Photo by William Gullo on Unsplash
I cut ties with my estranged parents when I left home in my early twenties and haven’t spoken to them since.
Being a second-generation immigrant, I wanted to detach myself from my Muslim roots as much as possible to pursue a career in the show business.
But although I had amassed a significant fan base over the years, I had never been allowed to play a lead role.
With bills piling up, I had to take up a part-time job at a funeral house in the downtown area to make ends meet.
I wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job itself, but I was grateful for the steady income it provided. While the job required me to work long hours, it was the nature of it that left me feeling drained by the end of the day. Washing the corpses and preparing them for their loved ones took a great toll on my psyche.
No amount of soap and water could rid me of the stench of death that hung in the air for days. It clung to me like a foul, invisible cloak.
During my first week, Mr Ahmad assisted me in adapting to the routine tasks, so we did everything in pairs.
But as time wore on and I grew into my role as a budding autopsy technician, he entrusted me with the funeral home’s maintenance and the handling of the deceased.
He treated me as if I were really his son, even providing a roof over my head when I failed to pay the bills and was kicked out of my one-room flat.
But he had a biological son, a son he missed dearly and grieved every waking hour.
Whenever Mr Ahmad prayed, he always asked me to join him and we’d ask his God to forgive his deceased son’s sins and bring him to janat.
His son was one of many lives who lost his life in Palestine back in 2023. His death was gruesome, nothing was left of his mortal body.
The flames singed his flesh, liquified his organs and skin, and turned him into nothing in the middle of the night at a displacement camp.
He was brutally murdered, and become one with the twinkling stars crying blood, and the world watched as it happened – some celebrated it.
The locals buried the deceased in shallow graves, hoping for an end to the occupation in the West bank, but even the dead weren’t allowed to rest in peace.
The entire place was bombed to oblivion, turned upside down, and the few who still persisted in their fight for freedom were deported to the Sinai desert and left to die.
Several weeks had passed since the unlawful occupation and genocide in Palestine when Mr Ahmad was finally allowed into his country and brought what was left of his son back to the United Kingdom.
That poor man begged his occupiers to grant him entrance like a dog, a barking dog devoted to its torturers. And what for? To be allowed into his country. Or what remained of it.
I couldn’t imagine what that would feel like, to be denied access to the very place your ancestors called home for centuries, by some bloodthirsty maniacs who claimed their superiority over other ethnicities citing a holy book as their reference.
What a joke. A bunch of derailed beings who ought to taste their own medicine.
The guy who worked before me said that Mr Ahmad’s son left behind a widow and two children after him, but their whereabouts were unknown.
They were most likely murdered just like all the other women and children in what was left of Palestine, and whom the terrorists claimed were “human shields.”
It’s so funny how it’s always the women and children, who are treated like shit, denied job opportunities, subjected to islamophobia and racism, and perceived as oppressed and weak because of a single cloth on their heads.
When was the last time a Muslim woman ever did any harm to anyone? When she denied taking off her headscarf to enter the bank or land a job at an airport?
Whenever I thought about what happened in 2023, and how the world watched as it happened, I would feel my blood run cold. What kind of human being would slay another in such a way?
A president sleeping with his teacher? A bestselling author threatening to flee the country if his wicked deeds are exposed? A madman trying to raid every inch of the Middle East by lying they have chemical weapons?
People so deranged that they see children and women as nothing but sexual objects meant to humiliate and rape for their own perverse needs?
Then again, that must be it. Nothing else made sense.
Only those kinds of people with tiny brains shaped like penises would resort to the murder of children – children whom they’d rather rape and dispose of than save from being “human shields.”
Their heads should be impaled on a flagpole as an example for future generations to marvel at in Manhattan, New York.
Where was I, again? Oh, now I remember.
The funeral house had everything I needed in my possession. During those first few days on my own, I struggled to find my footing as an autopsy technician.
While the low temperatures were a challenge at first, my body adapted over time and the cold became less of a hindrance.
