So, I decided to continue! Thanks so much for the suuuuuper encouraging reviews. They made me feel loads great :). This chapter is full of crap. I'm not sure where I'm going with it. If there are errors, then I apologise in advance.

And ISN'T THE DARK KNIGHT EPIC BRILLIANCE!?

2. TWO IS FOR YOU

--

Lean in. Don’t be shy. This is as close as you can get without getting your eyeballs wet. It’s not very close at all.

--

Imagine you are an aeroplane. Up in the sky. Gliding through the air with the wind rushing under your arms and pushing back your hair. The clouds look like smog up here. And all around you is silence and bliss, bliss, bliss.

Pop! A little man shoots out of your side and plummets.

Imagine you are the little man strapped to a little parachute. Plummeting, plummeting, plummeting…Whoosh – voomph! And the parachute is open. You float through the air. Land on rooftop. Sink through it. Supernaturally. And into the room.

However, your feet do not touch the floor. You float near the ceiling. Like you do in your dreams and daydreams. Watching what goes on down below. Always watching. Like God watches. Like an angel watches.

In this room you see two people. One of them looks thirty at least. Medium built. Tall. The other is young. Sixteen at most. A boy, really. We will call him Beta for explanatory purposes. He is curled on the ground like a prawn. Duct tape over his mouth as the other man hits him with his hands. Kicks him with his shoes. Beats him with the furniture.

The boy is screaming silent screams into the tape. You cannot physically hear them. But, as you see him writhing on the ground, by god, you can hear him in your head. Hear him screaming and screaming and SCREAMING, PLEASE! HELP ME! HELP ME!

Do you help him?

Do you stay floating, near the ceiling, watching?

Do you think that you cannot help him?

What do you do?

Enter another boy. We will call him Sigma for explanatory purposes. You turn and see Sigma come into the room. Sigma looks. You look.

Red stains the carpet. Stains the older man’s clothing. Stains the boy all over. Beta has stopped moving. He has stopped moving long ago. Yet the other man continues battering and hammering and rupturing.

A scream rips. The man turns on Sigma. His hand is over Sigma’s mouth in an instant. You see a flicker in Sigma’s eyes. He is quick and twists out of the man’s grip. Runs out of the room with the man after him.

You follow them from above into the next room. It is the kitchen. And Sigma has a large kitchen knife. It is pointed at the man. Sigma’s hands shake and sweat drips off his face and his breath bursts in and out when the water in his eyes tremble.

Do you help him?

Do you fly down and protect him?

No, you do not.

You do nothing. But watch.

You see the man lunge at Sigma. You see Sigma lunge at the man. There is struggle. The blade flashes again and again and again. Skin and fat and muscle tear. Red spills. The man stumbles back and falls. The blade continues to flash. Over and over. Until the body ceases to thrash and holler. The slices are uneven and rough all the way down. But, you can see that the man lies in almost two chunky parts. He is hacked in half.

Sigma stands over his work. There are tears and sweat and snot and blood streaked on his cheeks. The kitchen knife is stained but still glimmers. Sigma does nothing but breathe and look.

You wait.

Nothing happens for a while. Then the corners of Sigma’s mouth twitch. His lips stretch. His throat vibrates. And he chuckles. He chuckles and the vibrations become stronger.

His blood-damp, brown hair flicks over his forehead as he lifts his head up and looks at you. He stares at you. His voice echoes and breaks.

He laughs.

And what do you do?

You laugh, of course.

You clap your hands and laugh.

--

BEE, BEE, BEE, BEE – bzz.

6:30am.

The alarm clock flashes boredly into my swollen eyes. Good morning, Sam. Time to get up for work. It says. Time to get up. No. Don’t want to. I lie there for a good ten minutes. My body and brain are still on snooze.

BEE, BEE, BEE, BEE – bzz.

6:40am.

I am up. I piss. I shower. I shave. I brush. I change. I groom.

And I am ready for the day in forty minutes. My apartment is unnecessarily large with two bedrooms, a narrow study room, a living room, a kitchen, a laundry and a bathroom. It is moderately well furnished. I am not rich. My income is moderate but I do not mind. The more moderate I am, the easier it is for me to be invisible.

It is like being a wolf, hiding among the herd, dressed in sheep’s wool.

Two turns locks my door. Click, click. I say good morning to Franklin, the old biscuit who lives across from me, and catch the elevator downstairs. I make my usual 7:45am train and locate a spare seat in the packed carriage.

The engine chugs. I lean against the glass and close my eyes. My brain is likes to retreat back into sleep. Twitch. My eye twitches.

I open them.

Someone diverts their gaze. Across from me is a man with his eyelids lowered. I close my eyes. Open then again. His gaze diverts. I relax my body and continue looking at him. He glances up and our eyes connect.

Something jolts.

Our eyes connect. His blue. Mine brown. Pause. My wildcat roars and all I can see is blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. I feel nauseous. But I cannot tear my gaze away. There’s something…not right.

Nostrils flare instinctively. He smells like Gucci Pour Homme II, aftershave and mint. And faintly…oh, very, very, faintly…of Them.

Sniff again. Gone. Perhaps not.

Blink. Look away simultaneously.

Look away.

--

“Morning Sam!”

The painfully perky receptionist greets me as I walk into the office.

“Morning,” I smile back and swipe my security card.

Important sounding shoes are muffled into the carpet. Bag thuds against drawers and the chair sighs under weight. I lean back in my swivel chair, stretch, and rub my eyes. So…tired. Last night, I stayed up watching the latest edition to my DVD collection.

It was a Russian film. Nightwatch.

Trippy, bloody, generic plot.

I enjoyed it. May or may not be a lie.

“Hey, Sammie boy. What’s up with you?”

