text: Austin C. Drake Dream Of The Dead 
   
   
     
   The soles of my shoes squeaked against the freshly dust-covered metal floor. “Filthy… Always filthy,” I mumbled to no one. Eleven years on the job has taught me two things. The first, and most important, don’t ask questions. This is also the easiest rule to follow. It’s not like there’s ever anyone here to talk to. Second, never be surprised. In this building, after everything I’ve seen, the unexpected is never surprising. I arrive every morning to the floor of this square room completely covered with dust. 
  	An image of my mother flashes before me, undoubtedly giving me one of her famous life lessons. “Dust,” I remember her saying as she slid her finger across the screen of our television, “is just dirt and dead skin cells…” Her voice trails off and I find myself already walking toward the door that houses my tools. I call it a door, not because it needs opening, but because it should need opening. The screw holes that once held the hinges of a long forgotten door have been painted over with the same flat gray that covers every wall. But it’s this gray paint that seems to have forgotten that its job is to conceal the doorway leading to Hell. 
  	A wide black door taunts me from the other end of the room. I lift a broom from its sheath and twirl it slowly around my fingers, staring intently at the gateway. The crimson stains near the handle only heighten my curiosity. I’ll bet that room has something to do with the floor… The sound of my mother’s voice then ricochets around my head. The reminding of the ingredients in dust causes me to gag momentarily, but I regain my composure as fury burns up my chest. “They hired me…” I breathed through a clenched jaw. 
  	I begin walking toward the locked door before I think my legs to move. What are you doing?! I question my behavior, much like it was questioned as a child. The door’s never been opened. My hand responds on instinct and reaches towards the handle, my eyes wide in anticipation. The handle turns before my hand reaches it, hinges creaking in a mockery of a tone as the door is pulled inward. I freeze. Un…locked? A billion hopes, and twice as many fears, collide in the ocean of my mind. The door opens fully to reveal a wide man dressed in darkly stained overalls.  
  	“You lost, kid?” He didn’t seem too irritated with my being here. “No… Sir,” I swallow hard before continuing. “My name’s Barry…” My words escape as hardly more than a whisper. “I sweep this building every morning.” He scanned me carefully before responding, “Name’s George. I’mma take it you gots yerself some questins.” He didn’t ask it as much as he cut it from my mind. “Well, here goes: I make the dust. You clean the dust.” His voice suggested no foul play, and his face had lightened a few shades. “But, I don’t understand how all this dust is made every day… It’s rather irritating.” My anger was slowly returning, though unwelcome in the presence of someone no less than twice my size. “Follow me,” he breathed. Then he turned and disappeared into the dark room. 
  	I took a step into the room and was immediately welcomed by an unimaginable stench. The fumes of rotting flesh burned my nostrils and forced me to heave to my left. A soft chuckle from somewhere deep in the room made me jump, but I didn’t make a sound for fear of being laughed at more directly. Oh that’s just great… I’m worried about being laughed at. My rapid blinking does nothing to add light to the room. Convinced that George would keep true to his word, I slowly slid my feet forward. Maybe he’ll hit the lights. The thought made me shiver. God, I hope not. The picture it created in my mind depicted nothing short of a massacre. I inched forward a little further, my arms outstretched in front of me. I kick something heavy and the sound of metal on metal echoes throughout the room. I crouch and drag my fingers across the floor, searching quietly for anything to use as a weapon. My fingers dip into something wet and I quickly wipe them onto my jeans, dreading the culprit. 
  	A loud switch is flipped and the room flashes as the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling warm up. A familiar voice fills my ears, calling out my name. “Barry. Barry, it’s time.” That voice seems content enough. I close my eyes tightly as the lights flash less often, the brightness making my head pound. My body grows cold and I shiver, my eyes still clamped shut to keep the pain out. I bite through my tongue to keep from screaming, but my ear-piercing cry doesn’t subside. Why so much pain? The single question lingers as I yell through my now quivering jaw. The pain, more like a burning of my insides, increases as the light behind my eyelids brightens. The brighter light stings my eyes and my head throbs harder. 
  	Without warning the light is cut off. The holes in my tongue have filled my mouth of blood, but the pain is gone. My chest no longer feels burning, and my fingertips remain still. I slowly open my eyes to the darkness. As I become aware of my position I also notice the thinness of the air. I lie on my back with my hands at my sides, something solid holding them tightly against me. Reach out. Reach out and push. I tell my hands what to do, but they don’t respond. Hushed voices and soft sobbing penetrates the walls that enclose me and my worst fear becomes the only reality. “I can’t believe he’s… he’s gone.” My guess is assured at that statement. I’ve died. 
   
   
   Publication Date: March 19th 2010 https://www.bookrix.com/-klondikebarassassin