She stared at me.

A bush of tangled faded crimson, now carrot colored yarn, framed her pale white face. Big black-brown eyes, reminding me of little miss Betty Boob, glared back at me balefully. Limply, her soft, hand-sewn legs hung from my hands. I shook her slightly.

Her oversized head flopped back and forth in rhythm with my light shaking, red yarn flying all over her face. As I stopped those big black-brown glassy eyes balefully and accusingly glared back up at me.

Ouch, you nasty man!

“A doll?” I asked, not trying to hide the evident surprise in my deep voice. In another life, I could have been a radio host or even a country singer. I had learned that other life thing from Sir Knife, so long ago. But I will introduce him to you later.

Frederick nodded solemnly, sitting back in his brown leather chair. He was a thin wiry man, drowning in his oversized luxurious chair. Looking directly at me, he analyzed me carefully.

“Let me get this straight. You are giving me a fucking doll?”

Frederick nodded again.

“Yes John.” Frederick answered in that smooth practiced voice.

He reeked of calmness, a rock in a hurricane, unmovable.

“I believe that the doll will help with your,” he paused, still looking at me, almost tasting the red rage pulsating from his court bound patient. “…with your problem John.” He finished, coughing lightly as he looked at me.

Silence echoed off the barren bleak walls. Frederick nodded to nobody in particular and sat up right in his expensive comfortable leather chair. He looked like a drowning man struggling to stay afloat.

Fucking psychiatrists. Fucking rich psychiatrists, they were all the same. Sitting in their high and mighty leather chairs. Protected and surrounded by their comfort and cool manners. They not only thought they knew what their patients were going through, but also how to help them improve their state of mind, healers of body, mind and spirit.

I could smell the rich taste of leather wandering lazily across the space between us.

“John?” Frederick broke my reverie, looking at me over thin rimmed reading glasses.

“It’s a doll Fred.”

Frederick nodded, raising a thin neatly trimmed eyebrow in an arch, not once taking his eyes off me. “I believe you mentioned that already John.”

“What am I supposed to be doing with a fucking rag doll?”

Frederick smiled thinly at me.

“It’s a new experimental therapy John, specifically aimed at controlling anger outbursts.”

Fuck. Just like that it all added up. Anger outbursts?

It sounded like something a naughty four year old did when they couldn’t get the sweets they wanted while standing with mommy dearest in the shopping aisle.

Maybe you gave a four year old a doll, perhaps as a consolation prize, but me? John Freeman? The John Freeman?

I knew that my “anger outbursts” were much more than that.

It was something much more primal, more brutal, which had taken a hold of my life.

I also knew that I had invited it in. I alone was responsible for opening that specific door, for answering that throbbing echo that kept on knocking relentlessly in my head, not only during night time.

It was my fault. I could never blame anybody for what had happened.

La Loterie! Sortitio! Lotería!

An Apple, you win. An orange, I win. It was that night when we met, me and it.

I called it The Red.

Frederick had wanted me to give it a name.

“You have to disassociate yourself with the rage John,” he had said back then, at the beginning of our long court ordered sessions. “You have to realize that it is not you acting that way. You are not responsible for what the rage does, but you have the power to stop it John.”

I didn’t believe him back then, and I sure as hell didn’t believe him now.

“You have the power to stop it John.” He had assured me back then.

I still doubt that.

The Red was simply too strong, too addictive to let go off. It was a basic part of my make-up. I am still human. Or as human as you can get with a growing hole in your fucking brains…

“John?” Frederick asked softly, taking his glasses off before starting to clean them gently.

“I’m still here Fred.”

“She is what we term a rage doll.”

He looks at me quietly.

Expectedly.

“Whenever you feel that the anger is getting the better of you, simply reach out and scream at her. Hit her if you want to John, there’s no law prohibiting you from doing such a thing.”

I nodded, suddenly feeling weary, the first thumps of a major headache growling at full volume inside of my head.

“I think I have to go now Frederick.”

