Short Fiction

Sticky-Note

By Christian Mueth

A breeze laps at my face. The sun gives an embrace. The road bends. There’s a crack. A snap.

I give the wheel a nudge, but it doesn’t move. My chest shoots with pain. Strength faltering, I veer to the side. I'm flying off. The mouth of a dark lake looms beneath me. I’m drawn in. Goosebumps rise. If I could just get away...

I slam my brakes. Though, gravity doesn’t stop for them. There’s a spray of ooze. Mud cakes on the windshield. I rev my engine, only to receive another splash of mud. My vision blurring, I check my mirror.

"Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear."

A crash. A splash. Mud washes. I'm nauseous. The car shakes and sways. The engine delays. It is dead.

So am I.

I open an eye.

I let out a pant and clutched my heart. I felt my forehead. It was dewy.

It was a dream. Just a dream. I rolled over — a picture of a crashed car was scrawled along a notepad. I raised an eyebrow. Where'd it come from?

A blare railed at my ears. Teeth chattering, I groped around until my hand finally slammed "snooze" on my alarm. Silence.

A gasp. My eyes widened.

Monday mornings are hell. But, rolling out of bed on a Tuesday, to find an alarm reading "8:30", when you were supposed to be rolling out of the driveway at 7:00 and into your work-desk at 7:30, and knowing you'll probably be fired, which will then leave you broke, and eventually on the streets, marking you a perpetual failure for the entire world to scoff at...?

It makes Mondays... Look a little... They look a little less like hell.

If only I hadn't stayed up so late the night before. I'd been such an idiot. An idiot!

My legs numb, I stumbled toward the bathroom. A crash resounded as I hit the ground, and a pang shot through me. Looking back, I winced. I'd tripped over a stack of old VHS tapes. Self-improvement tapes, now all tangled in a web of black film.

"Step Up to Bat to Make a Better You". I grabbed the cassette in a jerk of pure instinct. I couldn't help myself. I couldn't put it down. Even as I combed my hair, I fumbled with the cassette. It was tied into a terrible knot. I'm terrible with knots.

My hair was in a terrible knot of its own. This came as a shock, too — my hair was so thin and greasy that I should've been far beyond the days of knots. Yet, there was no denying: the knot was not... Not. Rather, it was.

Trying to undo it, I felt strands of my hair fall out.

"Ouch!"

I'd clamped my finger in the top of the VHS. I tossed the cassette to the ground. A whimper fled my throat. I drowned it with mouthwash. With a gurgle, I spat the wash out. It tasted like dog.

Breakfast was no better — a handful of granola shoved into my mouth. It might as well have been dog kibble.

I hate dogs. They're sweaty, ugly, chaotic... Come to think of it, they're everything that I am. My body trembles just at the thought of them — they always put me in a state. Considering the state of the world, I doubt we need much more of dogs — of me — running around.

As I rushed to the door, my hand gravitated to my head. My hat... Where was my hat?

I sprinted back to my room, my eyes ferreting to the floor. To my bed-post. Nothing. My cheeks flushed. I must've put my hat in my closet. How could I have been so stupid?

My legs turned to lead as I approached my closet. My hand gripping my doorknob, I closed my eyes. With a gulp, I unlatched the door. Mounds of sticky-notes, covered in sprawls of ink, poured out. I waded through them. Bullets of sweat shot down my face. I just had to ignore the notes — the words written on them. They were nothing. Their pull was all in my head.

Grasping the wool rim of my fedora, I stepped from my closet and slammed the door. My arm stiffened, fogging with pins and needles. I let out a grunt. The door had clipped my ulnar nerve — the "funny bone". Funnily enough though, the pain was just noise. I was still left in a daze by the notes. Everything they'd said — there'd been so much I just wanted to forget.

I remained in a daze as I unlocked my door and stepped into a downpour of rain. I shivered. Of course, it was raining. Why hadn't I just checked the weather forecasts from the day before? I should've at least brought my umbrella.

I turned back to my door. It'd already clicked shut. I jiggled the knob. Already locked. I slapped my forehead — I'd locked it from the inside, so I couldn't forget. Brilliant — there was no time to try unlocking it. Nearly twenty keys were hooked to my keychain, and I was on a time crunch.