Working night shifts also became less of a problem since I was receiving fewer and fewer roles because of external factors beyond my control. I guess Muslim people were regarded as human animals living in open sewages…
By the end of three weeks, I was making more money than I ever had in years. Naturally, I increased my shifts from 50 per cent to 75 per cent. Weeks turned into months, and before I knew it, half a year went by in a twinkling.
Mr Ahmad ended up never returning. I didn’t know what happened to him, but I had an idea of what could’ve happened.
What worth did a human life have, when it was perceived as nothing but a disposable object – a human animal – as the terrorists call it?
The second Holocaust was happening right in front of us all, and again, just like the first one, the world watched it happen – as it always does – in favour of those so deranged that they see people as animals, life as a joke, and the vulnerable and helpless as prawns in their wicked game of sex, politics, and power.
Then one day, I finally heard what had become of him. He was shot to death during a prayer by a terrorist, who only got a slap on the wrist by the Zionist regime.
While mainstream media failed to report on this either deliberately or because of their deranged pact with those like-minded terrorists, the deranged bunch celebrated his death.
It was caught on camera by another Muslim, who was at the Fajr prayer and a witness to the gunfire that came out of nowhere and shot more than a handful of the praying men when they were at their most vulnerable, their hearts turned to their God and their heads placed on the rugged ground in a morning salute.
I couldn’t believe when I first heard this, how the Zionist movement could have such power over the Western news outlets with such ease and atrocity – always pushing the narrative in their own favour.
I was disgusted and appalled, and I wondered just how many of these Western world leaders were backing each other up to conceal the skeletons in their cupboards.
That was the only way this silence pact made sense, because as everyone knows, sex sells, and what sells more, is the exploitation of minors, women, and the elderly – a cult of deranged shits hankering for the vulnerable, wolves disguised as sheep lurking among us, cowards afraid of speaking up to visible war crimes.
That day, I promised myself this: I may no longer perceive myself as a Muslim, but I would never forget and never forgive.
Someday, the tide would turn and power shift, as it always does. And I thought of Percy Bysshe Shelley and his “Ozymandias” and relished in the insight that nothing in this world lasts forever.
A week after Mr Ahmad’s untimely death, Isak became an employee at the funeral house. Isak, a high school dropout, had an extensive list of offences, including shoplifting and armed robbery.
It was a mystery to me how someone with a criminal record like Isak’s could even work here. It still beats me, honestly.
Anyway, I decided to take a chance on the boy and not judge him by his cover. It wasn’t like I had other options. However, my expectations were met and exceeded. The boy displayed an impressive level of dexterity.
He was an unexpected quick learner and always arrived on time to complete the tasks.
With shooting scheduled a few months later, which I had signed up for half a year ago and which was set in stone, I couldn’t afford to go back on my word.
And although I was confident Isak could manage on his own, I needed to ensure he was at ease. So I went over the routine work with him for a second time, let him do things on his own and told him to ask me if there was anything he found difficult or unclear.
Fortunately, the boy managed on his own pretty well, too well in fact, and it was with a light heart that I went to the shooting two days later. The boy even gave me a thumbs-up and said I’d make it big this time.
The shooting went well, better than I expected, although not everything went according to plan. This was, of course, showbiz. I was of male sex and not by any means a minor, but perverted people still found a way to indulge themselves in deranged things.
Given my larger-than-average build and aversion to being exploited for fame, I was able to fend off a handful of creeps. But my female and much younger counterparts weren’t.
The worst of it all? These kids weren’t just promised fame, wealth, and the world, they were also threatened into silence.
I wish I could drop everything in my hands and rid the world of these pieces of shit – as the Zionists say – human animals don’t deserve to live.
When I returned to the funeral house the following day I learnt from my supervisor that Isak quit his job. I couldn’t wrap my head around why he would do that.
Although he confided in me that he accepted this job for the money, I still couldn’t believe it. He was getting the hang of it.
Even the day before I went to the shooting, he told me this kind of job had grown on him and that he could see himself doing this forever.
I knew exactly what he was talking about, so I confirmed his thoughts by admitting that I was going to stop chasing fame and devote myself to the funereal house.
It didn’t make sense. I knew the kid. He wouldn’t have said those things for nothing. I needed to hear his reason for quitting myself.