The shrink nodded, standing up gently from his overly expensive fucking brown leather chair.

“I believe we are making progress John.” He said, smiling as he took me gently by the shoulder, leading me out of his office. “Soon and you will be able to lead a normal life again.”

I nodded, too tired to argue, too tired to tell Fred about my outburst last night, too tired to tell my court appointed shrink to go to hell.

“John. I want you to phone me if you have an emergency, okay? And use the doll. You’ll see that it’ll make a big difference.”

I nodded numbly, mumbling goodbye as I stepped out of the smartly furnished office.

Fucking psychiatrists with their fucking extravagant furniture and expensive suits and practiced smiles and their fucking tempered voices, I mused, clenching the ragdoll firmly in my fist.

Ouch!

Standing at the doorway, looking down at the ragdoll in my hands I couldn’t help but grin, hearing the elevator door open in front of me.

Her hair was Red.

“My fucking favorite color.”

The elevator door closed behind me and I could feel her eyes looking at me, accusing me.

Oh you nasty ugly man.

“Shut up.” I muttered, jamming her into the pocket of my coat.

<><><><><><>

“He gave you a doll amigo?”

Sir Knife grinned cheerily, taking a sip out of his almost empty beer glass. I nodded, still nursing my first cold draft for the evening. I didn’t feel much like drinking.

The numbing effect of Mother Alcohol seemed to fray the only edge of control I claimed over The Red, more frequently lately, instead of soothing the beast within.

Besides, after last night’s episode I didn’t really feel up to destroying some more of the world, and god forbid if I had to rage on some poor guy sitting in a bar.

In another life, I could’ve been a pro wrestler. I could even have been “muscle” for the local mob. Knife had always said, “You don’t shit where you eat amigo.” And that was something I believed in.

“Why do they call you Knife anyways?”

Knife chuckled, looking at me with those familiar keen shiny grey eyes. Rat eyes, I thought wearily, turning to the draft in front of me.

“Ah, is that John the attorney asking me now?”

I shook my head.

“That was my other life. I am no longer that man.”

Sir Knife nodded, sipping his own cold beer.

“I believe that John the attorney died right after he had started a Royal Rumble in the big chief’s office of Find’um Fuck’em and Forget’um, right?”

I grinned, turning to look at my faithful friend.

“Gerald, Howard and Stanley, or as you correctly called it Find’um Fuck’em and Forget’um. Associates of law.”

“No, Knife. My other life ended the day I took a .35 and decided to blow my fucking brains out.”

Knife smiled at me, his keen eyes wandering to the left side of my constantly aching head.

“I never knew that attorneys had any to begin with.” Knife answered cheerfully.

I chuckled. Knife was my only friend now. The only cure I had against The Red. It simply seemed to disappear when I was with him.

I believe if I haven’t met him I might have tried the .35 again, just this time, experience would’ve allowed me to do it properly. I’m a quick study in any event.

“Fuck you.” I said solemnly, smiling back at him.

“Speaking about which,” Knife gulped down the last of his pale draft, “I have an appointment amigo.”

Frowning I looked at him.

“You never answered my question.”

Knife winked at me, standing up from the bar stool.

“It’s a long story amigo, besides; you need to get home with dolly dearest.” Knife chuckled again, sweeping a shaky hand through his long thinning gray hair.

“Fuck you.” I growled, feeling the stupid ragdoll moving around in my pocket at the first mention of her.

“It’s damn uncomfortable in here you brute. She whined in her thin Betty Boob voice.

“Just get over it bitch.”

Knife starred at me, still smiling, his gray keen eyes sparkling. If he had heard me speaking to the doll, he didn’t show any sign of it. Oh, how I loved him for simple things like that!

“Let’s go amigo.”

Nodding I stood up, paid the tab and followed Sir Knife outside.

In the darkness outside, Knife turned towards me, his constantly shaking hands now hidden deep in the pockets of his worn denim.

“You think you’ll be all right amigo?” Knife’s genuine concerns clear in his voice. “You can always tag along if you want to.”