Unlocking my car was practically impossible. Water soaking through my clothes, I spit a spurt of water from my mouth. The neighbors must've thought me a ridiculous sight: an oaf standing in the rain, hunching over his keys. Hopefully they wouldn't talk. I'd taken great care to ensure they knew as little about me, so they couldn't. They couldn't have possibly known my name, could they? Hopefully they hadn't read my name from my mail...

Could they have been reading my mail from my mailbox? It wasn't implausible. God, I hoped it wasn't so. If only the mailman hadn't kept me from putting a lock on my mailbox.

Still fumbling with my keys, I glanced at my watch. Its hands were frozen, a pool of water filling through a crack in the glass.

A key shoving into its ignition, my car stammered and revved on. Some might’ve called my car a 'lemon'. I was too much of a cheapskate to buy anything better, but I probably should've. Tremors overtook me each time it revved on, out of fear of the engine exploding. Though, maybe... Maybe I was just shivering because of the rain.

Yes, that was it.

I slammed the gas, while my heart slammed against my ribcage. In addition to dogs, I hate machines. They're unreliable and tend to break down at the worst times. I've documented dozens of instances of technology breaking down sporadically and betraying me, on various sticky-notes. Sometimes, I think technology outright hates me. Actually, it does. It's for this reason I don't buy technology from after the year 2000. Upon the turn of the millennium, everything went to crap. Old TV sets and VHS players from garage sales are all I need to coast by. Nothing else can be trusted.

My car's clock turned to 8:41. There was no hope of making it to work on time. I wiped my forehead. Would I be fired? Hopefully not. If only I'd put more thought into everything. Mr. Crowley was always telling me I needed to "work more efficiently." He was right. I did. Why couldn't I?

I turned on a street slick with rain, then clutched my elbow. The pins and needles had died off, but I still felt a raw throbbing. It's odd — usually, I enjoy the sensation of pins and needles. Paresthesia. I'll purposely sit in awkward positions to induce it. The numbness, followed by the tingle of life, is a rare comfort. Yet, the sensation induced by my ulnar nerve only offered discomfort.

With the turn of a dial, my radio blared on. A glib voice filtered through the speakers.

"I love the rain. Such beautiful weather," it said. "The perfect time to be indoors, and get some things done around the house."

The dial turned back off. Biting my lip, I thought back to what I'd been doing in my condo — creating countless clutter. I tried thinking of other things I might've been doing but came up empty. It was as if there were gaps in my memory. Perhaps it was time for me to pick up a hobby, but I somehow didn't have a handle on anything.

I never seem to have a handle on anything.

There was a screech as my tires came to a halt and meandered into a parking lot. My office. It was only three miles away from my condo. I'd strategized it this way, so that I'd never have an excuse to be late. Somehow, I still managed.

I listened to the putter of the engine as it counted down the seconds. I scanned around, but cars occupied the entire lot. Hands trembling, I pulled up a few more feet and sandwiched myself between a pickup truck and Mr. Crowley's Corvette. If only I had a Corvette. That said, I was a terrible driver. Deathly terrified every time I'd go on the open road. Just pulling up next to Crowley's Corvette filled me with fear of scratching it.

Glancing at my clock, I felt my mouth run dry. It was already 8:45. It couldn't be true — yet, it was. I shoved open my car door and heard a thump — I'd hit the pickup truck. My head thumped. I shut the door, and my feet thumped. They took me toward my office building. An oversized brick, sitting on a hill of charcoal.

My car door had left a thin scratch along the side of the truck. Just a thin one. Yet, it was a blemish, nonetheless. Thank god it wasn't Crowley's Corvette.

The gold-lettering on the building's door shimmered as I clasped the latch. "Murrish Bank". Many a time, my co-workers jokingly called it "Mush Bank". I think they nicknamed it because "the work turns your brain to mush." Was it Joe who named it that? He always had something clever to say. Much cleverer than myself. But, I might be misremembering. Anyhow, that's not the reason that I call it "Mush Bank". For me, it's a reminder that I must "mush" while working there.

I'm very bad at taking my own advice.