Every time I called him, however, it went straight to voicemail. He never called me back.
Hoping to find reassurance that everything was okay with him, I reached out to my boss, Mrs Rosemary, to discuss his resignation and my involvement – if any.
I found it odd that the kiddo wouldn’t pick up my calls. I could feel it even if I couldn’t explain it. Something happened to him.
Mrs Rosemary was a small woman in her mid-fifties. She had a straight nose that was perfectly proportioned to her face, and her sleek black hair was always draped over her shoulders.
If someone had told me she used to work as a mortician, I wouldn’t have believed them. She never came across like that to me.
With over 30 years of experience, however, she had patched up more bodies than there were people in a crowded subway station.
When I walked into her office, she was slipping on a pair of glasses with a faint purple tint. She signalled for me to take a seat on the leather sofa that was situated across from her desk.
The desk was adorned with figures, strange patterns, and foreign symbols, giving it an air of mystery and intrigue. The scent of incense wafted through the room, lingering in the air. I could almost taste it.
It was as if I had crossed the threshold into a holy place, a secret shrine.
“How long has it been?”
“I’m sorry?”
A faint smile played across her thin lips.
“How long have you been working here, Mr Göze?”
“I started May last year, ma’am. It’s been just over six months.”
“I’m guessing you haven’t been upstairs during this time?”
“No, Mr Ahmad took good care of me, so I had little reason to—”
“Concerning the subject matter that we talked about on the phone. Regrettably, I cannot reveal the cause of Mr Sinai’s unexpected departure. It has little, if any really, connection to you.”
“He’s all right, then? There were no indications of his departure in his countenance or behaviour. If you could kindly provide me with an address—”
“As I’ve already stated, this matter doesn’t concern you.”
“But I—”
“I kindly request that you let the matter rest, Mr Göze. Not for my sake but for your own. Mr Sinai can no longer assist us. I’ll be searching for a new assistant in the coming weeks. Is there anything else you would like to discuss?”
I shook my head. There was no point in taking this further. After bidding farewell, I made my way downstairs to change outfits and prepare for my night shift.
Despite being covered in cold sweat, I knew I had a job to do and couldn’t let my emotions get in the way of a mere boy.
But as the sun set and my shift ended, I caught wind of a conversation that wasn’t intended for me to hear.
I had just finished changing into my clothes and was about to climb up the basement stairs when I overheard the clerk and the janitor discussing a premature death.
The clerk’s words hung in the air. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread wash over me as he revealed the truth about Isak’s death.
He was found lifeless in the morgue on the night I left for the shooting. The authorities had ruled out foul play, and the death was deemed as a suicide.
My body felt heavy upon hearing this. My thoughts were a jumbled mess as I tried to cope with the shock. But that wasn’t the only thing they talked about.
This wasn’t the first time someone had committed suicide in the morgue; a similar incident had happened seven years ago.
Two suicides in seven years… What was the probability of such things happening in the same workplace during such a short timeframe?
I started feeling increasingly uneasy about working night shifts. As my mind grew more unsound, and I became increasingly paranoid, washing the corpses felt like an insurmountable struggle.
Gradually, I picked up on unfamiliar sounds that seemed out of place. I knew my mind was playing tricks on me, so I did my best to ignore the voices until they finally subsided over the course of two weeks.
The last film I acted in turned out to be a massive hit and I received recognition for my performance as a supporting character.
With my acting career gaining momentum, I felt like all the pieces of my life were finally coming together. My dream of being a full-time actor was within reach. A big talent agency offered me a contract. But accepting this once-in-a-lifetime offer meant I was to leave behind my current job.
I wasn’t as keen or passionate about acting as I did previously, but being from the ghetto, the prospect of coming into a lot of wealth was enough to entice me.
After a week of contemplation, I mustered up the courage to leave my letter of resignation on Mrs Rosemary’s desk while she was out of the office.
The next month, I quit my job for good and embarked on a new journey brimming with filth: the stench of sex, cigarettes, and weeds.
It was like living in a manmade sewage – the more I tried to swim to the surface, the more I drowned in the abyss of filth and decay.