“I’ll be fine old man.”

Sir Knife nodded, his long silver ponytail cascading in the faded streetlights.

“She needs a name amigo.”

“Excuse me?”

“The doll.” He answered, “You can’t invite a thing like that into your place without knowing her name, that’s just bad magic.”

I smiled, realization dawning on me.

“Rebecca.” I answered.

“Rebecca?” he frowned, smiling thinly at me.

“Yes. She was a math teacher I had back in my primary school days.”

“You had a crush on her then?” Knife smiled.

“No. She was a bitch, a real dreadful old hag.”

“Ah, love at first fright amigo, how precious.”

With that Sir Knife turned around and strolled off into the darkness whistling a tuneless tune.

Sighing I turned the other way, taking my time in walking back to my place.

I still remember clearly that night, the stale air, the wispy smoke, the darkness, and Knife. Oh, Sir Knife! How well I remember you now my dear friend. Adios Amigo.

Adios.

<><><><><><>

This time it was a circus. No, I didn’t blame the clowns or even the acrobats. Neither did I hold the oversized bearded lady responsible for this. However, I did blame the circus animals that had gone through my apartment last night.

Everything movable was strewn all over the place. Everything immovable was broken into movable pieces and then simply strewn all over the place.

The television was smashed, again, the couch was ripped to pieces, and even the fridge door was just hanging on a single hinge now.

“Fucking monkeys.” I swore, stepping over broken china and cutlery.

A lion had apparently clawed my cream colored carpet into thin little ribbons with razor sharp claws.

The dvd player was in two pieces. “Fucking monkeys!” I swore again. That would make it a new record. Three dvd players in less than a month. I doubt the insurance would cover this.

I laughed wryly, my laughter sounding hollow and tired, even to my own ears. Stepping into the bathroom my boots crunched on glass shards.

No mirrors left, except for a few small little fragments which were still stuck to the cupboards. Looking at the toilet I sighed again.

A fucking huge gorilla had ripped the toilet seat off completely and had smashed it to smithereens against the bathroom mosaics.

Splashing my face with cold water from the bent tap sobered me up a bit and I realized how hungry I was. Making my way to the one-hinged-skew-doored fridge I stepped over more broken furniture.

“I never realized I owned so much crap.” I muttered, carefully opening the door of the fridge.

“Houston. We have cold ham, and milk. Over?”

“Roger that Houston. Any sign of bread and mayo?”

“Negative Houston. The circus was in town.”

“Then it’s a go for ham and milk John Freeman. I repeat we have a go on the ham and milk.”

Grabbing the ham and the box of milk I made my way through a jungle of broken plates and china that would’ve made seventeenth century explorers jealous with my finesse and dexterity.

Stepping into my room I was barely surprised to find that it was the only room left untouched by the circus, The Red circus.

“Thank god for some miracles.” I muttered as I dropped onto the large king sized bed, shrugging off my heavy boots and coat, carelessly throwing them to the ground.

Whilst eating, I wearily looked at my reflection which was also busily devouring ham and milk like some crazy-eyed creature from a Lovecraft novel, comfortably framed in the large Victorian Mirror.

It was the only possession I had kept of my parents. Not the crazy-eyed reflection of a weary beaten down ex-attorney.

The Victorian mirror. For some strange reason I could never get around to selling it.

Laid in thick heavy set yellow rose wood, the frame was enormous, heavy and deep. I loved the texture of the wood, often falling into a strange dreamlike state, running my hands over the wood, reveling in the rough hand carved texture.

They sure did make things to last back then.

“Thank you mum. Thank you dad.” I said, taking a large gulp of cold milk from the box, feeling a small stream of milk running down my chin, into my shirt, invading me.

Both of my parents had left me when I was but just a toddler. I am barely able to remember them, safe for two strange vague shapes. Just another fucking winning number on the long list of wins for John Freeman.

La Loterie! Sortitio! Lotería!