The door grunted shut, and the carpet wore against my feet. My eyes flitted to a row of punitively puny desks, then landed on my own. They flitted back. A fan breathed down my back as a counter loomed ahead of me. Heat rushed to my face. I faced a glass bowl of peppermint — a mix of sheet-white and blood-red. My reflection in the glass was a mix of that, that is — not the peppermints.

"Melvin Happer."

Blood draining from my face, I jumped. Shuddered.

"Yes sir," I mumbled, eyeing a man in a crisp, black suit. Mr. Crowley. He was an inch or two shorter than me, but I still felt as though he could knock me over. His piercing eyes gave him all the presence he needed.

"Did you file those papers this morning like I told you to, good buddy?" Mr. Crowley said, hands abating into one another. They were so prim. He was so trim — ten times the man I was. Maybe more.

"No," I said, inching toward the counter.

My hands swept along my suit, brushing off bits of lint. I adjusted my tie. Was it cinching my neck? My feet tripped on a bit of carpet, as the laces to my shoes undid.

"It's fine. How about that expense report I needed you to do? Did you get that filed?"

"Well... Uh... As — as it happens..."

"As what happens, Happer?"

"I didn't get that done either."

The corner of his lip twitched. His brow contorted.

"The bank notes?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"Drawer count?"

I shook again.

Mr. Crowley gave a cold chuckle. "Happer. I appreciate you, good buddy... But, those papers we needed filed? Your flub just cost us $2,000 dollars. I was counting on you to do your job, and you blew it. You left early last night, didn't you? And you were late again, weren't you?"

I went to speak, but glue slathered my lips. I rubbed my ear. There had to be something to say, but all words slid away. I'd utterly failed.

Some people work best under stress. Others, at the very least, find that stress builds their character. For me, stress is the great enemy. There is no winning with it. No reasoning with it. There is only utter defeat.

"I might've been late, but I really can't be sure," I said. "I have a terrible memory. Sorry."

Mr. Crowley gawked. His hand rested on his chin.

"I heard the door open a moment ago, but I don't see anybody in here. Do you know if somebody might've come in?"

I shrunk. I shrugged.

"It — it's possible. You know my eyesight though. Very nearsighted."

"It's okay, Happer. I know you were late."

He put his hand on my shoulder. I flinched.

"Really?" I said, feigning relief. I shot a look of desperation at Jack, from across the counter. Tara. Bill. Somebody needed to come to my aid. Yet, nothing came. "That... that's so good. Very nice. It won't happen again at all, so long as I can help it. I'll try to make sure of it."

The building rumbled as rain pelted on the roof. There was a crash of thunder. Lights flickered.

In one of my self-help books, I'd read that you must hold steadfast during uncomfortable scenarios. That you can't allow yourself to show signs of weakness, and instead must look for the light at the end of the tunnel. However, what do you do when you're already at the end, and there is no light?

"Sorry... Again," I said, running my hand through my hair. My left foot twisted behind my back, as if I were about to curtsy.

"'So long as I can help it'?" Mr. Crowley said, curtly. "I've heard you apologize so many times. I agree with you: it won't happen again. But... Not in the way that you might like."

"Wha — wait. Are... Are you suggesting that you're going to fee — fire me?"

I gulped. My eyes darted back to Tara and Jack. Their heads were buried in their work. I was invisible.

"You're not giving me much of a choice here, Happer, good buddy," Mr. Crowley said. "Murrish Bank is an establishment devoted to quality work. Unfortunately, you just haven't been offering us that. You're always late. You look exhausted. You're terrible with our customers... I don't know how you've been spending your time outside of the building, but it clearly hasn't been any help."

"You... You're right," I said, "I guess I really don't deserve a second chance, at this point."

"Wrong. I've given you plenty of second chances. You've just wasted all of them. You're a good person, Happer. I like you, I really do. But, I can't keep you on board, in good conscience."

My head slumped. This was all entirely on me. If only I hadn't been staying up throughout the nights. If I'd just been a little bit better at my job. A little bit smarter. If I wasn't a pitiable person, maybe I could've done better.

I rubbed another piece of lint off my pants. I studied the palm of my hand — a bit of the skin had grazed off, leaving it raw. I must've been rubbing too abrasively. Rushing.

