[I was told to post some of my short stories. So here is my most recent one.]

The Flies

It was late last night, my clock said it was just after 4:00AM. I gasped aloud, "Oh my God. What is that smell?" My stomach was turning sour and my head felt heavy as a brick. I heard flies buzzing all around me in the room. "Oh God. Not again. Not again." My head became red as I vomited on the floor next to my bed. I reached to turn on the light. My eyes squinted as they adjusted, and I saw that there is nothing but my vomit. Not a fly in sight, and no buzzing could be heard. The putrid, heinous smell which was before was then either masked or gone. The wet towel was on my nightstand in case this happened. I cleaned it up as I did every other time. After I calmed down, I got back to sleep. But it still doesn't make sense. It just doesn't make sense.

It was about a year ago since this crap started happening to me. I remember this distinctly because it was right after my accident. Late at night, on St. Patrick's day, I was crossing the street to get over to my downtown flat. When I started to cross the garbage-filled road there not a single moving car in sight. But then came a small car squealing around the street corner, dodging a few of my neighbors. He hit me with his stupid, little Volkswagen Bug, then swerved into a streetlight pole. He died that night. I hadn't: I came out with a concussion and two maimed legs.

The guy was about 26 years old. According to the police, he didn't have any alcohol in his system. "Odd," they said, because it was the holiday. But everyone knew him as a quack. He was a conspiracy theorist who talked to himself often. Sometimes he would run down the street late at night screaming about some maggots and someone trying to kill him. He had cuts on his arms. He was being seen by a psychologist, and was on all these various medications -- all of which he said did not help him. He was completely insane, at least that's what his neighbors told me. If he had friends, I never saw them.

I will admit I was an emotional wreck after the accident. I didn't have a job and I needed help doing various simple tasks. I got disability pay after I was released from the hospital, and have been living on the government's aid up to today. Don't let anyone fool you: being stuck in a wheelchair is about as bad as it looks. I eventually had to move several times to where the rent was cheaper; and finally into a rundown apartment. These events, of course, added much to the destruction of my sense of pride. My old job was a firefighter, so naturally I couldn't go back to work. While I worked there I was very competitive; some called me heroic, but I say I was competent. But that is all gone now. My psychologist diagnosed me with depression 7 months after it happened.

It wasn't just depression. I hear the sound of flies buzzing, not just at night but also at the store and in the shower. It is sometimes accompanied by a tremendous, unbearable odor of burning flesh. I never had these problems before the accident, but they keep coming back about once or twice a week. I described it to my old best friend, and he, with a tone of disbelief, said it was "of Satan and the pit of Hell." I reminded him I was serious. We don't talk about it anymore. Heck, I haven't even seen him for over half a year.

The worst time before today was in the middle of the night about 2 months ago. I woke up panting and screaming at the top of my lungs after some recurring dream about this long claw reaching at me and flies swarming around me. The absurd part was when I went into the bathroom to wash my face and get some water. In the shower to my right I saw a burnt body ripped up and facing me. His bloody skin was sliding off of him slowly, and the tub was splattered red with blood. I immediately wheeled myself the hell out of there. I puked in the hallway. As I left my complex, the sound of flies buzzing got louder and louder like an ocean's crash on the beach. It stopped when I bumped into my neighbor around the street corner, accidently knocking her bottle of wine out of her hand. She was so kind to me, despite all my quirks and weirdness. She said she saw and heard nothing of what I was talking about, yet she offered me to stay in her apartment for a drink and have a place to rest my head. Every time I met her, she always seemed like she was trying to seduce me, but that night when I joked about the thought she shot it down with disinterest. She was nice enough to follow me back to my room and check out the bathroom.

She found nothing there. Smelled nothing. Saw nothing. Heard nothing. But I swear, I felt it was still there even then. I couldn't find it either, but something or somebody was felt there above all the senses. I sometimes wonder if someone didn't just do this to play a trick on me. This instance terrified me enough that I couldn't live with myself without finding a reasonable answer to this problem. She tried to console me and gave me her number in case I needed help.

After I had seen all these things with the loud droning of the flies, I decided I would go to the nearest church on the following Sunday. A televangelist wasn't going to help me through the TV. I was raised Catholic, but that church creeped me out already as it was. So instead I went to some other Protestant church that was closer. But they still worried me. I was with them and I sang their catchy songs. The sermon was on how to handle finances -- hardly what I needed to hear about now. I was on my way out while the pastor and his wife were shaking hands with people as the congregation left. The pastor stopped me and wanted me to tell about myself, how I liked the message and the service, and what brought me there. When I told him about the sights I had seen, he lost his glee-filled face and grew somber. He asked me to come into his office, as he thought he had a solution. I followed. "A demon!" At this point, I wanted out of this place. He tried to exorcize me and it didn't work, but then he said something to the effect of "this kind must only be able to come out through prayer." I told him I was leaving, and he warned me. That gave me chills up my spine, but I was still convinced that he was bigger nut than I was. Dead end, if you ask me.

I told my psychologist about it and he put me on some expensive medications. I never felt right when I took them, and the sounds only stopped for about a week. Big woop. Not worth it. If they don't solve the problem, I'd rather feel like myself. The first time heard the flies again, I woke up and a putrid smell felt like it was coming over my face. It's strength felt like a soft hand was going to grab me violently. In a panic, I pulled the pills out of my nightstand and downed several. I didn't know what to do. I wheeled myself over to the phone to call my neighbor. She came over immediately. Again, she didn't find anything. She was concerned that I overdosed. I passed out.

I woke up again, very dizzy. She was sitting there, eating some of my leftover chinese carryout. She asked me about the knife she noticed I had on my nightstand, but I didn't remember even owning it. She saw that I looked survivable, but told me that she needed to go to work. She left me what was remaining of the chinese food. I ate it and after a few hours went outside when my head cleared. I made my way over to the store and bought some books on schizophrenia, as well as some books about demonic activity. The cashier noticed my eyes were red, and I hadn't bathed in a while. She stared at me as I left the store. I bet she thought I was insane. But I am not. I know I'm not. I am not like the psycho who hit me with his car.

My psychologist suggested I write everything I knew about my history. I think this is a good start. It is time to turn in for the night.
-- Raymond Ellis.

10:25PM
March 13th, 2005

A man searched the remains of an apartment. Everything was ransacked and most things were destroyed with fire. A bloody knife was on the floor with a melted handle. The man looked through his belongings and into his filecabinet. It was the only thing without any burnt papers inside. Inside was a notebook and some drawings of claws. Opening the notebook, the man scanned the only passage. A smirk grew on his face and he spoke aloud, "I found something. Take a look at this. This guy was a fruitcake." The officer handed the notebook over to the detective. "What is this?" He paused a moment, and handed back the notebook to the officer. "Bag it. This will probably help explain his accident." The detective walked into the bathroom and quickly covered his nose, "Holy... Somebody come get this. He's in the tub."