This is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a happy story. I think I'd class it as a horror story, but that suggests supernatural elements that aren't here. It warrants an 'R' rating, partly for the theme and the story itself, but also because there's a fair amount bad language. Feedback is welcome at bbb@inverty.com.

Trapped - A Tale Of Gotham

I am trapped here, between worlds. My debts and my fear are pushing me to death, to the next world. And yet I cannot let go; I have people here who love me, people I love in return. I cannot hurt them. I pace around my home, my fifth floor apartment that I bought with a loan I lied to obtain. My heart races, the sweat pours from my forehead and mingles with my tears. My eyes stray from the oven, to knives hung on the wall, to the balcony that looks out onto the quiet road below. I stop walking just long enough to gaze longingly for moment at the pavement below. I take a step closer to the edge and then I see an image of my mother and father gazing down at my lifeless body, spread on a mortuary slab, and I move away again. I dearly want this fear to end, but I cannot and will not lay the guilt on my family and friends. I pace some more, my heart rate getting faster, my panic rising, until I collapse to the floor. I curl up on the expensive parquet flooring of my kitchen and shake uncontrollably. I want to scream, to empty my lungs into the air until the final breath leaves my body, but I cannot. I worry about disturbing my neighbors and realize that the thought would be funny under different circumstances. So I keep my mouth shut tight and my jaw begins to ache and I worry that my teeth will give under the pressure. But, eventually, the panic subsides and leaves me with despair as my only companion.

I watch the microwave clock as the minutes pass. I cannot bring myself to move. In my mind's eye I hear the knocks of the debt collectors at the door. I see myself watch through the spy hole in my front door. I wait until they have moved out of sight and then I wait some more. They come every day and wait outside my door, and they come every night and wait inside my dreams. In reality they gave up knocking days ago and now they simply lurk outside, waiting. I cannot see them, but I know that they are there. The phone cord has been lying on the floor for days, ever since I ripped it from the wall. My modem lies smashed on the floor, the tower case of my PC leans drunkenly against a desk leg. My food will run out tomorrow, and I do not know what to do. But this is today and the thought of food makes me sick to my stomach. I stay on the kitchen floor, while in the other room I can hear the television whispering to me of stock prices and train crashes and commercials for cars.

Day turns to dusk and twilight and night. The only light comes from the clock and the faint blue glow of the television. Eventually even despair gives up and leaves me alone and emotionless, as I knew it would. I get up and go the fridge. I look at the two crusts of bread and the thin slices of ham curling up on the middle shelf. My nausea doubles and I slam the door shut hard enough to rock the fridge back. It hits the wall and swings back. I imagine it continuing to fall, coming forward to crush me, but it simply settles back again in its rightful place. Everything here has its own place, everything but me.

I wish I knew where I should be. I cannot kill myself and I cannot live like this. But in these rare moments of numbness, these brief moments between panic and despair; I can think. I look for a way out of this mess. I could throw the door open when the debt collectors arrive tomorrow. I could let them take everything I have. And when that turns out to be not nearly enough I could let them take me. A spell in prison and lifetime of working simply to pay off my debts. But who, truly, would want to live like that? Surely even death is preferable? I could leave my apartment now, get in my car and leave Gotham. Just drive until I hit some small town in the middle of nowhere, start a new life in a roach-ridden motel, taking whatever menial jobs I can find, earning just enough to cover the rent and buy some cheap liquor to bring me oblivion for a night. But in this era of red tape and computer checking I'd soon be found. And even if I somehow how find a place remote enough to not bother about those things, it's not a life I could lead.

So what do I do? What the fuck do I do? I can't blame anyone but myself. I got myself into this mess, this fucking shithole of a mess and no-one is going to dig me out. I am here through my own weaknesses and desires and greed and there is not one single person on this whole Earth that is going to come to my rescue. Superman isn't going to fly in through my window with a suitcase of cash and leave it on the table with a nod and a wink. The JL-fucking-A aren't going to come down from their watchtower and use their super speed and green rings and big fucking hammers to deal with the debt collectors. I'm the bad guy here. I'm not a villain, just a weak, greedy, shortsighted man who tried to cover up his own emptiness with material possessions. They're not real though, these things. It's just stuff. Stuff you cram around you, stuff you wear as a suit to protect yourself from the void in your heart. But these things mock me now. The paintings on the wall, the tasteful furniture, they're not who I am. They're not me. They're just wood and cloth and canvas. Has any one of these things ever made me feel as happy as I have felt sitting on a beach at sunset staring out as the sea turns slowly from blue to red to black? No. Has anyone single fucking material possession ever meant as much to me as the gentle touch of the woman I loved? No. I look at my possessions and the anger rises up inside me. I hate everything in this apartment and I want to destroy it all, to obliterate every trace. But I can't. I stare and the books and the pictures and the tables and chairs and as much as I hate them I cannot destroy them, because they are a part of me.