I turned around, toward the door. Toward the rain. As my posture sunk deeper, my mind trailed back. Toward the lists of failures and mistakes I'd made. All of the pratfalls. The pitfalls. Today was supposed to have been a good day — my mood-graph had predicted it. Yet, this was just my luck of the draw. Since childhood, I'd been the klutz. The screw-up.

"Now, you can't go just yet. I'm going to need you to collect your things."

My feet turned to ice. I'd never be able to come back from this. I had no other prospects. This job was all I had. And, who would I turn to? My parents? My brother? I'd be the laughing stock of the family. They'd been right about me going to art school. Such a waste of time and money. I was such a waste. I sighed, my face flushing purple. This was everything I'd ever had nightmares about.

My fists clenched. I turned back around.

"Excuse me?"

A fury burned in my chest. I'm not quite sure what came over me, in that moment. Though, it wasn't me. I swear, it wasn't me. It'd been like walking in a dream. I'd lost all control. My legs. My arms. My hands. As a fist carried into Mr. Crowley's face, all I could feel was shock and horror. Something had possessed me.

It wasn't me.

Mr. Crowley stumbled back and let out a cough. His hand covered his nose, streaks of red leaking between the cracks.

"Happer! Happer!" he said, raising his other hand.

Somebody on the other side of the counter gasped. I didn't care. I don't care.

I glide through the air. The room dims. My arm carries me. The wind howls in horror as and I give a shout, and my fist meets skin.

There's a smattering of red. A buzzing. A flurry.

"Security!" Mr. Crowley said. "Somebody call security!"

The daze dips — dipped away.

"I — I'm so sorry, Mr. Crowley," I said, meekly. "I have no idea what came over me. There's absolutely no excuse for my behavior. Please, forgive me."

I bent down to give Mr. Crowley a hand. He sneered and pushed it away. Spite inhabited his eyes. I backed away. I'd never seen such rage in somebody before. Such malice. It didn't seem right. A sort of relief rushed through me — perhaps it was for the better that I was being let go by somebody volatile as him.

"Can I still have a second chance?" I asked Mr. Crowley.

Or, at least, it'd been something like that. I'm actually not quite sure.

Mr. Crowley spat at my feet, his face still contorted into a scowl. "You have five minutes to collect your things, or I'm calling the police."

The police? I shuddered. There are few things I fear more than them. One night, I was driving on the main road a bit slower than usual. I'd detected a slight palpitation in my heart, and a tremor in my car's engine. Slowing my speed was the only way to avert disaster. At least, until the blare of a police car and the bark of their dogs nudged me off the road, and gifted me a ticket.

In another experience, I ended up pinned to the ground, with the hot breath of an enraged officer on my face. My memory is slightly hazy as to what led to those events — yet, it was undoubtedly another instance of injustice.

"I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I tripped! I swear!"

Upon my attempt to wipe away the blood from his face, Mr. Crowley let out a yelp.

"Stay away and collect your things. You're lucky that the police aren't on their way, right now."

My face softened, trying to dig past Mr. Crowley's granite features. He didn't even offer a flicker of understanding. I turned to my co-workers, but their faces only morphed to that of disgust. I was shut out by all of them. Stranded. An outcast.

Heat bloomed on my cheeks. My eyes clouded, and my nose burned. The floor oscillated as I stumbled forward, ambling toward my desk. A drought plagued my throat. The windows to the building shuddered, wind ramming against them.

Papers fluttered between my hands, my fingers quaking. I clutched my stapler. My hourglass. Time was up. Perhaps I'd had too little for breakfast — that must've been it. One small mistake had compromised me, entirely. If I'd just gotten up earlier, and eaten right, none of this would've happened. That was all.

Hugging a bushel of office supplies, I made my way toward the door.

"I hope that we can make amends after this," I said. "We can still be friends, right?"

Mr. Crowley's jaw was clenched, a frown fixed to his face.

"I don't hold grudges, preferring to mend broken ties," he said, bringing his left sleeve to his mouth. "But... You broke my nose. Get out of my building."

