The Diabolical Tales: Sweet Heart
A man wanders on an endless path only to wake up along the hard shoulder of a motorway with no memory of who he was or why he's there. One thing that's constant is his need to forget his troubled past
The path was a long perpetual march into the unknown. It served a purpose he could not fathom. All he could perceive was a grey, thick, ever-constant wall that kept him on this endless road to nothingness. He saw something in front of him: a wooden sign, with two arrows, pointing left and right. The left read regret and the other forget.
In this situation, he should seek redemption and enlightenment. It lingered in his mind that he had stood at this point once before. So many times he had chosen neither and stood there for a time only to wake and have no such recollection of the dream. The beauty of dreams is that they never stay with us, they are gone almost immediately becoming nothing more than a distant thought lost in the noise. His consciousness shouted for him to choose but he squashed it.
Forget.
On instinct, he turned and walked right, the thick grey weighing on his shoulders and compressing into his chest. He heard the cries of a woman behind him. She wailed, and his consciousness crumbled around him. In disobeying it, would he lose himself?
He heard a childish laugh ahead of him and a small figure emerged, but only for a few seconds before disappearing. The sudden sharp pain in his heels caused him to stop for a second but still, he continued forward, agony searing his ankles and traversing his legs. He finally reached the point of no return. The path led only one way.
Down.
The black abyss beckoned, calling him in. Trust it, and let his mind go. Forget everything. All that he loved and cared about would be forever buried never to enter his waking thought. He closed his eyes feeling weightless, as if cast adrift on an endless sea the current carrying him ever forward but never back. The sensation of falling suspended his heart inside him. All this was so powerful that it drowned out her cries. So desperate and so painful, he knew death was cruel and that this torment would forever plague him. No one truly forgets and as he opened his eyes he saw a large face full of colour. The numbness that had afflicted him subsided slightly. He lay in the arms of a stranger and could hear cars and trucks fly past. The stranger helped him stand.
“You’ve been walking these past few miles, are you okay?” he said with urgency.
“I’m fine, just not sure how I got here,” he answered.
“I can take you to the hospital if you like; your feet are bleeding quite badly.”
He looked down for the first time. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and pyjama bottoms. His bare feet were callused, red and raw. He betrayed no sign that this was hurting him. It looked like he barely noticed it at all.
“Yes, probably a good idea,” he replied, attempting a meagre smile.
They soon arrived at the hospital and his brain finally remembered he had a problem with his feet. Every step made him wince. It became a struggle to even walk. The stranger placing his arm around their shoulder helped him to the reception desk. A nurse soon found a free bed and informed him a doctor would arrive shortly. The stranger left the room. The shadows loomed over him, it made everything seem so much bigger and menacing. Every noise made his heart thud that little bit louder. He soon found himself hiding under his sheet. Maybe his mind was overthinking things. The door swung open to the sound of heavy footsteps and breathing that came to a stop right next to his bed. The doctor stood over him with a face so horrifically scarred that the stitches holding the skin together threatened to burst open revealing bone and taut muscle.
“So many chose regret, but for those who forget. Well, they get special treatment.”
“Special treatment?” He answered nervously.
“Yes,” said the doctor raising a large butcher’s knife, the blade still coated in the dried remains of its last victim. The doctor pressed just its blunt tip into his ankle. He cried out as crushing pain shot through him, causing his leg to curl inward.
“Pain, my dear patient, is our friend and most enduring companion. For you to forget you must first understand what it means to suffer. You may require further treatment.” He turned on his heels and marched out.
The man shivered in his bed; stretching his leg he saw that just pressing the tip onto his skin left some of his skin hanging. Warmth trickled over his toes and soaked the white sheets red. The door opened again and much to his relief, the stranger and an actual doctor entered. Pleasantries aside, the doctor advised him to stay a few days until his feet recovered. He agreed but held back on mentioning the previous doctor. He doubted they would even believe him. Perhaps, it was just a hallucination after all and he was simply feeling lightheaded, and drowsy. Neither man had noticed the blood-red sheets. He had to look twice. They were still white.