I had made it.
I had made it to showbiz where no life was above that of those above the law aka. the filth embodied.
My acting career skyrocketed, I couldn’t even understand why. It wasn’t like I was some handsome face or hunk with muscles enough to last a century.
Before I knew it, I was receiving calls from some of the biggest names in the industry. I was swamped with work, but I didn’t want to take on a project until I felt confident in my abilities to complete it.
Moreover, I was growing more and more unsure of where life had brought me. I saw misery everywhere I went. The idea that this part of showbiz wasn’t shown to the world appalled me beyond what plain words could capture.
And I thought of my niece and with which purple-tinted glasses she saw this world – this world hiding behind the filth and the shrill cry of the innocent, of the vulnerable mercilessly exploited.
Was this what I wanted to show her? This lie… For what cause or purpose was I trying to uphold it? I didn’t even know. I felt like a human animal living in open sewages – just like those who had invented the term.
It was during this despicable period of my life that I received an unexpected call from an unidentified caller.
Photo by Gilles Lambert on Unsplash
As I picked up the phone, my mind was still on the manuscript I had received a month ago which I was positively considering after talking to my agent. As soon as I answered it, however, all I could hear was the sound of my breath and nothing else.
The line was dead, and there was no one on the other end of it. I hung up.
The day drew to a close with no more calls, and I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to clear my mind of all thoughts. As I lay there, ready to surrender to sleep, my phone’s incessant ringing pulled me back to consciousness.
I glanced at the clock. It read 1:45 am in the dead of night. As I sat up, the world gradually sharpened into focus, like a camera lens adjusting to the light.
I reached for the phone, hesitating for a moment, wondering who would call me at such an odd hour.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to sort through the jumbled mess of questions that cluttered my mind. Once again, it was the same unknown caller.
Was it some weirdo trying to pull a prank on me, someone from the subjective and biased press controlled by god knows what sorts of disturbed beings, or simply an obsessive fan?
Either way, I didn’t feel like talking to anyone at this hour, so I powered down my phone and tried to get some rest.
As I drifted off to sleep, I thought I saw the silhouette of a figure projected onto the ceiling and flew open my eyes. One moment it was there and the next it was gone without a trace.
I tossed and turned the remainder of the night, only dosing off in time with the rising sun.
In my mind, I kept seeing that dark and hollow figure materialise from nothing. Its skeletal hands reached out to me as if to tell me an unfamiliar story I ought to hear.
The sun was high in the sky the next day when I decided to take on the project. The plot was about a group of terrorists, who claimed they were God’s chosen people and now needed to occupy another country for their own gain. Of course, I was on the wrong side of history again and cast as a Zionist – *wink* depicted as a hero, of course.
Well, I did have an exotic look to me after all, but I guess not enough to look like a human animal living in open sewages… Such irony. I guess my mother’s side had some Jewish blood in it.
While my agent attended to some paperwork at the office, I took a drive to a nearby coffee shop before heading back to the headquarters to sign the contract.
The coffee shop, usually filled with the sound of chatter and clinking cups, was eerily silent on the first Monday of the month.
After parking the van on the basement floor, I took the lift to the third floor.
The heavy, rich scent of coffee surrounded me as I paused at the entrance. The eclectic mix of the furniture in the coffee shop struck me as odd, where elegant armchairs shared space with rickety stools and wooden benches.
While scanning the vacant coffee shop, I spotted something unusual that instantly captured my attention, and I couldn’t look away. My heart raced as my eyes quickly flickered to the far-right corner of the place.
I thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of a shadowy figure cowering under one of the round tables.
I peered under the table, half-expecting to see something, but there was nothing but shadows. I tried to rationalise it as nothing more than a result of my insomnia, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more sinister at play.
But what use was it to overthink things? Living among the human animals in this industry, it was only a matter of time before I lost my damn mind – if not my soul to the minions of Beelzebub.
After ordering a double shot of espresso, I sank into the settee in the corner and soaked up the serene atmosphere.
The artwork displayed on the walls was a tactile delight, with pieces featuring rough brushstrokes, smooth finishes, and intricate details.