"But... But, that's not right," I stuttered. "That — that's unprofessional. We should still be friends, regardless of what might've happened today. People are supposed to be friendly."

Mr. Crowley winced in disgust. Or, was it embarrassment? He was embarrassed by me, wasn't he? I shouldn't have said what I said, should I have? Classic... Just classic.

"Happer, you're really pushing it."

I outstretched my hand to give a handshake. Mr. Crowley gestured toward the exit. I stepped forward, then stopped, standing my ground — albeit, slightly off-balance. Mr. Crowley stared me in the eye. He licked his lips. He outstretched his own hand. However, as I went to take it, my stapler fell from my pile and landed on Mr. Crowley's arm. He let out a shriek.

"Happer!"

I stumbled out the door, for my car. There was a pounding of feet and the bleep of buttons as Mr. Crowley went to the phone. No doubt, he was dialing the police. That, or an ambulance. Yet, I didn't look back. Rain drenching me to the skin, I shoved my stuff in my trunk and peeled out of the parking lot. I didn't bother monitoring my speed. I couldn't afford to let police catch me.

. . .

My condo was littered in work supplies and muddy footprints. Yet, I laid on my bed, eyes glued to the ceiling. I kicked the self-help books and cassettes off my bed. Useless —they were all useless. Despite all their advice, I was still wet, and unemployed.

At least I've been worse things.

My eyes darted back to the image of the car scrawled across my notepad. It was so odd... I had no recollection of drawing it. Yet, there it was. This wasn't the first time an image had manifested on my bedside, either. Over the past several months, I'd built up a collection of images that corresponded with my nightmares. My bad memories.

Bad memories...

My head was set adrift, traveling back to my conversation with Mr. Crowley. The words he'd said. The words I'd said.

"We should still be friends... People are supposed to be friendly..."

I winced. How could I have said something so stupid? The memory hammered at me. I thrust my head into my bed. I gave my forehead a slap. However, the flashes of memory only became more intense, with me reliving every detail. The way in which Mr. Crowley had smiled. The way his facial muscles flicked in disgust. The way his eyes bored through me.

I must've looked and sounded pathetic. No — I must've been pathetic. I could already hear my voice tinging through my head, as a small squeak.

"Yes," I said. "I messed that up."

I moaned, and more memories flashed by. The looks on the faces of my friends. The way they'd abandoned me, like I was nothing. I was nothing, wasn't I? I'd flinched and groveled at my boss's behest. I'd let my eyes warily dart about, like a squirrel's. It was only too obvious what a mess I was.

"I get it!" I said, tugging at my hair. "I don't need to think about it anymore. I just need a break. I'm sorry!"

"You can't forget!" a voice boomed. "No matter how much you try! No matter where you go, it’ll follow you!"

The thoughts sharpened, making my head ache. Heart pounding, I grabbed a marker and sticky-note and ran down my hall, into the bathroom. I needed to escape.

"I'm sorry!" I whimpered. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."

I shut the bathroom door and turned the lock. I brought the marker to the notepad.

"You fool," the voice boomed, throttling the room. "You can't escape your author."

A whirlpool of terrible memories gushed into the room. My hand went limp and slammed the marker against the mirror, leaving a dark mark. I went to scream but was drowned out by the growl of thunder.

"You can't!" the voice said. "You’re scum! A social deviant! Stop! This is all your fault!"

There was a squeal as my marker whipped around the glass. My eyes glazed over, and my chest tensed. The world was blinking...

… Blinks out of existence. My burden of guilt is dead. A new person has taken control. I know what must be done. I don’t want to do it… But, it’s where things have come to.

I come to — came to. I shook my head. I couldn't let myself lose control. Yanking my hand away from the glass, I brought the marker back to the paper. There was a thump as it hit the counter, but I ignored it. I needed to get the words jotted down.

"You'll still always be a failure!" the voice cried. I groaned as it tore through my body, leaving my body trembling and my throat sore.

Nothing else mattered. I honed in on my flashes of memories, grappling to the most painful ones. I wrote each one down on the notepad, and then tore them away for a new piece.

"Saying something indescribably cruel to Mr. Crowley."

"Tripping over myself."

"Punching Mr. Crowley."

