The Final Post

Sometimes, you think you have more time to make something, more time to try and complete that puzzle you can't seem to find the last piece for. But often, time runs out and it kind of sucks. Like really bad, but at the same time, you have to be willing to understand some pieces are meant to never be found, and some things are never meant to be had for someone. So without any more delay, I would like to introduce a story I have been thinking about for some time.

There he was, the man with no name, everyone knew him, but you could never remember him, his face seemed to vanish when you weren't looking at him, as if nothing was ever there. But he always remembered everyone, whether it was Susan with her 3 kids and "unfortunately the fourth" or Donald with his uncle who payed for everything in Pools of gold coins. He saw faces, many times, but they never seemed to see him more than once, they always seemed to restart everyday unknowing of what or who he was, it hurt him, and he turned into a darker abyss. He turned to depression, he faded from the town he always walked, just like he had from the people's minds. He turned to self harm, and he enjoyed the feeling of blood coming from his body, because the blood knew him, the blood made him remember he was in this world, and he knew that all things were there too. But it became useless as he continued spiraling downward, seeking deeper ways to appease his hatred. He turned to killing, not normal killing though. He turned to killing criminals, only those who had hurt someone else. He killed them, not out of justice, but because he felt like he had obtained the power and essence of all they had killed, all their evil, all the unhappiness.

The man turned into a shadow, a wisp, he had targets, but no one could ever target him, a man no one could remember seeing. But one day, the man killed someone, and his son watched, and the son grew up, somehow being different, because the son always remembered the man who killed his father. One day the boy saw the man, and he grabbed him and took him home, he tortured the bastard, the man who killed his father, he wanted to watch him die 50 deaths. The man began to laugh the more brutal the torture got, and the boy pulled out a blade and put it to his throat, and asked him, "Why do you think you can enjoy anything? Why won't you just suffer already?" The man broke free one hand to lower the blade and look at the boy in his eyes, and replied, "Because I already know what I do before I do it, everything steps before me, but nothing ever remembers, but you remembered, you came after me, and it made me happy, because if I die, I know you will remember who you killed and why, and that gives me piece". The boy slit the man's throat and left him to bleed out for hours, but the man was smiling always, always so at peace. Always the man felt like, he would be remembered.