HORROR SHORT STORY: Lynching...a man tries to survive in the herd of modern society...
The phone alarm buzzed loudly, awakening Marshawn from his restless slumber. Groggily, he reached for his phone and slid the button across the screen, silencing its grating song. It was 7:30 AM. He had to be at work within an hour and a half. Marshawn stared at the ceiling, absently observing the subtle textures and attempting to gather the strength to rise from his bed. His body seemed to resist his efforts, it almost seemed impossible, an insurmountable task that he simply could not do. Quickly after these thoughts, he immediately had a visualization of the cascading effects of not showing up for work and could see only a bleak, horrid landscape: homelessness, starvation, destitution, a world that terrified him. Marshawn had been through these cycles before, nearly every morning now it seemed, and knew how to break from the spell. He willingly went towards oblivion, submerging deep into the ocean of suffering that was his existence. Instead of resisting, he accepted all the pain of assimilation into the grinding cogs of capitalism, swallowing his dignity and loyalty to the tenets he held dear to his heart. This was not him, but Marshawn could not exist in this world as just him. He needed to morph himself into someone unrecognizable, someone that could slip through social mechanisms like an eel through the mud. Marshawn had been camouflaging for so long, he scarcely knew who he was and had been making great efforts to not think about it. This was the fate of countless others, Marshawn was alike them in many ways. But those that resisted the pressures of money and possessions, those that kept their sacred flame alive, those were the ones that hid, unable to bring themselves to accept imprisonment but powerless to change their situation. Marshawn had never successfully found one of these Others and had given up the search years ago. Solitude was his fate, despite the flood of strangers he was immersed into the moment he stepped out his door. No one saw him. No one could hear him. Deaf and mute, Marshawn stumbled down his straight and narrow path, the only direction was forward. With an audible groan, Marshawn took his blanket off and sat up on the side of the bed. A headache was growing behind his right eye, right on time, as usual. Marshawn’s head hung low, he felt exhausted. Slowly, he forced himself to his feet and shuffled into his bathroom like a zombie. The reflection in the mirror was a sad one, his expression was dazed and vacant; there wasn’t a shred of individuality left. Marshawn went through the motions of hygiene, not because he desired it but as a form of blending into the masses. After finishing and getting dressed, Marshawn slung his laptop bag across his shoulder and walked through the kitchen on the way to the door. It was empty, Marshawn couldn’t remember the last time he had cooked a meal. The thought of eating occurred to him but Marshawn had no appetite. There was no joy in food for him, it all became a bland and mushy paste in the end anyways. He walked to the apartment complex’s parking lot and got in his car. It was cold today, his breath plumed outwards in the frigid air. He started up the car and drove towards the freeway, his workplace was only 20 miles away but with traffic, that trip became a full hour. He pulled up to the freeway and was met with lines of tightly packed cars. The cars moved together in a strange concert of glowing brake lights and headlights. One car would inch forward, creating a ripple effect that followed behind it. Marshawn creeped forward every minute or two and felt his mind beginning to dissolve. Thoughts and images would flash but he swallowed them instantly, not giving an inch of himself to his emotions. Control. He needed control to survive. He began to force his mind towards nonsense that beckoned from the ugliest side of himself: the side that wanted to become assimilated into the machine. Yes, he did have these thoughts within him as well. Marshawn would often wonder what it would be like to destroy his own ego in the name of conformity. Would he feel free? Would he feel warm in the light? Would he want more of it? It scared him that he truly did not know the answers to these questions. Marshawn resisted that train of ideas. Instead, he began to meditate on the glowing colors of traffic and observed absently. In this world, the greatest form of strength was surviving in society as an individual in disguise - which meant a violent subdual of one’s spark of life. Thus, Marshawn made sure there was no room in his mind for even the concept of time. He had no wish to witness his own dissolution. After an hour in traffic, Marshawn arrived at work and got on an elevator. He rode to the fifth floor and exited, walking into the office space. The room was quiet, most people had already arrived and were typing away at their computers. Some were on phones, speaking in professional and hushed voices. No one looked up when Marshawn entered. Sliding into his cubicle, Marshawn hung up his jacket and hung his bag on the back of his