Once finished, I dropped the marker and collapsed to the floor. My breathing was shallow, and my face flushed red. Though, as I listened for the booming voice, silence settled. The room steadied. The storm calmed. I was just an unemployed man, sitting in a room, hunched over a clutter of papers. Squinting to read one of them, I jerked my head away. The papers were in an incoherent sprawl, but the mere thought of them left me with flashes. Eyes locked to the mirror, I scooped the papers up, opened the bathroom door, and headed to the hall. Once in my room, I opened the closet. Papers spilled out and I struggled to ignore them. Finally, I jumped away and slammed the door shut.

Yet, whispers managed to slink out from under the door. Past nightmares. Mistakes. Things that couldn't be undone or unsaid. So many things...

A clump of hair fell into my hand. I raced down the hall, shaking my head. Almost everything had been taken care of — erased. Though, it all somehow still felt hollow. For once, I'd gone to a place here there was little hope of turning back.

I'm not sure when I started putting my bad memories down on sticky-notes. I must've been around ten years old? I had a streak of bad luck at that time, so it would've only been natural. I'd also gotten a pack of sticky-notes with my school supplies and had just begun learning how to use them. I must've realized I could write bad experiences on the notes, then throwing them away. The process had an effect on me — the memories of the experiences would flush away, as if they'd never occurred.

I can't remember the memory that'd led me to starting this process. Though... I suppose it means the process worked?

Unfortunately, after a litany of screw-ups, I realized I couldn't keep throwing the memories away. After all, if I couldn't remember the bad memories, what was stopping me from repeating them? There was also the unfortunate fact that I had holes in my memory, and the people around me didn't understand how. So, I took it upon myself to hide the notes away in my closet. At the time it'd seemed genius. Any time that I needed to remember a bad experience, I could just go in there.

Since then, I've realized how stupid I was to put the notes in my closet. Come to think of it, maybe I should write that down as a bad memory: "stupidly decided to put notes in closet."

I digress. Over the decades, the notes have reached a point where I can no longer navigate them. Every time I open the closet, I run the risk of collapsing in terror, and never coming back out. In fact... I think it might've happened already before? My memory fails me on that, as well.

I snapped from my place on the wall, with a gasp. I scanned around. I'd practically been drowning. Being pulled down a whirlpool of inky nothingness.

Inky nothingness... I peered down the hall, through the open bathroom door. The mirror was still a mess. Somebody needed to clean it off.

I was that somebody.

Taking each step lightly, I entered the bathroom and pulled a spray and a roll of paper towel from under the sink. My eyes watered at the sight of the spray bottle. I have a very weak sense of smell, but cleaning supplies always cause my sinuses to flare up

I doused the mirror in the suds, the world blurring. There was a squeal as I wiped the paper towel along the mirror. A squeal...

The layers of suds peel. A face emerges in the mirror. My face.

"Hello," I say.

"Oh god," I whimper.

My face contorts. A snouted creature assumes its place. I back away, but its eyes chase me. Beady. Soulless.

"Tonight, Happer dies."

Thunder claps. A corner of the mirror cracks. I turn to the door, but it clamps shut. My head bobs around. There must be a way out.

The tile floor burbles, turning to lava.

"Where do you think you’re going?"

I stare at its jagged ears, and matted fur. It's an oversized beast. A monstrous wolf. A curse.

"Cat have your tongue"

"How — what — who are you?"

"Well, I'm your reflection."

It grins, its eyes gaining a glint. It preens its fur, then tilts toward me.

"My reflection? What do you mean?"

It chuckles. The mirror's glass bends. It shatters. My hands jump to my ears.

"I'm in your head," it twitters.

Glass douses my hair. Head succumbing to haze, I try to brush the glass away. Yet, my hands run crimson.

A snicker. A flicker. A crash of thunder.

"You, stamp! Slop! Stop!"

"Me, stop? You sad thing. You little bother... Anyway, the fun is just beginning. And for once, you can't escape. Can’t forget."

I sputter. "I don't understand."

"I'm your nightmares, incarnate. Your locked away cries, fears, rage. I hail from another realm, of fire and brimstone. For years, you've suppressed me. But no longer!"