The authorities could never explain where they had gone, or why they had left all their belongings behind, not to mention their only six year old son.

I shrugged to my reflection who coyly shrugged back at me, a stream of milk dripping from his chin. In another life I could’ve been an actor.

<><><><><><>

The fridge was too loud.

It hummed and chunked noisily.

So too was the overhead clock.

It ticked, and tacked and ticked some more.

I was sitting at the kitchen table; in front of me was the .35 that I had bought in a previous lifetime.

For security purposes Susie, I remembered myself soothing her apprehension.

The fridge hummed.

In the semi darkness I could make out the bowl of fruit next to the dark glinting gun.

It looked like a pile of skulls, an altar to a god of death and destruction.

Slowly, I took a deep breath, tic-tac the clock sang above me.

The fridge is too loud, humming in tune with the clock.

Tic-hum-tac-chunk the dark chant went.

Mechanical creatures calling to a dark and malevolent god belonging to the deep abyss that stretched between the distances of the deep night stars…

I grabbed the glinting gun with my left hand. It’s weight heavy and cold as I press it to my temple.

With my free hand I started spinning the bowl of fruit.

Tic-hum-tac-chunk, the dark mechanical chant started increasing with zeal.

An apple, and you win, an orange and I win.

I spin the bowl.

The altar of skulls makes no noise as it spun on the tabletop.

This has to be fair, it just has to be.

La Loterie! Sortitio! Lotería!

Tic-hum-tac-chunk, the mechanical chant has reached its climax, drowning out the sound of my heavy heartbeat.

Without warning, I stopped the spinning altar of skulls, reached in and brought the lucky number out.

The chant stopped.

A hushed silence similar to that of the breathless deep distances between the stars surrounded me.

The temple of the dark god echoed with a revered silence.

It was an orange.

The world ceased to exist with a bright flash.

The world after all did end in a bang, I mused, and how wrong you were Mister Elliot.

 <><><><><><><> 

 I awoke with a start. Bound tight, unable to move, sweat pouring from every pore on my trembling body. Next to me, beady brown sparkling eyes glared at me accusingly in the dark light.

You left me in that stinking pocket of that ugly coat!

I glared back at her.

 You nasty man!

Inhaling sharply, I closed my eyes, too afraid to open them up again. It was the fucking dream. Always I had that same dream, and always the fucking nauseating sickness would follow the moment I woke up.

But this? Hallucinations? I’m sure I didn’t take the doll from my pocket.

I’m sure as hell that I left her in the pocket of my coat.

I opened my eyes, slowly, widely, terrified. Beady black-brown eyes still glared at me. Wild red hair, standing in disarray like a ghostly campfire, framed her pale white face.

“Fuck.” I muttered weakly.

You nasty man!

She screamed in that all too familiar Betty Boob voice.

Without even thinking I grabbed the ugly ragdoll quickly and threw her against my closet. With a dull thud she crashed against the closet before landing on the thick soft carpet.

“Fuck you bitch.” I stammered, struggling to sit up right.

At least she didn’t try to bite my hand…

Instinctively my fingers, still happily attached to my hand, reached for the switch of the bed lamp. Dare I switch it on?

Will I see little red Rebecca standing at my closet with those black-brown beady eyes, accusing me? Who is to say she wouldn’t come creeping back onto the bed in the dark, and that I won’t be able to see her until it was too late?

An animal instinct made the choice for me. I switched the bedside lamp on, eyes wild and tearing in the sudden bright light.

“Fuck.” I muttered again, pulling my legs closer to my chest.

Rebecca was nowhere to be seen. Sure as I’ve got a scar on my left temple, I had heard a thud as she crashed against my closet and slid down to land with a soft plunk on my thick carpet.

With cold sweat drenching my tense body I threw the blankets anxiously to the ground, looking around me in the sharp light.

Nothing…

Nadda, as old Sir Knife, bless his soul, would’ve said.

Shaking my head swiftly my still tearing eyes fell on the coat, where I had carelessly dropped it before climbing in bed. And sure as my name is John Freeman, there she was.