chair. The work day began. Marshawn moved through the day completely removed from himself. He merely watched himself put on his performance and act. He typed on his computer. He made phone calls. He went to the meeting where he went through an hour-long presentation on something he could not recall afterwards. He made himself tea in the break room and chatted with a coworker about something that infuriated him, which he had masked deftly. He had always hated that coworker, despite their dogged attempts to befriend him. He ate his lunch in his car, a plain ham and cheese sandwich and a bag of chips. He sat in his cubicle. He typed on his computer. He made phone calls. Then it was five pm and he drove home in the same hour-long traffic. He went home. The exact same routine for the past five years. Marshawn could scarcely believe the years that had slipped past him, like water through his hands. Even after all this time, Marshawn was still on repeat, wasting away his time with little regard. His life had very little meaning in this world. Marshawn settled on his couch and turned on the TV. People and noises immediately appeared and Marshawn watched the lights absently. He didn’t even know what was on, it just seemed preferable to hours in silence. Lately, he had been afflicted with insomnia and could barely get four hours of sleep most nights. After a long while of not thinking and watching the TV screen, Marshawn suddenly became irritated. The faces and voices on the screen were beginning to grate on his ears. He grabbed the remote and shut it off, plunging himself into utter darkness. Marshawn sat there. He had no energy to even flip on the lights. From some distant space in the uninhabited realms of thought, Marshawn could begin to feel tears on the verge of spilling out. No. He couldn’t. He begged himself to just leave him be and end the creeping fingers of abject depression. Why couldn’t he be like everyone else? Why was work so difficult for him? Hundreds of people sat in their cars on the same freeway as him every morning, going through the same motions, the same words, the same fates. So why was he the only one that felt like he was about to break? What was different about him? Suddenly, Marshawn was shocked when the TV screen turned on with a new blood-red color. Marshawn glanced at the remote control sitting on the other end of the couch. A flicker of interest flashed through his eyes as he observed with bewilderment. A woman’s lips, rouged and full, appeared in the center. She smiled, showing white and strong teeth. “Who are you?” Marshawn asked in a whisper. “I am Truth. That is what you desire, isn’t it? The Truth.” Marshawn attempted to swallow but his throat was too dry from remaining agape for so long. A trill of excitement was beginning to crackle within his nerves. “Yes, I want the Truth. Tell me it all, show it all to me, I want every bit of it. I want something beyond this world.” The woman’s lips stretched into an even wider grin, turning somewhat devilish and sinister. Marshawn frowned at the sight, but was compelled to listen. Anything to learn something new and real. The screen on the TV suddenly changed once more. The red screen and lips disappeared and was followed by a strange scene. A small child, gaunt and sunken, was sitting on the ground. Rubble and destroyed buildings surrounded him. In his hands was a limp rat, half-gnawed on. The child looked up at Marshawn with somber and wide eyes. He wiped flesh and blood from his lips. The screen changed and now showed the depths of a lake. In the darkness, a light reveals a woman chained to a cinder block. Her white dress billows in the water, her pregnant belly fully swollen and visible through the fabric. Her eyes are clouded and gazing into the abyss. The screen begins to stutter through different images and sounds, Marshawn could barely keep up with the speed of imagery and could only watch, spell-bound and mystified. He watched the schizophrenic storytelling and did not stop until he passed out. The alarm clock went off and Marshawn shot up, suddenly awake. His heartbeat slowed down as he realized where he was. Last night was a blur, and Marshawn wondered if it had been all a dream. Shaking off his stupor, Marshawn followed his morning routine, getting ready for work and driving to the office. He rode the elevator up, as usual, and entered the office. Marshawn casually looked around and stopped in his tracks. Anxiety and adrenaline began to pump through his veins, a cold sweat broke out across his palms, which were now balled into fists. Instinctively, he took a step back and fell against the wall. Every single person in the office had pig heads, live pig heads that moved with human expressions. Their beady, black, pig eyes blinked normally and they spoke just like a human. Soft pig noses and ears twitched around, but their bodies were completely human. Marshawn reflexively put his hands to his face and felt only his normal features. One of them, dressed in a blazer and skirt, approached with papers in her hands. “Marshawn, about these reports, are you sure you put in the right figures?” she