The stranger kept returning now and then but eventually he left late on in the night as he drifted between the waking world and sleep. He heard those heavy footsteps outside the door. He lay still craving silence, but the constant sound of shuffling feet outside made him grip the sheet. Sweat trickled down his cheek as the sound soon subsided and almost immediately after, he found himself starting to drift off.
The creaking door disturbed him but he kept his eyes firmly shut. The footsteps returned, getting gradually louder. His skin went cold. The scarred face flashed in his mind, its expression held only contempt. The person sat down silently, except for their heavy breathing. The door opened again. More footsteps, softer this time but also stopping at the end of the bed.
“Fascinating isn’t it? We call it rest. Yet it’s while we sleep that the brain is at its most volatile. It opens up infinite wonder and loss. I would rather have an eternal empty sleep, than a normal mundane life filled with false hopes, broken truths, and forgettable lies. What do you think Cecilia?”
He heard heavy grunts, but no words.
“Yes, perpetual sleep would be an interesting experience. Our friend here is pretending to do so now. See how his eyes are clenched shut. I wonder if I can have the chance to see those beautiful eyes.”
A sudden jab in his leg caused him to flinch, his eyes shot open. The intense pain caused him to sit up, pulling his legs up and plunging his head behind them. The only sound now came from the rotating fan above. They are not real he sought to reassure his mind. This is just a dream; they are just figments of my imagination. He looked over the ridge of his knees towards the end of the bed. The female nurse called Cecilia stood like a guardian over him; her long charcoal hair covered most of her face, with only a single scarred eye visible. She had a forced smile. As her mouth opened, he was sickened to see a lack of a tongue, and rotting yellow teeth that dripped red. He threw up on the bed. The doctor paid no notice to it.
“Sadly for you, I am as real as you are. No amount of force will wish me or my colleague here out of existence. You see us very differently compared to them, don’t you? To you we are monsters that go bump in the night,” he said loudly. “We are so much more than that.”
Cecilia nodded eagerly.
“What are you?” He asked.
“An old Doctor. They call me Laech.” He looked at the torn dead flesh on his arm as if it were a watch, “is that the time? We best get going. Cecilia, who is next? Patient 16. I hate that bastard personally, but if we must. The things I do for our Master.” They left, slamming the door.
He sat whimpering under his soggy covered sheets. He didn’t understand what this thing wanted. The demeanour suggested something more than a Doctor. This man seemed more like a serial killer; the kind that toys with your mind before delivering the final blow.
He awoke to sunlight blaring in. A nurse entered, thankfully not Cecilia and that maniac. The mysterious stranger was with her. Most would have abandoned him by now but this man was different it seemed.
“You have been cleared to leave. Mr Saxon here has found somewhere you can stay and we found no personal belongings on you. We don’t have much on record actually.”
He thought for a moment, “I don’t recall much. Where’s the place?”
Mr Saxon answered, “Motel, south of here. It should be sufficient until your memory comes back.”
The motel was a short drive from the hospital, he was feeling better. For one he could walk. It no longer hurt putting pressure on his heels. Every attempt to mention the Doctor however made him feel queasy. The wall of fog surrounding them reminded him of his dream. The feeling of being on a set path; leading only to oblivion. When they reached the motel, the fog became thicker; its presence suffocated them, Mr Saxon looked quite nervous as they entered the reception area.
“Something’s unnatural about all this. It feels like we’re being imprisoned.”
He agreed. He felt like something was lying in the fog, observing from a distance. He wanted to shrug it off as paranoia but he just couldn’t.
The reception was warm and inviting. Its walls were aligned with portraits, depicting green fields and the beauty of nature. Finally, he felt safe. The feeling of being watched niggled at the back of his mind. He slowly turned round and saw her. The fog hid her figure, but the face was unmistakable. Cecilia waved at him. Without realising he did too. Mr Saxon was soon at his side.
“Who are you waving at?”
He looked at Mr Saxon, “I don’t know.”
“Well here’s your key. Your room’s on the second floor. I’ll be right next door if you need me.”
Mr Saxon twisted his key and was about to enter his room when he paused for a moment. “I never had the chance to get your name.”
“I don't quite recall it.”
“Strange, by the way, you talk in your sleep,” said Mr Saxon. “You say, forget, a lot. Now I always believe you should cherish your memories. So I can't quite imagine why you would be willing to forget something.”
