. There was a certain feeling there that . . . I don’t know . . . I suppose one could call it a connection. I had seen this man before–-possibly even spoken with him–-but I remembered nothing else. Apparently he had also experienced that feeling, for he stayed on the terrace and glanced at me periodically as he walked. We kept the same pace and distance, our suspicions of each other growing with every step.

My attention became devoted to this man–-the way he walked; the way he eyed me over the ferns; his increasingly nervous attitude. He carried something, too . . . but what? It was impossible to tell from my angle. I had never before seen anyone wield a briefcase in such a manner as he did; therefore, that option left my consideration. However, the remaining mystery aroused a sort of unexplainable anxiety within me that would not settle down.

Black Tiled Concourse: Part Two

My course was a straight line. Shoppers parted like the Red Sea as I made my way to nowhere. Ambient ferns lined the hall, and the smell of food court delicacies wafted from terraces on either side. The people on their lunch breaks were all I could truly focus on . . . businessmen in brown suits with briefcases. They were all the same, and that’s what bothered me.

There came at length a movement from within the terrace to my right, and quickly several of these working men reentered the concourse where I was walking. The hurried expression of getting back to work was clear on their faces, but I could not see their eyes. Some wore thick glasses that glared, while others simply put a hand or other article in the way. One of these men is a killer, I thought. Come out, come out, wherever you are. . . .

Black Tiled Concourse: Part One

It would be a lie to say I could recall why I had been in the mall that day, or even how long I had been there. No money weighted my pockets, so I assumed this to be the end of a successful trip . . . yet my hands were empty, save for the sweat that had collected in my palms. I didn’t feel nervous, by any conscious means. But clearly my body knew better.

I thought it strange that no one else appeared to feel as I did; it was idiocy on their part, in my not-so-humble opinion. But for some reason I longed to be like the others, at least in my desire for dry palms. It is often said that ignorance is bliss . . . if this is true, then perhaps I would much rather know nothing and join my “fellow” mall patrons in their passivity. This certainly was a tempting thought as I wandered the black tiled concourse.