asked. Marshawn stared, horrified, and did not know what to do. The woman snorted loudly and her tongue slopped out as she licked the air. In the face of this bestial creature, Marshawn felt pure terror. The elevator door behind him opened and he staggered backwards into it. Pressing the button furiously, Marshawn watched the doors close as the woman scratched at her ear and made a few pig-like grunts. Marshawn reached the first floor and sprinted through the building doors. When he emerged, his eyes widened with fear and disbelief. Everywhere around him was on fire. A scorching inferno blazed all around him, seemingly unending flames licked the air, distorting the pressure of air and sending gusts of hot wind up and down the streets. Countless pig-heads were strolling on the sidewalks, completely unfazed or unaware of the flames. Marshawn began to swelter in the unbearable heat, how could any of them breathe in all this? Marshawn sprinted down the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding the pig-heads, fleeing in terror and attempting to find some kind of normality. It was futile, though, there was nowhere for him to escape. To his mortification, the pig-heads began to look at him with interest. Heads began to turn and follow him as he ran, growing malicious and suspicious. Marshawn ran and ran until a strong hand grabbed his shoulder from behind and stopped him. “You. What’s wrong with your head?” the man said. The others were now stopped and began to gather around them. Marshawn began to panic, the situation was beginning to grow sinister. “I’m just different,” he said. The man chortled in an unpleasant way. “No one is different. That’s not how we all work. You need a pig-head, just like the rest of us,” he said, like a sour teacher chiding a precocious child. Marshawn’s expression turned dark. “I am different. I want my face, my real face. I will not become one of you,” Marshawn said, growing angry. The feeling came to him surprisingly naturally. Somehow, Marshawn could feel himself allowing for emotions to rise to the surface. Slowly and then furiously, he felt the soft patter of rain across scorched deserts. He did not know if he even had the words to describe just what he was feeling. Passion? Fury? Vitality? Life was returning to him and Marshawn took in a deep breath. He grabbed the man’s hand and cast it off from him. The man made a move to grab him but Marshawn pushed him away. The man’s pig snout quivered in anger and he let out three long snorts. “You fuck. You think you’re special? You think you matter? What can one different face do in a sea of pig-heads?” the man spat out bitterly. “I don’t know…” Marshawn began. “I don’t have an answer for you. I only know what I believe in. This face was a gift from Nature, it is a unique expression of sacred DNA that pulses in my every cell. I am born from a lineage of countless others before me. I will not betray my ancestors that fought to bring to me breath and blood. So, no matter the consequences, I’m keeping my face.” Marshawn turned slowly and faced everyone in the circle of pig-heads that had gathered around him. He looked at their pig eyes, their chomping mouths and angry bursts of air through their noses. He could feel their animosity, their disgust, their anger, but, more so, he could feel their fear. Something about Marshawn terrified them. Perhaps it was the sight of his face, reminding them of what they had lost, or never even had. To those that craved rules and laws, any deviation threatened everything. In order to maintain order, they needed to eliminate every outlying variable. Otherwise, one would be forced to realize the absolute black hole of nothing that inhabited their chests and, further, to admit that the true reason they clung to the mob mentality was because they were ashamed of themselves and guilty of a cardinal travesty - the travesty of lying to oneself. Marshawn blinked back tears. What was this sorry state of affairs? “And you all?” Marshawn shouted. “You all have something to say, don’t you? That’s why you came to watch, right? Come on, then! Let me hear it! Let me hear all of it! Will you be satisfied then?” Marshawn looked at all their faces with a fierce look in his eyes. They lit up in the flames and took on a golden-brown shade. “I will not submit, I will leave here and go back home. I will live my life, free and willfully. I have the right to live as I please.” Silence fell over the entire spectacle. The pig-heads were still and tense. Marshawn watched them all, feeling supremely proud of his words and proud of the courage he had to say them. Regardless of what might happen, Marshawn knew that, in this small way, he had accomplished something he had desired for himself since long ago. For that, a small flower had bloomed in his heart. He nearly eagerly waited for what they might say, perhaps he had reached them. Or maybe, at least, mollified them. Marshawn did not expect the following events. Someone threw a metal water bottle at Marshawn’s head. It hit him on the forehead and fell to the ground with a heavy clunk. Blood began to ooze down his