But no matter how hard I tried to focus, my eyes kept wandering to the other side of the shop and the mysterious space under the table.
My chest felt tight as my heart pounded, and I struggled to catch my breath.
Even though I was feeling sick, I downed the espresso and was about to leave when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder. I felt the hand lift off just as I turned around. But I couldn’t see anyone in sight.
My eyes were drawn to the space under the table once more. I couldn’t resist taking another look, it was as if it enticed me.
It was then that I noticed a slight movement down there. I squinted, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, but the distance was too great for me to discern anything.
I rose and scampered to the other side. I studied the space under the table for so long that my eyes became sore and tired. My breath caught in my throat.
What in the world was this? It was written in a foreign language. I flinched. The silence of the shop was abruptly shattered by the jarring ringing of my phone.
I didn’t even need to look at the display, I knew who it was. With a click, the call connected, and an unfamiliar voice greeted me.
“Mr Göze?”
“Who’s- who’s this?”
“This is Isak speaking, Mr Göze.”
Upon hearing the voice on the other end of the line, my initial thought was that someone was trying to pull a fast one on me.
I was fully aware of Isak’s demise and Mrs Rosemary’s attempts to keep it a secret, but my curiosity got the best of me.
Moreover, this voice didn’t belong to the kid. I would’ve recognised it if it was him. At the same time, I couldn’t resist the temptation to play along, to find out why this stranger was posing as someone he wasn’t.
“Mrs Rosemary said you’ve quit for good. What happened?”
“She didn’t tell you, sir?”
“That you resigned? She did, I just didn’t—”
“No. No, not that one. The other thing, Mr Göze. She didn’t say anything?”
I scrunched up my face in a frown.
“What other thing? What are you talking about? Isak? Who’s this—?”
“Look, Mr Göze, I can’t speak for long. You have to—you must listen carefully and do as I tell you.”
“Who am I speaking to?”
“Mr Göze, I already told you, this is Isak! You gotta take my word for it! You are not safe.”
I glanced at the display again, growing more agitated by the minutes.
This was ridiculous, it was… I looked around the coffee shop and noticed that the barista was following my every move.
I dropped my agitated voice down to a whisper, speaking through gritted teeth.
“Can you provide proof of your identity? Anything works.”
“I can’t, Mr Göze, not here, not now. Time’s running—”
“Listen, anything will do. I need proof. Put yourself in my shoes and tell me you wouldn’t ask for that, kiddo.”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line.
“You told me, the night before you went to the shoot, that you were thinking of giving up on acting.”
I let out a brief sigh of relief before the reality of the situation set in. If this was really Isak, then why did everyone in the funeral house say he passed away?
It didn’t make sense, nothing did.
“What happened to you? That night.”
“Whatever happens, don’t trust them. That’s how you’ll make it out without a scratch.”
“Hang on a minute. What do you mean? Who are you talking about? Who are ‘they’?”
“Those folks who took me and Mr Ahmad. I know this sounds crazy, but you gotta—”
My phone clattered to the ground as a hand jolted me from behind. As the weight on my shoulders increased, I found myself folding in half.
I strained my neck and the only sound that reached my ears was a shallow, almost inaudible breath. I fell to my knees, the pain shooting up my legs like lightning as I fought to break free from whatever was holding me down.
I flew my eyes open as the pain finally let up, acutely aware of the sweat pooling on my skin and trickling down into my clothes.
Looking around with a frantic stare, I took in the sight of the sunlight streaming through the window, which cast a warm glow on the otherwise dark room.
I was in my apartment. What in the world was happening? Was this all just a bad dream? I pulled off my shirt and looked at my bare shoulder, where a handprint was clearly visible on my thin skin.
Sinking to the carpeted floor, I rested my arms on the hard surface, racking my brain for a plausible explanation. But there was none.
What had happened to Isak? Why was Mrs Rosemary trying to hide something from not only me but everyone else around her?
I decided to take a day off and contacted my agent to cancel all my appointments for the day. My brain felt like a jumbled mess; I knew I couldn’t function in this state. I took two pills of Gabapentin before lunch and slept soundly until the afternoon.
