Subject Zero: CONFIDENTIAL (Short Stories)

Jack of All Trades (2)

Part Two (final): They're Coming to Take Me Away

January 10, 1967
"Home", The Mirror World

Third Person's POV
It was thunder storming outside. The boy with the frowny mask was sitting at a table, poking at his plate with a metal fork. Food was at the counter, but his plate was still clean, meaning he hadn't yet eaten anything. The icy haired woman across from him was eating food from her plate, but saw the boy slouching in his chair and poking at the plate.

"——, what's wrong? You haven't been eating lately," said the woman in her kind, angelic voice. "Did something happen?"

The boy only stared at his plate, then sat up. Lately, he finds himself beginning to forget things. He's unable to remember his own name; that must be something worth remembering. He was even beginning to forget everything before December 11, of 1966, just last year. He had completely forgotten the woman he was with, but just knew he cared for her and felt safe with her.

The woman gently set down her fork and softly took the boy's hand. "You can talk to me. You know that, right? Whatever happened..."

He seemed very hesitant. When speaking, his voice cracked, as if his whole world was falling apart: "...You're gonna send me away."

The woman was for some reason relieved. "No, no, my dear, I am not sending you away...!"

     "But I heard you talking with those doctors..." He was hoping he was wrong.

     "You must have misheard me, because I am not sending you away... I cannot bare a life without you! Okay? You're perfectly safe and home," said the woman. Her kind tone convinced the boy she was being truthful.

He looked up at the woman. "...Promise?"

She stood up and walked around the table, over to him. She knelt down next to him and hugged him. "I promise, ——."

The boy then hugged her back, feeling relieved. But he was perplexed by a word she said: ...Home?

Then as soon as thunder struck, the two were suddenly startled by the sound of a child's blood-curdling screams begging for help and to be let out. They could hear pounding on the walls and sobs between every word and shout.

The boy flinched. "...Why are there screams? I'm scared...!"

In a soothing tone, the woman says, "Don't worry, it's just thunder, honey..." She didn't seem frightened by the sudden screaming and shouting at all. Instead, she seemed rather angry, and was trying her best to hide it.

In the room that held a disturbing odor, was the 12-year-old boy, awake. Except the black buttons that were near him before were now sewn to his eyes, and his brown hair had been replaced by candy apple red hair. His skin seemed to be slowly hardening into porcelain. A circle was drawn in the middle of his collarbones, but nothing was there, and a circular speaker was on the floor by a pair of scissors and a sewing kit.

He was dead just days ago. His skin was no longer rotting. Now it was just the room itself and the boy's clothes that stunk a horrible smell. When he cried and sobbed, only blood streamed down his porcelain, rosy cheeks.

He cried and he cried, and hit his fists on the door as much as he could bare without feeling as if he was going to shatter his skin. He flinched and felt more frightened whenever he heard thunderclaps.

But deep down, he knew no one was going to let him out. Not for a very long time.

And he was right.

Later that Night...