forehead. Dazed, Marshawn rubbed at the wound and stared at the slick blood on his fingers. Everyone watched as the bottle rolled away for a pregnant moment. Before Marshawn could react, the entire crowd descended upon him. Hands and hands, feet and feet, fell down like a waterfall, nearly crushing him under the sheer pressure of their weight. Fists rained down on his head and face. Again and again, Marshawn’s nose became crushed and battered. He lost his ability to breathe through it. His right eye was swelling up, he could not see out of it. “Puh-leaz,” Marshawn attempted to speak, but his jaw was fractured and he found it difficult. It made no difference. The sound of the rabble was deafening and maddening, a terrible cacophony of curse words, slurs, insults, hatred that rose like a tidal wave upon him. But, even worse of all, was the laughter. Marshawn could hear it through the barrage, a good number of them were laughing in the background. Thrilled, they watched with pleasure. On the outer borders of the crowd, pig-heads were merely recording with their phones - relishing the idea of possessing this animalistic and violent moment. Tears began to stream from Marshawn’s eyes. Whether it was through pain or humiliation, Marshawn was not sure. A foot swung and cracked him in the teeth, sending a few flying and chipping another. Marshawn’s head kicked back like whiplash before another foot sent his face the other way. Others were using their feet to stomp on him, all over his stomach and torso. Several ribs had been broken while hairline fractures were forming in all the rest. Marshawn coughed up blood and struggled to remain conscious. The pain was awful. By god, the pain was even more than he could have imagined. Every breath was agonizing and he felt like he was on the verge of suffocating with each one. Skin was beginning to split under the onslaught and were excruciating when hit and torn further. Marshawn’s body was becoming distorted, almost unrecognizable, as his body attempted to survive the tempest of violence. Suddenly, they all stopped. Marshawn hacked up blood and spat it out. Another tooth fell out of his mouth. He took this moment to try and catch his breath and was grateful, believing they were finished with him. But the pig-heads merely allowed a heavily built man to emerge out of the crowd. His muscles bulged out of his clothes and he walked in a way that tried to present himself as an Alpha, his chest too far out, his legs planted too wide. Even from this distance, Marshawn could see that he was intentionally flexing. “This boy thinks he is special, that he doesn’t have to follow the rules. He wants to change things,” the muscle man said. A titter of giggles echoed through the crowd. “And what is the one rule we follow here?” he shouted, a hand cupped around his ear for a response. “We all have a job to do!” the crowd shouted in unison. “That’s right! And what do we do to the usurpers?” “Force them to submit!” the crowd shouted in unison. “And there we go, ladies and gentlemen!” The muscle man lifted Marshawn by the collar, pulling his limp body up with both hands. He shook him violently and Marshawn moaned in pain, feeling every motion through his damaged flesh. “You…pigs…” Marshawn forced out his bloody lips. “Fuck you.” The pig-heads laughed in chorus, resonating in a fever pitch of lunacy and delight. Marshawn’s lack of submission was beginning to disturb them. The muscle man pulled out a large blade from his pocket. Marshawn grimaced but could not resist. A tear slid down one cheek. Never had Marshawn felt so powerless. He watched as the blade was lifted to his cheek. The sharp edge sliced cleanly through the skin and made a deep cut. Marshawn cried out in pain and surreal revulsion of the sensation of flesh separating. The muscle man cut another line to form an X mark on his face. “This one is defective!” Blood flowed down his face and neck, he was wracked with suffering. He was deformed now. But that didn’t matter, he was most likely not going to survive this. There wasn’t a single soul in this crowd that would risk saving him now. The muscle man punched him in the face. His right orbital socket shattered and the eye was now completely useless. The large ring on the man’s fist had scraped his cheekbone and fractured it. Marshawn began to wonder just how much pain his body could endure before breaking. He attempted to raise his arms to defend himself but passed out and went limp. When Marshawn awoke, he immediately registered pain all over his body. He wheezed out and choked up some blood that dribbled down his throat. He could barely see out of his remaining left eye. His hands were bound behind him with rope, painfully tight and digging into his skin. He hissed when he attempted to move his wrists, suspecting they had been broken. A mass of pig-heads surrounded him and he was being led forward. He could not see where they were going and struggled to maintain the same pace. Battered and bruised, Marshawn could barely keep his head up. He was certain he had a concussion. Torches lit the way down the street and Marshawn’s heart dropped when