The fucking little redheaded ragdoll named Rebecca was still in my coat pocket, except for her overly large head and bushy red hair sticking out of it, glaring at me with those large Betty Boob eyes.

Nasty man! Fucking nasty man!

“Bitch.” I retorted, gathering every inch of my courage before climbing out of bed and making my way to the bathroom.

I needed to pee, badly. The remainder of the night, I bluntly refused to sleep.

Instead I started cleaning up my place, but not before I grabbed Rebecca by her red hair and throwing her into my one-hinged-skew-doored fridge, making sure that every possible light was switched on and stayed on in my apartment.

“The fridge Houston?” I asked myself.

“Roger that John Freeman.” I reckoned if they always warn you that children can’t open a fridge from the inside then sure as chicken-shit my little redheaded Rebecca will never be able to open my famous one-hinged-skew-door fridge.

“I confirm Houston. We have one Rebecca in cold storage. I repeat. Rebecca is frozen.”

<><><><><><>

I had a major headache, brought on by the empty hole in my aching head, ganging up on me with an unholy alliance of sleep deprivation. Making my way to the kitchen, this time walking over clean floors, I grabbed four Adco-Trepilines, swallowing them with a mouthful of vodka.

It burned my throat, making my eyes blur and tear, but oh, it was wonderful!

“Yes, I know Houston.” I said, throat burning and scratchy from the vodka, “Don’t ever mix your painkillers with alcohol, John Freeman.” However, this hyped up cocktail was the only thing that could dull the threat of my headaches.

Thinking back now, writing this, I find it difficult, no, impossible to describe the pain I experienced. It far surpassed my ability to describe the pain, and I’m left with this…it was fucking painful, so bad that at times I seemed to have forgotten my own name, the names of things like chair and door and glass. However, through the drug induced silences and even during the frenzy of The Red I could never ever forget her name…never.

Stumbling, eyes still blurring from the vodka and painkillers, I started a hot shower relishing the feel as flaming drops of liquid splattered against my tired and battered body, mimicking the flaming pain I felt inside of my skull.

Climbing out of the shower, I noticed that the red light on my answering machine was blinking.

Sighing I made my over to it and pressed the play button.

“You have one new message.” The robot voice said.

Duh.

“John? John Freeman. This is Frederick Huavinmere. I was just checking up on you. Are you using the rage doll? Could you please phone me back later and update me on our progress. Thank you.”

Frederick. I deleted the message and walked to my famous or not so famous fridge. Frederick seemed to be adamant that the doll would somehow cure me of my rage.

The Red.

I couldn’t really give a shit. After I had thrown my boss through his desk, and assaulting the night security staff, yes, right after I had tried blowing out my brains the court had booked me into a mental institute.

“It’s for your own health John.” Sue had said two days before the divorce papers arrived. I woke up finding myself screaming like a wild animal, strangling the young teenager that had delivered the papers to me.

Fucking cold hearted bitch. It took me four long hard months before the court approved my release from the mental institute, however, I was ordered to continue seeing my psychiatrist for the remainder of my illness.

Illness, so as if it was something contagious that you could contract by not washing your hands regularly.

With apprehension I opened the skew fridge door, half fearing that little red Rebecca would be gone, or even worse, would be standing there with a long knife in her hands, ready to leap at me the moment I released her from her cryogenic jail.

Neither of the two happened. She was sitting upright, her soft limp arms half folded neatly in her lap.

It is cold in here you nasty man!

I nodded, reaching towards her with a shaking hand.

“If you bite me you’ll regret it bitch!” I growled. The nervous fear of last night was still wildly raging in my system like a detached snake straight from the grave.

Get me out of here nasty man!

 I slammed the door back on her.

No. I couldn’t.

Turning, around, feeling dizzy, from the painkillers and fear, I rested against the fridge with my back, head hung low. A dull throb echoed in the hole in my head.

“How could you have fallen to this John Freeman?”

