Short Fiction

Click-Clack

By Christian Mueth

I'm one out of a poll of millions. I'm every voice that has ever been drowned out by the crowd. I'm every murderer that ever got away. I'm every person who's ever worn a mask. I'm every mask that never had a person to wear it.

I'm faceless.

It's December of 1953, midnight. It's the 13th day of the month. Or, is it still the twelfth? I've always had bad luck with dates...

I suppose it doesn't matter. It's frigid cold. So much so that it pierces skin. It strips the trees. Even the roads weather down to the — well — weather. Nights like these are what go on to haunt the world. Jack Frost is a creature that works most viciously in the dark.

A baby has been born. A shriek ripples from the hospital room. Shrieks. Except, these shrieks don't come from the baby. No... Not from the baby, but the mother. The nurse. The doctor.

The cold reception of this newborn baby is far colder than the winter climate could ever be. However, it isn't unjustified. See, the baby has been born with no face. There isn't a hint of a facial feature on him — no mouth, no eyes, no nose... Nothing. Just a patch of smooth skin where a face should've been.

According to the doctor and the nurses, he has no chance of living. The many dozens of doctors and nurses that will follow give the same diagnosis. However, they're all wrong. According to me, this baby will live. Or, at least, it'll go on to endure something that resembles "living". By what basis do I make that diagnosis?

That monstrosity of a baby was me.

Such an odd thing, really... A baby being born without a face. Nobody bets on that. Nobody would ever bet on such a baby surviving either. Somehow, I exceeded all expectations. I suppose that means I won the lottery? Something like that...

"You're lucky to be alive." I used to hear it all the time. It was said so often that I sometimes found myself wondering if it was the only thing that people knew how to say. Repetitive phrases like that simply get under my skin. It's one of the reasons why I don't like people very much. People might've been looking to placate me. But what they never realized is that, every time that they used those phrases, it was like bringing a hot iron to my feet. I'm not alive, despite most medical definitions stating the contrary. Can you truly be alive if you can't see? Breathe? Eat? Speak? Smell? Even smile?

Many see my survival as some miracle. I hear it as a curse.

Yes — I hear it. Despite not having facial features of any kind, I was still born with ears. They're my sole window into the world, and I treasure them. However, I've found that even my ears betray me at times... While my other senses might have never shown me the things they should've, my ears have shown me things they probably shouldn't have.

Take right now, for instance. It's raining. I hate the rain... It dulls my ears and makes the whole world murky. Yet, if it wasn't for the rain, I would be able to perfectly hear somebody having a hushed conversation in a phone booth behind me. A conversation about a funny looking man who has no face. I'm glad the rain has spared me from fully hearing the laughing. Or how hideous I apparently look. Or how I should be penned up in a circus. If I had, I would've known that my true story is lost to them. I would be compelled to share my true story, in full.

Yes... I'm very thankful that I never heard them.

It's still raining. But, I'm in the bus now. Rain is just a backdrop to hushed chatters, loud snores, the slight squeak of the steering wheel as it turns, and the heaving of the driver who's turning it. It feels as if everybody is being lulled to sleep. However, it always feels that way in the bus, to some extent. Everybody prefers to dream, because nobody knows where they're going. Not really. People get on the bus and tend to get off whenever they "feel" it's right. They're hardly ever right though. Nobody is ever right.

Except me.

I know exactly where I'm going. I'm wide awake, even if I don't have wide eyes to prove it. Where I'm going, I'm never going to hear things the same way again.

The bus screeches to a halt. The doors lazily swing open. It's my stop. I can tell by the sound of the guitarist strumming a tune and shaking his plastic cup down the sidewalk. It's been a long time since I last heard his awful music. However, our routine hasn't changed. I clutch my typewriter tightly as I step off the bus. The driver yells something at me that I ignore. The guitarist comes up to me, speeding up his strumming. I refuse to tip him and pull my hood over my head. He goes back to his corner and refuses to stop playing.

I begin calculating my every stride. I can't let myself mess up. I grew up on this block. I know it like the back of my hand. Which I admittedly don't know very much — but, for the sake of argument…

I turn as I reach the entrance to my destination. Though, when I do, I slam into a brick wall. Pain shoots up my body. That definitely wasn't there last time. I must've miscalculated. Maybe I took a step too wide? A step too short? It doesn't matter. I'm left groping around like an idiot, until I finally find the entrance. The door creaks open. The door creaks shut. Soft jazz music spills into my ears. Too soft. I can hear the static in each note. The music must be coming from a speaker, overhead.

I can also hear bread crackling as it's cut by a knife. There's a light chewing. The stir of a whisk in a bowl. Then, there's running water, followed by the sound of something being rubbed against a cloth. Somebody just finished washing their hands.

I'm in a bakery. I can hear it. Something that I can't hear is the frantic bustling of a thriving business. Nobody is in here, except me, one other person, and an irksome emptiness. Granted, the emptiness didn’t choose to be here. The truth is, I haven’t been in this building for a while. The last time I was, it was a pawn shop. However, that was before it was bought out and revamped by the only person who'd play jazz music in a bakery—

"Mack!" I punch out on my typewriter.