I run my hands through my hair. Everything becomes hazy. My lungs threaten to collapse.

"What is your goal?"

"To fix you. You see, my friend... You’ve been defeated. Your life has lost all direction. It's time for your rebirth. The place that destroyed you? It will meet my fiery vengeance."

The door rips away. A gust of wind calls me. A sticky-note flutters to my skin. Fear floods my marrow, as a whirlwind of sticky-notes follows. They all cling to me. Each one reminds me of a different mistake. Hundreds of traumatic flashes. The bathroom starts to fade. The notes continue to shower, and I fall toward the ground.

Just black.

Heart attack.

My hand remained on my chest as I sat from my car seat and panted for breath. I tried to ignore the pang. It couldn't have been a heart attack. It was just in my head. A result of running thoughts, that had gotten out of hand.

I looked out my window. A thin drizzle coated it, leaving me with a smudged image of my driveway. My eyes flitted to the sky. The rain had receded, but a coat of gray remained. A harbinger of another storm to come. A murmur rolled from the deep.

Was it daylight still, or evening? If only there were a way to see past the thick shrouds of clouds. I could use some deep sleep. How long had I been in here? I could've sworn that I'd gone inside and to my bed, right after pulling in the driveway...

"You swear? Please… You know what really brought you here."

My hands trembled. Locking them into each other, I glanced at my radio. It was dialed off. My eyes jumped to the yards of my neighbors. All empty. There was nobody around — and yet I'd heard a sound.

"You heard me right. Stop trying to fight me."

My eyes widened, going wild. My thoughts went back to my younger years — back when my older brother used to play pranks on me. I'll still never forget the time that he told me a dollar bill was in the dryer and tried shoving me in there. Or the time he managed to lock me in a shed, on a sweltering summer's day, under the pretense he was just trying to "play".

"You look like a clown."

I looked up.

"Look down."

A chill sliced down my spine. All along my skin were bits of sticky-notes. Each one chocked with scarring memories. Things I'd done. Things I'd said.

"Look at you — an absolute imbecile. A psycho. A murderer."

"Wha— what?" I asked, shrilly. "I'm not trying to kill anybody!"

"Then why do you have a gun in your hand? Just admit the truth."

My tongue turned to cardboard. The voice had been right — a gun was in my hand. My stomach churned. I felt sick. How did I even have a gun? I hadn't seen anything like one since I was younger, when my brother was aiming his BB gun at a couple of quails. A couple of quails, and then me.

"A little bird, trapped in a cage. Speeding through the streets."

My arms became weak, and my head fluttered. Somehow, my driveway had disappeared. My foot was on the gas, my hands were on the steering wheel, and I was speeding toward Murrish Bank.

"I don't understand!" I said. I spat at a sticky-note hanging over my lip. "I swear, I'm not doing this."

"Look over here. Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear."

I tried to keep my eyes on the road. I jerked my wheel, trying to steer away. To head back home. Back to my bed, where everything made sense. Yet, my eyes burned and compelled me to look up.

"You’re under my control now."

My eyes were torn from the road and pulled into the gaze of my mirror. Back to the monster I'd seen in my bathroom. It snarled at me, its tongue flaring between its teeth. I shuddered. The teeth were like knives, jutting from its mouth. Trying to escape, I let out a moan. My car swerved and shuddered. There was another thunderclap, followed by a spray of rain.

The monster chuckled, then reached its claws toward me. I glanced in the back of my mirror, to the backward street-lamps and road signs. I was nearly there, now. I gave my wheel a jerk. Nothing.

The monster growled. Its claws clenched shut. My heart shriveled to a raisin, and blood drained from my face.

"You've always thought you could get ahead. Though, your nature is to be kept asleep. To be forgotten. To let me dominate."

The monster laughed, then flew toward me. I thrust my head back, ramming it into my headrest. My eyes shot back to the road.

I scanned around for the monster. A relieved sigh fled my throat. I was back in control. My hands shifted the wheel, attempting to turn around. Yet, my hands turned in the opposite direction. My car jostled, then swerved, pulling into my work's parking lot. There was a twang. My muscles stiffened. Air sifted away, then thinned. Hair raised. An empty parking spot came into view. There was a shriek as I pulled in, and a neighboring car was shunted.