Timmy Atkins falls into his chair in the desk adjacent. He looks no better than I feel.

“Hi,” I reply, “Just tired. Mum called last night to ask how I was doing. Talked for years.”

Timmy shudders. “Mothers are so naggy. Apparently like, it’s some mum-hormone that makes them all worried and protective and stuff.”

I check my email. “Really now? I guess it’s not a bad thing. I like to know my mum loves me.”

Timmy and I go out to the kitchen and make ourselves breakfast. I have two slices of raisin toast and coffee. Timmy has Coco-pops. We greet some other tired looking employees. Watch the morning news on the kitchen television.

“Check it out. A new dude,” Timmy says lowly to me, nodding at the reception desk. He spoons in Coco-pops and looks at me over his bowl.

I glance through the doors to reception. Sip my coffee. I see a flash of dark blonde and navy. Tells me nothing. Continue watching the news.

“-- and this is the kitchen,” the painfully perky receptionist comes in with an arm outstretched, “There’s toast and cereals and fruit and yoghurts, so feel free to have some. Everyone comes in to like, socialise and stuff, so it’s pretty cool here.”

“Oh, wow. That’s very nice.”

The man who follows her in takes a look around. He is tall. Broad shouldered. Grey-blue eyes. Long nose. Shaggy, dark blonde hair. Combed back. Curls around his ears.

I sip my coffee. Analyse him. Insides twist with recognition.

His scan lands on me. My breath hitches and once again, I drown in blue. It stings like the fresh sting you get when you eat Listerine Pocketpaks and breathe in too hard. He is the man on the train. The one that did not smell…right.

I smile politely at him and he returns it. He looks long enough at me not to arouse suspicion. I put down my mug. Unfocus. Take a sniff.

I do not smell Them.

I cannot smell Them. Something is filtering Them. The train man. The train man. The train man. He started it. He’s not right. It’s the train man. But…I cannot smell him.

I cannot smell the train man.

My wildcat howls in confusion and uncertainty.

When I take up my mug again, the train man has left.

Whatever.

--

I go out that night. Someplace far from my work building. Onto the streets. Dark, neon colour. Stinging icy air.

Is it time for some F.U.N.?

I sniff. As usual, They’re calling. But it is too soon for a body to be halved. Much too soon. Tomorrow perhaps. Relax, I’ll have some fun tonight, of the different sort.

I walk across the harbour. There is a man sitting alone on a bench near the water fountains. No one about.

I approach him. “Hey.”

Looks up. His eyes are green and gorgeous. There is a cigarette dangling between his lips. Hands are poised to light it.

“Hmm?” he grunts.

“Can I join you?”

“…Yeah.”

I sit next to him. Not too close yet.

“Nice night.”

He lights his fag, “Cold night. Want a cig?” He offers me one. I accept. Lean in as he lights it for me.

Blow. Lung cancer. Blow.

“Do you live around here?” I ask.

“No.”

Blow, blow.

“Any reason why you’re here in particular?”

“Got fired.”

I look at him and he blows smoke at the moon. Inhales. His ciggie burns out. It drops and crushes under his shoe. He looks at me. Blows his last breath in my face.

I blow one right back.

“That sucks,” I say.

“Shit happens,” he says and he puts his hand on my thigh.

The clouds float over the moon. Darkness. Dark, dark, cold, darkness. Stubble against my face. Tongue in my mouth. Hands on my thigh.

It is stupid to do this where anyone can see. It is stupid to do this when I think I sense someone looking at us. It is stupid. But we do it. Because it’s part of the thrill. To be bold. To be reckless.

When the moon peeks out again, we’re both gone.

--

“Pencil delivery.”

A box of pencils slap in front of me. I minimise my days-of-the-week poem webpage. Procrastinating.

The receptionist laughs at my blank face. “Have fun, sharpening Mister Sam.”

It is Tuesday.

Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

Last Friday. On Friday, I met a man on a park bench. Went home with him and had good, hard, sex. Cut him a little bit.

Friday’s child is full of woe.

Friday’s child was okay until I cut a bit too deep. Then he was full of woe. And pain. And pleasure. I’m sure he loved it. I loved it.

I take out the pencils from its box. A packet of twelve. Soon there will be twenty-four. Line them up with the logos facing upwards and level them out with a ruler. I pick out the first.

Snap!

One pencil becomes two bits of wood. Sharpen them. Two bits of wood become two sharp pencils.

Snap!

One pencil beco –

“Sam.”

“That’s me,” I say automatically. Swing around and smile.

Jonathan Du Preez. My boss. Smells like some unidentifiable obscurely branded cologne. Nearly forty. Wife and three kids. Precious.

And next to him is – the man on the train that makes my wildcat go insane. He looks at me with those cold, blue eyes and I barely keep above the surface. Something like repulsion flickers in his eyes but it is gone as quickly as it flashed in.

“Sam, meet Gabriel. He started yesterday but I never got the chance to introduce you two properly.”

I extend a hand. “How’s it going?”

He grips and gives me a firm shake. “Not too bad, thank you. It’s nice to meet you.”

His hands are cold. His voice is low and husky. Blonde hair and blue eyes. He looks like a storybook Gabriel angel.

“Likewise,” I say and let go, “So, Gabriel. Like the angel?”

Clearly, I am an expert at witty banter.

Gabriel raises his eyebrows slightly. “I guess. Like the angel…”

I grin. “Welcome to the team, Angel.”

“Thank you.”

There will be some fun with this angel.

THANKS FOR THE REVIEWS EVERYONE! YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST! Seriously. Wow.

It's like, 4:20am now. I'm really tired. I'll come type up all your usernames some other time. In the near future. When I get around to it. I'm extremely grateful :D

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