Ꮇ𝑦 ℤօｍ𝘣ⅈ𝖊 𝗕օ𝑦𝚏𝔯ⅈ𝖊𝖓꒯ ||Parkster

Vagrancy; Behind Guilty Eyes

"Recognizing the structure of your psychology doesn't mean that you can easily rebuild it. The chamber of unreasonable guilt is part of my mental architecture, and I doubt that I will be able to renovate that particular room in this strange castle that is me." ~ (Odd Thomas - Dean Koontz)

~~~

The world is in chaos and all Chester can do is blame himself for it.

"I mean, how would you feel if you were indirectly responsible for millions- if not billions of deaths?!" The sheer scale of those numbers makes his head spin and mouth go dry. It's absurd. Impossible. Yet, it seems only he could mess up this bad.

Chester closes his eyes and leans further against the plush leather sofa, letting the silence rest upon him like a weighted blanket.

For the past 45 minutes he's been following advice he'd heard- for when your thoughts start to spiral toward dark places, when it all feels like too much, when you're starting to doubt if it'll get any better: talking about it.

Alternative solutions come to mind, to be free of his guilt and despair. But those are permanent, and Chester's always been bad with commitment. With following through. The evidence is in the YouTube videos he used to film with-

Chester exhales slowly and opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, thinking about regret.

"And what is it that you regret?" His brain supplies in a professional voice, in lieu of the therapist who's slumped dead in a chair. His wide sightless eyes are rolled up toward the bullet hole in the center of his forehead, gun trapped between clawed fingers frozen with rigor mortis.

"For one," Chester glances down to his hands that rest across his stomach, "I regret not going to therapy, y'know.. before. I um, don't think this counts." His laugh is completely hollow and the sound of it makes his throat constrict, because he's already thinking of the one thing he regrets most of all.

He doesn't say what it is. Instead, "That day.."

"Tell me about that day." The dead voice of his bloated, rotted, stinking therapist floats across the room like a haunted whisper.

Something like fear or apprehension prickles the back of Chester's neck as he edges around his suppressed memories, wary and with caution, as if trailing along a chain link fence topped with barbed wire, and those memories are rabid guard dogs with teeth.

If he breaches that barrier, he'll get torn apart no question. So, he doesn't give an answer.

Chester sits up and glances at the clock, feigning relief. "Would you look at that? My hour's up. Um, same time next week?" He actually feels better releasing most of his pent up feelings, even if it was to himself.

He imagines the therapist's gaping mouth shaping the words of a goodbye and giving a warm smile as he picks up his backpack and speeds to the door.

A thought strikes him at the doorway and he stops before slowly making his way behind the wooden desk. Chester grabs the gun and wrestles it from the corpse's hand, checks the chamber.

Empty. Chester's mood instantly sours.

"On second thought, cancel next week's appointment," he mutters, "this place stinks.."

~~~

The sun sinks lower in the multicolored sky and Chester needs to find another place to stay before the monsters come out at night.

Ever since the apocalypse, twisted monstrous creatures come out of the woods as if drawn out by mass death. They walk the streets in pitch blackness, seeking the life force of non-infected.