An alien laugh rumbled through my chest. Lightning dashed among the clouds. My eyes dropped to my hands — to the fingers of my right hand, curling around the trigger of my gun.

"We're ready, locked and loaded. Fully prepared to finally bring on the finale."

Prying my left hand from the wheel, I bashed myself in the head.

"Get out!" I shouted. "Get out of me! I beg of you: don't do this!"

"And exactly what is 'this'?"

My left hand gravitated toward my right. My fingers looped into one another, as I tried clasping around the gun. Yet, to no avail. A surge of adrenaline pumped through my right arm. The fingers tightened. The trigger jiggled. Clicked. My eyes clenched. A bang. Another shattering of glass. I wanted to believe that I was still in my bathroom. That the shattering had been in my head. I opened my eyes. I couldn't believe.

"Yes! Yes!"

My gut turned into itself. I hadn't just shot through my window, but the window of the car next to me. A Corvette.

The world turning in on itself, I squinted. It was Mr. Crowley's Corvette.

"Great," I moaned. "Just great..."

There was the rustling of sticky notes as I stood from my seat. A hand pulled the latch to my door, and a leg kicked it open. I was sucked out, and into the parking lot. I tried to get a better look of Crowley's damaged Corvette. Yet, my eyes were locked to the building. My mind, held hostage. My body, lost to the control of another.

I stopped in front of the glass door to the building. There was a harsh chuckle as I was forced to look over the reflection — a man, feathered in endless sticky-notes. Despite the words on the sticky-notes being backward, I still suppressed a gag upon an onslaught of bad memories. I was covered, head to toe. Yet, I felt naked. Exposed.

"There you are, in all your glory."

The door opened. A bell chirped as I entered the bank. As rank scents entered my nostrils. As titters entered my ears.

The titters were tainted as shatters whisked through. I glanced at my gun. Smoke and the stench of sulfur wafted from its barrel. I glanced up. Rain and lingering shards of glass fell through open windows. Bank tellers dove to the ground, fear crowning their brows.

"Somebody, call the police!" a familiar voice yelped. Mr. Crowley. He was running toward me. Though, he was hardly recognizable. Fear was wrapped around his face as a gauze.

"Crow your cry," I shouted, tilting my gun toward him. "It’ll be your last!"

Mr. Crowley sputtered.

"Happer? Good buddy? Is that you? What the hell are you doing?"

I strode toward him. Pressed the barrel of my gun against his head.

"Ending this... thing," I said. "I'm no longer your slave."

My gun jostled. Trembled. Was it from Mr. Crowley's head? No. He didn't move a muscle. It was my arm, trembling. My finger slipped from the trigger.

"I always thought you a good employee, Happer. Just... Not what we were looking for," said Mr. Crowley.

"Re — really?" I said. "Would you take me back?"

"Sure... Just take the... Take the gun away. My god!"

I took in a deep breath of air and raised myself back up. Resumed my composure. I couldn't let Mr. Crowley get to me. Though, despite all my efforts, I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger either. I remained locked with Mr. Crowley. Stuck under his thumb, once more. His eyes skimmed over me. A smile flicked past his face.

"All these notes on your body — your past embarrassments?" Mr. Crowley said. "Why bother documenting those? Why force yourself to relive those past moments, with such intensity?"

I couldn't answer. Couldn't think. My jaw slackened. Though, the gun remained pressed on Crowley's forehead. We remained locked, until a flash of blue passed through the room. A flash of red. A wail of thunder. A siren.

I swear that it hadn't… been me that'd compelled me to do these things.

You might think that I'm trying to play your heartstrings. Yet, I swear, I'd been controlled by something that wasn’t me. Something I can't quite piece together.

Some say I was overtaken by ego. I disagree with them, fundamentally. They simply don't understand me. The thing I did is a thing I regret. If I could forget it, I would. Yet, it remains upon the crust of my consciousness, tormenting me. Thus, how could one believe I did this on purpose?

No, people blame me to deny what is within us all: a cliff. A monster.

We're all just a few missteps away from being what I've become.

Th — though, maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I’m just being an idiot.

End