I can hear him walking to the counter. I recognize him by the jingling of coins and a pocket knife in his pocket, as well as the sound of his flip flops slapping against the ground. Still not sure why he always insisted on wearing flip flops in the fall, in the middle of the city.

I slam my typewriter on the counter, and let Mack read off the paper.

"Frank!" he exclaims, reaching over the counter to slap me on the back — a lot harder than he needs to, but not as hard as he must want.

I nod. Then, the room surrenders to the sound of self-motorized mixers, and rising bread. Mack doesn't say a word, and I don't lay a finger on my typewriter.

Mack's breathing intensifies.

I can tell that my presence is unnerving, and that he's just moments away from sweating buckets.

Mack clears his throat.

"So... So! So..." he says. "I haven't seen you in years. In fact, I think that I was still in high school when we last met! And, I see that you've still kept the typewriter after all of these years!"

Mack lets out a chuckle. I return the chuckle with dead silence.

Only silence.

Mack's flip flops squeal. He's turned around so that he doesn't have to face me.

"Man... I was really rough on you back then, wasn't I?"

The room echoes with a screech as I drag the typewriter back to myself. My fingers press along the keys, my heart skipping a beat at the completion of each word.

"Every morning you and your friends would corner me," the paper reads. "Then, you'd knock me to the ground, and kick me until I wouldn't move, or couldn't move. Whichever came first. On the mornings when that wasn't enough for you, you'd shove cotton in my ears until there was enough to make it so that I couldn't hear. Every morning. Until I finally learned your names, and how to hide."

I tear the paper off and slide it across the counter. Mack is forced to turn back around. And, I pull my hood off to force him to look at me.

I don't have the pleasure of seeing Mack's reaction — the inevitable mixture of horror and regret. I would pay anything to see it. But, the clamminess of Mack's hand as he hands the paper back is enough to tell me everything I need.

"I—I'm sorry," Mack says, tripping over his words. "That was a long time ago. I wasn't the same person then. I know that I can never make it up to you, but trust me when I say this: if I could take back what I and my friends did to you, I would."

Mack taps my hand with his, attempting to get me to shake it. I don't.

"What brought you here anyway?" Mack asks, adopting a harsh tone that's all too familiar.

I want to write more and force him to face the fact that he’d terrorized somebody who couldn't run. Couldn't fight back. Couldn't even see his face. But, I don't. I can't. I write something else.

"Six months ago, Bill died. It made me think back to you. You were his closest friend. I know that you bought the pawn shop — the only place that I was ever able to hide from you — just to slight me. But I want to put our rivalry to rest. I know how hard things must be for you. We should have closure."

Mack lets out a short laugh after he’s torn the paper away and read it.

"Thanks. That means a lot. You know... I miss Bill. But something that has been helping me get through it is in realizing how lucky we are for every minute that we get to be alive."

I don't have the heart to tell him, but some people are luckier than others.

. . .

When I reunited with Mack, an old wound flared up with fresh pus. All it took was the sound of his voice to return me to the past... To pound my face back into the gravel. Even thinking back on his voice now, I shudder.

I used to think that nightmares muffle away when you get older. Though, I was only half right. Nightmares certainly muffle. But, never away. They simply stop occurring at night. They stop occurring as dreams.

Though, the nightmare that Matt's voice brought is dull, compared to the nightmares that I get as the backs of leaves snap under my feet. Or the nightmares as ambulances whiz by. Or as the wind nips at my skin.

Or as the warmth of lights brushes against me and I enter a waiting room.

I walk up to the hospital's waiting room desk. Show them a note that I wrote. They take it, and then tell me an address. I leave. I don't come back. I'll never come back.

I'm gripping the upholstery of a greasy seat, trying my hardest to ignore a persistent click. It comes from the engine of the taxi-cab. Clearly, the engine doesn't have much longer. Yet, as the clicking continues, I no longer hear it coming from the engine. It morphs. It now comes in the form of a hazy memory... A sound… I remember the disapproving voice of a doctor...

It’s another nightmare. I need to get it out of my head. That was too long ago. I can't keep letting it —

"Uh..." the taxicab driver says.

The car's tires squeal, and my stomach lurches as I'm thrust to the side.

"Sorry! Sorry!" the driver says, nervously.

I can only pray that he doesn't drive into a river before I'm let out.

"What's with your face?" he asks.

I ignore him. I need to ignore... Forget.

I feel along my seatbelt. It's frayed. On the verge of breaking. I might as well have not put it on.

I feel around my seat. There are a few wrappers laying around. A piece of gum stuck to the leather. And... An old sandwich?

There's a roar as an obnoxious motorcyclist rides by. The honking of a horn. Enraged shouts.

The city is beautiful, indeed. Yet it occurs to me that, while I've heard it, I've never seen its true face. It's just as faceless to me as I am to it.