“Me neither,” he answered slowly.
“Well, if you need me, you know where I am.”
“Thanks again.”
Mr Saxon smiled and entered his room.
The door was stiff but it opened. The television was on still. She never usually left it on. A scent of strawberries drifted over to him. He saw on the coffee table, a lipstick-stained glass with a small amount of red wine remaining. He saw another close by but that was empty. When he walked over to the table something heaved in his jacket pocket. Slowly, he placed his hand in the same pocket and felt something smooth like a grip or handle. When he removed the object from his pocket he was surprised to find it was a pistol; light and, flat with a silver barrel. Its shine stood out in the dark room. Something else soon caught his eye. A white shirt was partially draped over the couch.
It did not belong to him.
There was noise coming from the bedroom nearby. He crept over to the door. The sound of the bed creaking made his heart sink. The sound of euphoria that pelted his ear drums made him tighten his grip on the gun. To think he had nearly used it on himself, moments earlier. Before he even contemplated anything he had kicked the door open and nearly off its hinges.
It happened quickly, three shots rang out. His wife cried out in agony, her slim body flailing before collapsing in a heap on top of her lover. He now heard whimpering from beneath the sheet. He watched as she was carelessly pushed off the bed. It landed with a loud thump. The naked man stood up quickly, hands raised. He had soiled himself; yellow piss ran down his leg. A sickening smile spread across the killer’s face, the lover was pleading to be spared.
No, there would be no mercy. Not now.
Two more shots were fired, and the lover howled falling back against the wall, below him was a growing red pool. He slid down into a crouched position. A brief flicker of life in his eyes quickly snuffed out.
He dropped the gun and stepped backwards out of the bedroom. Never had he seen so much red. It plastered the bed sheets and wall. He felt his stomach churn but his mind savoured the sight before him. He turned around slowly and sat on the couch where the coffee table was. He picked up the stained glass and with iron in his eyes, downed it quickly. Leaning back he closed his eyes. Tasting her, savouring what was left.
The door opened then, he didn't need to guess who it was. When he opened his eyes again, he noticed the beams of light cutting through the curtains and the different room layout. There was no coffee table in front of him, but in one of the corners was a chess table. That was where they sat; the Doctor with his rotting skin, and Cecilia who remained always silent but forever smiling.
“I've known her for centuries and yet still I can't beat her at chess.”
Cecilia tried to giggle but it came out like a deep throaty cough.
“I killed my wife.”
“You would not be first or last, Adam. Your story has happened a thousand times over and sometimes in reverse too.”
“I wanted to remove any potential sentimentality, this was the only way,” he said moving the knight towards its next victim, a lowly pawn. “So that when you make the choice, you will not waver, or falter or reconsider.” The stone knight came to life and drove his sword through the defenceless pawn. “How can I not beat her? But this knight can destroy a pawn.”
“How do you know…?” he paused suddenly, the numbing feeling in his feet came back.
“I will ask again, who are you?”
The Doctor stood up and walked slowly towards him. He sat down; and greeted Adam with the horrifying stench of decay. “I am but one of her children. I aim to find perfection in everyone. But to do that, I needed someone who had nothing else to live for. So that in their immortality. I will be able to strive closer and closer to the perfect human.'
“Is that what you think you are turning me into? After what I did…”
The Doctor attempted a smile, stood up and left. Cecilia soon shuffled after him. The game was left unfinished. Of course, it would be. As one single pawn remained.
"He’s gone. Like he never existed. It’s him though. The Doctor and that Nurse. This has them written all over it. I’ll try and find a lead but out here and while shit is going down in the south with the Dead Zone. I suggest we file this away, honestly.”
“Do you think this is the one?”
“You can never be sure with Laech,” Saxon said. “Man discards bodies like no other. If he has found the one, I only imagine where he will go next. I still don’t know what his endgame is.”
“Well stay safe, if he wasn’t aware of you before. He is now.”
“Yeah, yeah. Agent Saxon, out.”
He had every right to kill me twice over. It’s like he wants me to follow. It’s probably a trap at this point but as they say. Nothing ventured. Nothing gained.