he saw where they had arrived. A huge tree stood in a field of grass. Flames burst out from the body of the tree and across the grass, crackling loudly in the air. The crowd of pig-heads pushed him forward but would not step on the grass themselves. With derisive chortles, they watched eagerly for the performance that would soon follow. It pleased them greatly to see Marshawn demeaned in the most exquisite way possible. This was the final act. There would be nothing else after this. Marshawn stumbled onto the grass. A pig-head stood on top of the largest branch of the tree, holding a noose tied to it. Marshawn looked around him. It was a ghastly and eerie image. Rows and rows of pig-heads were standing with lit torches, lighting up the entire courtyard with a sense of grand ceremony. No longer a rabble and group, they were fully sober and aware. This was a conscious choice they were making, not mere fleeting instinct. They were extremely keen to observe with a sense of near religious devotion, this was what pig-heads did. A group of male pig-heads came out of the group and grabbed Marshawn, lifting him in the air. “Please! Don’t kill me! You don’t need to be pig-heads!” Marshawn cried with all his might. He sensed impending death and flailed in response. “You don’t have to kill me!” Marshawn’s terrified eyes scanned the crowd but he did not see anything other than glistening wet eyes in the light of the torches. They danced with mania and watched with glee. “Is there no one out there that thinks this is wrong!” Marshawn shouted. “You were all once children, you once had your own face, there must be someone with a shred of decency out there!” No one in the crowd responded. Instead a series of them let out low grunts of chuckling through them. A few cameras flicked on and began to record him. Marshawn’s expression turned ghastly, he now realized that there was no escape for him. He was to be summarily executed on the spot. His body was lifted to the tree branch and Marshawn stood atop it, wobbling slightly. A pig-head stood beside him, holding him by the shoulder. Marshawn decided to not resist, it was futile. Marshawn thought back on his life and was supremely disappointed by it. His life had been idle coasting down a lazy and sedentary river. It was a fetid river that had stagnated into pools and bogs, it took all he had had to even float down it. The idle time spent in his youth had been charmless and uneventful. Marshawn had done very little with his life, and yet, he was incredibly proud of what he had accomplished. To survive in this world, with the nature of his identity, was not achieved without effort. For those that could sense reality with hypersensitivity, existing in the bourgeoisie meant day to day survival. Marshawn had never allowed his true self to be held captive by outsiders. Instead, he had sheltered it, fostering it, until the day when he felt he was strong enough to live freely outside, by his own truths and own convictions. And today was the day. Marshawn’s heart beat slowed and his eyes turned languid. Marshawn had lived by his own beliefs, knowing full well that there would be risks involved. He could not have known that that would have resulted in his death. Still, Marshawn would not change it otherwise. He had held steadfast in his refusal to submit. The pig-head slipped the noose over Marshawn’s head and it dropped around his neck. Slowly, the noose was tightened and tight around his larynx. The crowd began to raise their fists and chant. “HANG HIM UP! HANG HIM UP! HANG HIM UP!” Marshawn closed his eyes, letting the words pass through him and out the other side. He could barely hear them now. He thought back to last night and the woman’s lips. This was by his own doing. He had asked for the Truth and he had been shown it. The veil had been cast aside and Marshawn had seen the world for what it was. And for that, he was to die in order for this world to continue existing in the same way as before. “So this was the Truth. This was reality,” Marshawn thought to himself. He closed his eyes and took a slow breath. The pig-head suddenly shoved him and Marshawn fell forward. The rope tightened and caught him above the ground. Marshawn began hissing as he choked on the noose. His body swung from side to side as he could not resist grabbing at the rope in resistance. The crowd began to hoot and holler, pleasured by the act of death and torture. They raised their torches and waved them around in celebration and amusement. As the seconds passed, his movements grew slower and slower until he fell still. His corpse dangled from the rope. As a final insult, a single pig-head walked up to his body and placed a hollowed out pig-head over his face. He hung there in an ugly display of degradation. The fire finally caught on him and Marshawn began burning. Marshawn was slowly swallowed by the flames, his flesh cooking and charring. The pig-heads dispersed, leaving him on the tree. Marshawn’s life was snuffed out within a single choked breath, leaving behind every dream, every thought, every uttered word and sensed emotion. Only the abyss spoke to him now.