I'm not sure how much time passes — time for me has only ever been the steady ticking of a clock, anyway — but the car screeches to a halt as the driver slams on the breaks. I grab my typewriter and stumble out the door. I've reached my stop.

I climb up several flights of stairs. I start down a long hall. My fingers feel along the numbers plastered on each door. Then, they feel the one they're looking for. I stop walking.

A few knocks. A few seconds. The door creaks open.

"Frank!" somebody exclaims, as they open the door.

It's my former doctor, Adrian Conroy. I could recognize his voice anywhere.

"This is completely unexpected! What brings you here?" he asks. "How did you find me?"

I remain facing his direction, taking great care not to move. To not even allow a flinch.

"Well... Come in! Come in!"

I follow him into his room. Dr. Conroy has always liked to make a point that he lives in a wealthy neighborhood and makes a high salary. His apartment must be lavishly decorated. Though, walking through the apartment, I can't tell how it’s different from any other. The sound of my feet against the ground is the same as it would be anywhere else.

"I would offer food, but..."

Dr. Conroy lets out a laugh, before dragging something across the floor.

"Come. Sit.

I do. I settle in, and Conroy lets out another laugh. However, this laugh is shriller than the last.

"You brought your typewriter. I'm glad! It's funny to think that, out of all the means of communication I tried with you, the typewriter is the one that stuck."

My fingers clack against the keys.

"You credit yourself for far more than you actually deserve."

I tear the paper off. Hand it to him.

Dr. Conroy isn't like Mack. There are some people who are despicable, but hopelessly stupid and cowardly. Dr. Conroy was of a far more cunning breed. A breed of his own.

There's no other person that makes me seethe more than he does.

"Oh, Frank," he says. "I've done everything that I can to help you. I don't know where you got the idea that I haven't. Tell me... Did you come all this way just to write me that lie?"

"Your nurses came up with all the ideas for how to help me. You were paid millions to cure me by millions of people. And, this room is ultimately what you did with all of it."

This time, Conroy tears off the paper. He rips it off hardly after I manage to finish it. Then, he crumples it. He lets a silence stew.

"You have the wrong idea, Frank. I can promise you that I did everything that I could. And, besides — I wasn't being paid to cure you. Not by most. Most people know that you're incurable..."

Dr. Conroy gives a sigh. I can taste the pity seeping from it. I want to gag.

"I was being paid to study you. You're a strange specimen... Every mammal needs to be able to eat and breathe. You can't do either. And somehow, you're still here. I can't figure out how you've done it, for the life of me... But I shouldn't be blamed if I spent millions to at least try."

My pulse hammers through my fingertips as I punch the keys on the typewriter.

"We were shoved onto every talk show and news outlet. On each one, you promised that you had a cure coming. And, you never even tried. You were just dissecting me like a frog."

Dr. Conroy clicks his tongue.

"Let's not forget that your parents were the ones who authorized those media appearances. Frank, I couldn't just—."

I click the keys.

"You never even tried."

Dr. Conroy stands up and paces around me. I'm clueless as to what he's doing. I don't even want to have a clue.

"I spent decades building a reputation," Dr. Conroy said. "I used to think that I could help people. I really did. Then, you came along... You were famous. I was famous enough to be your doctor. That's all there was to it. The unfortunate truth is that you spit in the face of all modern medical science. Maybe I should've tried harder, cut the experiments, and focused all my resources on an elusive cure for you. But, here's the thing: you're not natural. You're probably something that supersedes that. And, if that's the case... You're a hopeless case."

If I could, I would smile. Instead, I begin clapping my hands. I give him the applause he so desperately craves.

I've waited all my life for him to finally admit that he never tried. That he just gave up.

"I know I'm a freak," I type. "I know that I can't be cured. But... I also know that you've been lying to me. To yourself. To everybody. And, you've been doing it for the past twenty years. You never wanted to help people. You wanted fame. And what you forgot was that, unless you're lucky, fame always comes at a cost."

Conroy rips the paper from the typewriter.

"Is that a threat, Frank?"

I type some more.

"No. But, this is: Bill Graham was murdered six months ago. Mack Goodman was murdered last Tuesday. I hated both of those men. Guess which man I hate even more."

"Are you insinuating that you killed those men?"

I nod. I think myself clever too. At least, until Conroy speaks again.

"And, what do you think you're going to do to me? You can't see me. And, even if you can kill me, you'll never get away with it. Everybody knows who I am!"

I type my last note.

"That's why I'll get away. Everybody knows your face. Too many people. But mine? Nobody knows mine."

Conroy doesn't bother reading the note. He knocks my typewriter out of my hands. Lunges at me. Claws at my head. But I pull out my pistol. The trigger clicks.

He's dead.

Nobody knows what I am. Some people like to call me a miracle. Some people call me a curse. Dr. Conroy would've called me a mix of both.

They're all wrong.

I'm one out of a poll of millions. I'm every voice that has ever been drowned out by the crowd. I'm every person who's ever worn a mask. I'm every mask that never had a person to wear it. I'm every murderer that ever got away.

I'm faceless.

End