My phone showed three missed calls. Two were from my agent and the other was from an unknown caller.
I sent my agent a message, assuring him I was feeling better even though my head was throbbing and my body felt worse.
A chill ran down my spine as I glanced at the unknown number, my heart beating so fast that it ached.
Was it really Isak? What if it was? But the kid had passed away several months ago and, for all I knew, I had only dreamed.
I looked at the handprint underneath my shirt. Then how could I explain this scar?
Clenching my jaw, I plonked down on my bed and buried my head in my sweaty palms, rubbing my forehead time and again.
There was only one way to find out the truth. I lifted my gaze off the carpet and called the number.
“Hello?”
The voice belonged to a woman. It would be a lie if I said it didn’t take me by surprise.
“Who’s this?”
“Hello. I hope I’m not disturbing you or anything. It’s just that someone called me from this number recently.”
There was a short pause.
“You sure this is the right number, sir?”
“I’m pretty positive, actually.”
“Sorry ‘bout that. My phone’s been acting up lately. It’s doing its own thing.”
“Are you sure—actually, never mind. I’m sorry for bothering you, miss.”
I was about to hang up.
“Hang on a sec! Is your first name Kaan, by any chance?”
“It… it is.” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. “How do you know this?”
“There’s this dude who’s been hanging around the bar where I work. He doesn’t really talk, like ever. But he did ask about some guy named Kaan and if I’ve seen him.”
“He used your phone?”
“Like, way too many times. But I haven’t seen him for a while, actually.”
“Can you specify the time frame?”
“Hmm, not exactly sure, maybe like six or seven months ago?”
Something was off. Was I answering calls that were made several months in the past? If not, could this woman be lying? Why lie to me, though? She was a stranger to me. But what if I wasn’t a stranger to her?
“You said those calls were from months ago, how did you recall my name after such a long time? It’s not exactly a common name.”
“I had a dream about that guy a couple of nights ago. This might sound crazy, but I think Isak was trying to get in touch with you through me…”
“That’s impossible. And even if it were possible, why would he reach out to me through you, a stranger to us both?”
The silence on the other end of the line stretched on for what felt like an eternity. I watched the clock’s hands move steadily towards the end of the day.
Then something hit me like a bolt out of the blue. Although I never uttered Isak’s name, the woman knew him. Didn’t she just say that he was some stranger from the bar she worked at?
Before I could voice my suspicions, the line went dead. I tried to call her again, but she dismissed every single one of them.
While I trusted she wasn’t lying, there was a nagging feeling that she wasn’t being completely honest, either.
But who was this guy, anyway? Was it really Isak? He hit me up even in my dreams, desperate to talk, but why?
And what was the woman’s role in these mysterious events? Why wasn’t I allowed to trust ‘they’ and for what reason?
I slipped on my leather jacket and ventured outside, hoping the crisp night air would clear my racing mind.
Living in an apartment near a serene lake allowed me to take a break from the fast-paced city life and enjoy the tranquillity of nature.
The gentle lapping of the lake against the shore was a soothing sound that helped me relax after a busy day.
As I made my way to the other end of the sparkling lake, the sunset, and its golden glow enveloped the surroundings in a warm embrace.
I had a moment of mental clarity, and it seemed like the fog in my mind was lifting. It was short-lived, however.
My heart squeezed and cold sweat broke out on my forehead as I crouched down, groaning in pain. Struggling to breathe, I lifted my gaze off the quivering ground.
The world flipped on its axis, and I fell to my knees, my hands grasping at the unyielding ground beneath me.
I strained my ears and heard the faint crunch of footsteps growing louder as someone approached in the distance. But my eyes refused to clear.
I held my breath.
The sound of footsteps ceased as a pair of khaki suedes came to a stop a few feet from me. My head felt heavy, throbbing like crazy like a drum beating inside.
Looking up at the night sky, a man’s silhouette emerged against the backdrop. I was hit with a sudden wave of panic that left me feeling like I was suffocating in my fear.
With each inhale, the cold, dry air felt like tiny needles piercing my lungs.