The anger builds some more and I know what comes next. I can feel the blood red, vengeful heat radiating from me, filling the room. And then, as I knew it would, it snaps back. I stagger under the force of the blow and what came out as anger turns to panic as it hits. And the cycle begins again. The pacing, the sweat, the terror, the flashes of imagined deaths, the adrenaline pumping, subsiding, diffusing; leaving me, once more, with despair.

Daylight comes and with it comes the numbness that is the closest I have felt to contentment for weeks. I cover the options in my head: surrender and disgrace, escape and a lifetime of drudgery. They're not for me, you see. I thought I was special, unique. I believed I deserved a happy life. Gotham was mine, and it owed me a living. I wanted everything. I deserved everything - women, fame, love, wealth. They should have mine for the taking. But I found only one woman and she gave me love for a while, and then left. I wanted fame, but didn't know how to get it. I just felt that if I just carried on someone would find me and elevate me to the position in society that was rightfully mine. But they never did, and I got tired of waiting. But wealth, wealth I could get. I applied for every credit card going. I lied on my application forms. I set up separate phone lines into my home and gave these details as the contact numbers for the fictitious company I claimed to work for. I made up a letterhead and faxed fake contracts of employment to loan companies. When payments were needed I got another loan, and another, and another. I bought every single thing I desired and I thought that I was happy. Maybe I even was, for a while; I don't remember clearly.

What did I think of the future? Nothing. It wasn't a consideration. I was young and I knew that by the time the loans dried up that I would have the high paying job I deserved. I would have written the best-selling novel, had the number one hit. I was truly surprised when it all came crashing down around me. Of course, you can see it was inevitable, that this was going to happen. It's obvious, a simple case of cause and effect. During these moments, when I lose my emotions and I can see myself from the outside, I can see it, too. But at other times when terror and fear rule, I blame myself. Not for taking the money, you understand; not for buying possessions that I didn't need and couldn't afford. I blame myself for  failing to take what was rightfully mine and getting the money to pay off the loans. I blame myself for not writing the novel or the number one hit.

I get the two slices of bread and the ham. The sandwich tastes stale, bitter. But the act of eating it, knowing that the fridge is now empty, spurs me to action. I know what to do. It's something I considered before, but, somehow, it never seemed like a real option. Now I know it is my only way out. I have never taken responsibility before and I will not take it now. I wait for the night to fall. I spend the day watching TV, playing video games and listening to my favorite music. I phone my mother, telling her cheerfully that everything's fine - I just had a problem with the phone line. I enjoy myself. A weight has been lifted from my shoulders and I am happy. I catch myself singing to myself on a couple of occasions.

Twilight comes and I start to feel nervous. I can't keep still and I pace around, clicking my fingers, scratching my head, anything to keep my hands busy. But I am simply apprehensive, not terrified. When the true darkness comes I go to the closet and find the replica gun I bought from the comic store down the road, before the toy guns went and the Pokemon took their place. It's only plastic, but it feels reassuringly heavy in my hand. I turn the antique lamps out and in the small amount of light that remains, the gun looks real. I open my front door for the first time in over a week. I step over the threshold and shut the door behind me without looking back. I don't bother to lock it.

Down the stairs and out into the street. It's a quiet road in a nice area. Not rich, but well off. I walk down towards the nearest main road. I am aware of every breath I take. I walk for half a mile or so, and then wait on the corner of Sage and Richmond. I can see a long way in both directions, which is why I chose to come here. Cars pass, none of them what I want to see. Gotham is cold at night and I start to shiver. A small, pale man in a long overcoat comes up and asks if I have any drugs. I wave him away and he curses at me. He stares at him, looking deep into his eyes. I think he sees something in me, something that scares him. He turns and leaves, still muttering under his breath. I wait some more, getting a few curious glances, but nothing more. Then a cop car turns out of Hollow Drive. My heart skips. I wait until it is closer and then I step out into its path. It slows down, then stops. The horn sounds a couple of times. Then a guy leans out of the driver's window and shouts at me to get the fuck out of the way, creep. I pull the replica pistol from my pocket and hold it by my side. I hear the driver curse. The female officer in the passenger seat speaks into her radio.

I see a dark shadow out the corner of my eye.

The doors of the cop car open. The two officers climb out, guns pointed at me. The male officer tells me to drop the weapon. I don't move. The shadow is closer now and I know it is the Angel of Death, come to claim me. Suddenly, for the first time, I really understand that I will die tonight. The officers stay where they are. The shadow that is the Angel Of Death is closer. I turn toward the female officer. She is Hispanic, beautiful and in another life, maybe.... but there is no other life.

I start to raise the pistol. I hear someone, not one of the cops, shouting, "STOP!" and it sounds like a plea. My gun comes up further. I see a brief flash of light. Long horns and leathery wings speed to towards me.

An intense heat rips through my chest.

I start to fall.

I hear a gunshot.

And I almost have time to smile.