Writing: Flick, Snap

The cold stones feel strange under his feet. Uneven and unbalancing, they reflect his emotions. His dirty brown leather jacket is flecked with moisture from the mist eddying around the city. He flicks the cap off an empty prescription bottle and snaps it back on. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Over and over he does it as he walks. Turning down roads and walkways, he moves with no destination, but a determination that overshadows every thought but one.

He adjusts his belt, making sure his knife is still hooked in a loop. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Road after road, he walks left, then right, then right, then left. No rhyme nor reason to his path. Suddenly stopping, he see's where he was going. An uncontrollable shake rattles through his body. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. He knows there is something he should remember about this bottle and he remembers something about this place, but he cant lift the fog from his mind. Taking the steps two by two, he reaches the door, finding it locked. Absently, he breaks the glass and lets himself inside, whistling a meaningless song.

Climbing flight after flight, time slows to a crawl. The fog growing deeper in his mind, so thick he feels that if he could cut his head open, you could scoop the fog out with a spoon. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. He never realizes when he reached the door. He never remembers knocking, nor feeling the knife he didn't have in his hand a moment ago slide into the man's body. The fog erases all remaining thought as he stares with marvel at the pool of blood forming around his feet. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. He thinks he should be sad about the man dying at his feet, but doesn't know why. The knife slides limply from his hand as he walks away. He opens the door, smiling although not knowing why he came here. Walking down the stairs, he whistles the tune of his favorite song, well, his new favorite, if only he could remember where he heard it. Glancing at his hand, he stops, staring at the sticky red liquid covering him. Where did this come from, he thinks. He shrugs, telling himself that when he gets home, he really should wash his hands and take his pills. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Flick, snap. Flick, snap.