I recoiled. My eyes shot open wide, frantic and searching for a way out of the suffocating darkness around me, fraught with dread.
I couldn’t move.
The space was so small that a person could barely fit in, and the foul odour that enveloped me was so strong that I could hardly breathe.
It was a smell that was hard to describe, distinct yet off-putting – and at the same time – uncannily familiar.
The pungent odour clung to my skin, it clung to me for dear life and choked me out of air.
As someone pulled me out of the profound darkness, the blinding light was the first thing that came into focus.
The frigid, blue glow blinded me as I desperately tried to shield my eyes but couldn’t. My limbs wouldn’t move. My heart raced as I recognised the unmistakable scent of death and antiseptic that filled the air.
I was in the morgue. I was back in the funeral house. I lay there, stunned, watching as the person who bore an uncanny resemblance to me turned away and walked towards the corner to grab some tools.
As my doppelgänger returned, the glint of a sharp knife in his hand sent shivers down my spine.
My silent screams reverberated off the walls of the empty morgue, but the other me was beyond earshot. I was in a state of limbo, neither fully dead nor fully alive.
My doppelgänger stepped away suddenly, inches from cutting through my flesh. The weight of his hollow eyes bore into mine.
Had he heard my silent screams? With a sudden surge of hope, I shouted again. I spoke, but my words fell on deaf ears.
The clock’s chimes echoed through the silent room as he glanced up to see it strike twelve in the dead of night.
I followed his icy gaze to the calendar on the wall. It was marked with a red circle around May 27th. I gulped. It was two weeks before Isak’s untimely death.
My doppelgänger stooped over and wiped me not long after, as if he detected that I was still alive. I braced myself for what came next. As I lay there, my entire life played out before me like a film.
A thick, dark veil wrapped tightly around my body, plunging me into an abyss of profound darkness. Soon after, I was on the move.
The cover did little to block out the stench of cigars and salty sweat that filled the air. I was now outside, the biting wind greeting me and chilling me to the bone.
I couldn’t understand. What was happening? Where was my doppelgänger taking me? Yet these questions would soon be answered.
Frantic, overwhelmed with panic, I looked around myself from where I lay, immobile and stiff, and my confusion grew.
I was not alone. There were others with me. The sound of their desperate voices carried through the air even though I couldn’t see them. They pleaded for mercy, they pleaded to be set free, they pleaded for freedom.
Hoping the torment would cease, I closed my eyes and whispered a prayer. I wasn’t even religious yet I couldn’t help but pray. But I didn’t wish for mercy, I wished for clarity, and soon my prayers would be heard.
When the covers were pulled aside and I looked around, I saw the pale faces of those waiting alongside me for the cremation.
I felt the searing heat on my skin even before it touched me. The sound of agony and despair was so thick and suffocating that it felt tangible, like a heavy blanket.
The shrieks of the poor spirits were so vivid that I could almost feel the sound waves piercing through my ears and entering my brain.
Women and children; burned for merely existing. I shut off my ears to their screams, the tears streaming down my face without a break.
My doppelgänger moved me closer to my demise. It was my turn now. The crackling of the unrelenting flames filled the air with a sense of foreboding.
The acrid smell of charred flesh mixed with the scent of burning wood made my stomach turn. Panic set in as I fought to regain control of my body.
But it was too late. I was in a vegetative state. The flames licked my legs, consuming them in seconds before taking over my entire body.
I turned it into liquid, then dried out like sand. I went through a metamorphosis, changing from a living entity to a lifeless one. But a part of me remained.
As I slipped into unconsciousness, a face appeared on the other side of the incinerator.
Standing before me was my doppelgänger, his grin twisted into a sinister expression.
My heart skipped several beats. But it wasn’t me, it was someone else. I was here: combusting, scorching, liquefying, perishing.
I couldn’t escape the sickening smell of my charred flesh as I extended my arm. He turned his back to the roaring flames.
The sound of his footsteps gradually faded away. The khaki suedes were the last thing I saw as my doppelgänger vanished into the distance.
On my forehead were etched these words: ‘Human animal #36,361’.
And the world watched as it happened – as it always does.
The End.
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