Free Most of Me by Mark Lumby

kill me. I know they are.
    I check the news and there is nothing on me. Nothing on the television, in the newspapers; even the internet is void. I wonder why.
    Where are the police? Is it possible the old man’s playing tricks? Are they really dead? Or is doubting their deaths a trick? Is that what he guides me to believe, to make me go back? The man who may or may not be dead!
    I feel lonely; the little faith I had is being stretched by something I can neither see nor touch and it’s putting a divide between what I did believe and what I’m starting to believe. And in that divide is an emptiness so dark that the only salvation from its depths is to absorb it. I have tried thinking of good in this emptiness, but it seems that badness has a stronger hold. In the divide, this dark void, there is no good, no evil. It was far worse. And I felt alone.
    I no longer know the difference between being awake or asleep.
    I remember the first time I opened the door of the house; there was a loud ticking of a clock. I keep on hearing that clock, now. And I have become to loath that sound, because it means that more of me is dead. Not long now, I fear.
    Eventually, it will take me, all of me. Of course it will. The old man had warned there was no escaping it. Most of me got out of that house, but now I’m being dragged back kicking and screaming.
    The Pacemaker has had no real impact though; he just watches. Most of the time I don’t see, but I know he’s there, like a peeping Tom up a tree, spying on my every move. I know he’s going to act, though, attack in a way I wish not to visualise. But my imagination concedes to the blood and the anarchy of the next few days, and I wish I was dead!
    That house, that mirror, holds on to me like a noose around my neck. Every time I close my eyes, the noose gets tighter.
    I can’t breath.
    I think about moving on; drive down to New York or further inland. How much can I escape this thing? But I decide to stay; no more running. It can take me, or it can’t. The hypothetical chain that is locked around my ankle thickens and strengthens and tightens. The cold metal pulls, scorches my skin like a branding iron. My flesh feels like it’s expanding, stretched to the limits, and my insides could be ripped through my flesh at any moment.
    I took a drive towards the beach. I pulled over, get out of the car and lean against the warm hood. I stared out at the ocean, listen to the calming sound of the sea, a breeze brushing at my ears. My phone vibrated in my back pocket. The number is unknown, but I answer it anyway.
    “Hello?” I asked, with a long sigh.
    “Daniel? Daniel…it’s me. Father Thomas.”
    “Oh…hi,” I pushed off the car and walked towards a shallow wall that separated the road from the beach.
    “I sincerely hope you’ve been holding up,” the Father said.
    “I’m ok,” although I wasn’t.
    “Is that so? Anyway, I told you that I’d call if I found anything new.”
    “And you have?” I urged.
    “I most certainly think I have, Daniel. Can you make it down here? It’s half past six; can you make it down here for eight?”
    “I can,” I said. “I can come earlier if you want?” I think that he detected the tone in my voice as somewhat hopeful.
    “No, no, eights just fine,” he assured. “The church will be open. Just walk in and shout; I’ll hear you.”
    “Ok, see you then,” I confirmed.
    “Daniel? I’m not making any promises…just want to make that clear.”
    “No…I understand.” I replaced the phone to my back pocket and looked out at the sea. I am optimistic that some good will come from this. For the first time there is a glimmer of a future.
    I make it to the church half an hour early. The building was open just like he had told me, and I walk through the double doors. Both isles were empty and I could see no sign of Father Thomas.
    I called his name, my voice echoing between the quietness of the walls.
    I began to call again when the Father