The Chorus

The night was oppressing, the shadows long, and the light orange. The alley was poorly lit, it smelled of urine, and vomit puddles fed rats that filled the darkest corners of the alley with an inhuman stench. He was waiting, the time would be right soon. He knew she would walk this way, she always walked this way, always came back to her place two corners away, so he was waiting, waiting, waiting. She had to come, the always came this way, he saw her. He saw her the week before, when she was doing her groceries, he knew her at that point. And he knew what he had to do. It was obvious. It was all so obvious.

You see, she was an enemy, she was a danger. He had to take care of her. He had to make sure she would not stop him. He knew everything. She was trying to stop him, she was plotting, behind these glasses, her blue eyes were filled with betrayal. She was a danger, a menace, a threat, she was gonna try to stop him. Like the man in white, the man in white and his mother, they were in league with the blue-eyed girl. They knew he had a weakness for blue-eyed girls, they knew about this because they had spied on him. But they would not get him this time, he was smarter, better, his mind was clear now. The fog was gone. That thick fog that obscured his senses, that slowed his razor sharp mind, it was gone. And that was good. Because he was a danger for all of them, they knew that.

He knew too much. He knew about their plan, and that was why they were trying to stop him. Once the fog was cleared enough, he pretended to be behind the fog. He was compliant. He let them do what they wanted, and when they said he was “under control” he made his move. He avoided all of their traps. He left his bedroom wearing the clothes in the closet, the ones without any tracking chips. He then made sure to neutralize the agent that was watching over him. The one who pretended to be his mother. He then grabbed the money that was not laced with poison, and left through the basement window, because all the doors were trapped. He was smarter than them; he knew what they wanted to do. He had to stop them. Everyone else must have taken the drugs that placed the fog in the head. The ones that did not let him think, see, or hear what he had to.

And so he walked away from the prison disguised as a suburban home. It was all a maze of streets, but without the fog, without the drugs, he knew his way around. He was guided in the right direction. Turn right, turn left, turn left, turn left, turn right, and right again, and left. He left. Left the town, took the subway, and then he started to see other people like him. Other people guided by voices. Other people that heard the chorus. The voices. The ones that guided him to that alley. Where he knew an enemy would walk. Every other day. With cigarettes in a hand, and betraying blue eyes. And so he watched her. Every other day, she walked, unaware that he was aware. He was there, watching her, because the chorus told him she was a danger to his survival. She was part of the project. They were gonna kill him.

And so he grabbed a beer bottle, and he broke it. And he waited. And waited. And she walked in the alley. He was waiting. Until. He stopped waiting, he acted. He shoved her into a brick wall. Her blue eyes were scared. She knew, she knew he knew she knew he knew he knew she knew… She would not betray him. These eyes, charming. But the broken bottle found the skin of her neck to be soft and tender. And the flesh broke. And as the chorus said, she was a robot. Her blood was not right. It was robot fluid. And she stopped functioning. The chorus was right. It always was. He had to wait for the next target, the voices would guide him. He would win. The chorus would make sure of that.


[I wasn't sure if I should make this blog adult only, this story convinced me. As much as I want to write all genres, I'm not worried about an adult finding a children's story, but I am worried about a kid reading this. In fact, I'm worried about the reaction. But a little drama would make for good publicity. I will try to balance it out with something a bit more positive later this week, but then again, I am a slave to my inspiration. Also, I wanted to say that the confused writing was a stylistic choice, and I hoped to convey the insanity of the narrator. Hope that came through clearly.]