• This story contains vulgar language, violence, and all around... Not happiness. Read with caution. Also, the full title was too long to fit in the title box, so I give you...

    The Other Man That Lives in Your Head Tried to Kill Me Last Night

    It was three o'clock in the morning. That much, I could tell without even looking at a damned clock. Three o'clock in the morning and my best friend Jeffrey stood over me reeking of alcohol. He's done it again.

    I sat up slowly, blinking my eyes and trying to focus on the room around me. It was still dark and Jeff had decided to just leave the lights out. That bothered me. He knew about my fear of the dark. I always sleep with a light on. I don't care if I'm a grown man, I sleep with a night-light and a Teddy bear, damn it. I reached for the light and clicked it to the on position. Nothing happened. I groaned.

    "Did you forget to pay the electric bill again, Jefe`?" I asked angrily. There was no answer. For several long moments.

    I finally could feel my legs again and pushed myself to a standing position to confront Jeff in the silence when I was hit by the smell of the alcohol at a stronger level. It wasn't scotch. That's Jeff's usual drink. No, this was the rank smell of beer. Just beer. I could feel myself wanting to retch, but I held it in as best I could. Something was up and I had to do... something.

    I put a hand out to Jeff, resting it on his shoulder. "Jeff, seriously... What's up?" Still, no answer. I shivered suddenly, glancing around the room for some source of light. Some way I could see my friend, examine him, determine whether or not I had to take him to the hospital. Then, I felt a strong hand grasp my own, the one I'd left on his shoulder. The grip was tight, painful. I squeaked. Like a little girl.

    Then, Jeff made the only noise I'd heard him make since he stumbled drunkenly into my room. A deep, bellowing chuckle. The kind that sends shivers down your spine in all the wrong ways during a creepy movie but could very well get you hot at the same time. And it was terrifying to me to be coming from my best friend of several years. This wasn't Jeff. This was... some drunk, creepy, bad bad bad man... And that was most definitely not a good thing. I squirmed away from him and out of his grasp only to fall back onto the bed when the backs of my knees collided with it.

    "********," I mumbled, twisting to crawl over the bed and away from Jeff. I know my room by heart. Ten paces from the bed to the window. I could get there at a dead run, yank open the full-length curtains, and shout for help. Hell, I could jump out the balcony window if I had to. It was just one flight up...

    A strong grip had my ankle and I fell forward onto the bed as he yanked my foot back. I could feel tendons and muscles straining in my leg and I wanted to scream out in pain when he tightened his grip.

    "Jeff! What the ******** are you doing?" I yelled, trying my hardest to sound calm... I probably sounded like a wounded animal, screaming for mercy. "Jeff, seriously. It's me. It's Chris. Don't do this. Please don't do this!"

    He just laughed again and yanked my leg once more, sending me flying to the floor and into a wall. I'd forgotten how strong he is. The man can lift three of me on a good day, I swear... Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but I don't mess around when I say he's strong. I've been pinned by him before, albeit in a much more playful scenario involving childish name-calling and a Thanksgiving dinner at my mother's house, but that's beside the point. He's ******** strong.

    My back slammed into the wall and I saw stars in front of my eyes as my head bounced off the same wall. Within seconds Jeff was in front of me and I could finally see him in the dark; my eyes had adjusted. He was leering, angry and fierce, and he was holding something metallic in his left hand. My heart dropped into my stomach.

    His gun.

    I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but it wouldn't go down. I tried to stand, to struggle away, but my leg had seized up. I was immobile, and running out of time. Jeff brought his hand up, aimed the gun at me and fired...

    Silence. There was no bullet. I let out a long breath of air I didn't know I'd been holding. My mind reeled, reminding me about how he always gives his gun over to me before he goes out drinking. Makes me unload it and hide the bullets. Is this why? Is he afraid he'll kill me if he's given the chance? Should I be paying more attention to Jeff's alcohol intake?

    I didn't have long to think on it. As fuddled as his mind was with alcohol, it didn't stop him from realizing that even without bullets, a gun is a powerful weapon. Devoid of the metallic harbingers of death within its barrel, Jeff decided to use the gun as a bat of sorts. He brought it down hard into my right shoulder. It felt like it was suddenly on fire as the metal bit into the skin. I screamed. I'm sure our neighbors must have heard the scream, even through insulated walls.

    He didn't stop there, though. Again and again the gun came down. On my shoulders. Once on my head, leaving me dizzy and gasping. Then, it came at me sideways, slamming into my face, tearing skin. I curled up on my side, arms hovering over my head. And I cried. It hurt so God damn bad I cried. I cried until the edges of my vision started to go black. I cried until I couldn't feel the blows anymore. I cried until...


    I woke in a daze, wrapped in blankets and floating on something both soft and firm at the same time. I opened my eyes slowly, fighting off the light of day and whimpering at the headache that stabbed through my eyes. I could feel dried blood on my head, on my cheek. My right shoulder felt like it was dislocated and my side ached painfully. I coughed, wanting to spit up blood that never came. How was it I was still alive?

    Then, I realized what I was lying against. I was in my bed, curled up in just about every blanket in the house. There were gauze bandages all over my face, head, hands... and two strong arms wrapped around me from behind. Jeff.

    I screamed, remembering the night before, and struggled to get free of him. He let me go and sat perfectly still as I stumbled for the door. I stopped to look back at him and saw... the most pitiable excuse for a human being. His hands were clenched over the bedspread, knuckles turning white. His bloodshot, beautifully too blue to be real eyes were red-rimmed and spilling over tears. He was staring at me with what could only be described as the most genuinely apologetic expression he could ever have conjured up.

    And my knees buckled at the sight. My best friend, in tears, in my bed... My bed whose sheets were covered in my blood. My blood spilled by my best friend. And he was up in an instant, wrapping those strong arms around me and whispering thousands of hushed apologies. Pressing his face to my hair and stroking my back, calming the heaving cries that I hadn't realized were wracking through me.

    Finally, as the room filled with silence, he pulled back a little and looked me straight in the face. "I have to tell you something, Chris," he whispered. "Something... I've never told anyone."

    He half-carried me back to the bed, wrapped me in the blankets again, and started speaking. His voice was soft as he explained everything. His being a foster child. His foster mother's brother, his closest friend as a child, being murdered in front of him. The years of turmoil at the Red Creek Mental Institute. He kept talking, telling me everything. How he'd never really gotten over it. How he always tries to stop himself from drinking too much because it always sent him into a madman's rage. How he couldn't stop last night. How every bit of common sense had left him in that one instant. How he thanked God and seventeen other deities that I'd taken the bullets out of his gun. How he'd cried for hours when he realized what he'd done to me. It all spilled out in that same quiet, terrified, subdued voice.

    He talked until his voice was gone and then he held me, crying. He wept and kissed my cheek like I always did to him when he was sick. And he wouldn't let me go...


    And you know what? I'm glad he didn't.