Only silence answered me. In another life, I could’ve been a stage actor, filled with grand drama and poise, but now, now I only felt empty, empty and drained and oh, so ashamed.

I cried like a kid. I was a grown man weeping like a child.

Too terrified to open my fridge, because in that one-hinged-skew-door kitchen appliance waited a figure straight out of my worst nightmares, I simply cried.

<><><><><><>

I sat at the kitchen table. Alone. In front of me a weathered brown book. My refuge. I always wrote in it. Every thought, every feeling. I opened the brown leathered book, at a random spot and read out loud.

When I had woken up I had at first thought that this is how hell looks.

Dark.

Gray and filled with flickering shadows and hollow promises.

No fire, no burning embers, no light or even a burning lake of fire, just a simple quiet darkness.

I felt a sticky tendril of something slithering down the side of temple.

In the distance now, slowly and weakly at first, I started hearing drums.

Foreign African drums beating in the darkness of hell, calling forth from eagerly yielding shadows the red eye scavengers.

 A familiar sound made me groan and with a cold sobering realization I became aware of lying down, on some smooth and flat surface.

 Tic-hum-tac-chunk.

 The familiar chant called my spirit forth from the deep darkness of hell, and with blurry eyes I sat upright, realizing that here I was, sitting on my kitchen floor, covered in something sticky.

 Tic-hum-tac-chunk.

 “Shut up!” I screamed, staggering upright.

The world spun around in me in a crazy red haze.

I glanced up at the swirling fingers of the clock, the minutes racing into the future, the seconds racing into the past.

“Hello and welcome to hell!” I gasped, shaking my head as if in a dream.

I was possessed by an uncontrollable energy, an urge and wanting lust to do…something!

Grabbing my car keys, not even bothering to look at the strange haunted reflection grinning at me from within the Victorian mirror, I rushed outside.

More darkness greeted me.

Darkness and a cool breeze that made the side of my head throb with even more intensity.

 I shook my head, grinning wildly as I pressed the button on the remote to make the garage door open.

 It opened haltingly, a gaping toothless maw of a dark hungry creature.

“I’m not yet out of hell…” I muttered, fiddling with the car keys as I struggled to start the car.

A low growl answered my frantic shaking efforts.

“Houston, we have power!” I yelped gleefully.

“Confirmed John Freeman. Ready for launch?”

I grinned, never having felt better in my whole life!

“Acknowledged Houston.”

With shaking hands, I turned the page of the little weathered brown book, skipping the rest of the tale, scribbled in my own anxious thin scrawling handwriting. I knew what came next…

I burst through the front doors, making my way towards the elevators.

I could hear the startled security officer shouting something incoherent, except by the time he had almost reached me the doors had closed and I was happily on my way up to see the boss, the big chief of Find’um Fuck’em and Forget’um.

I knew he would be working late.

He always did.

I shook my head, skipping a few more lines.

I was being guided by an itch in the side of my head and in the way of dreams I knew that this was not the place to look for answers.

“Sir!” I shouted, standing at rigid attention, posture stiff, white teeth flashing in a brilliant grimace.

“John Freeman, reporting for duty sir!” I saluted him smartly, my eyes unable to focus anywhere for too long in the dim red light.

“John?” he looked up, the bald man that was my superior in every way, but not tonight.

“What the hell?” he gasped, staggering up from his chair.

“You thought I’d never figure out, did you?” I rambled, stalking the bald king from around his large desk. “You were all part of it, weren’t you?” I stepped closer to him, not realizing that he didn’t even make a move to get away from me.

“I had heard the rumors, the whispers behind my back!”

“You are bleeding John.” He said softly, as if speaking from within a dream.

“Well, I just came from hell.” I said, “And now it is time for you to return to it, you evil spawn of hell!”

Grabbing him in one swift motion I slammed him through his desk.

I felt powerful!

Better then what the drugs I had experimented with as a teenager made me feel!

Better then the best sex I had ever had in my life!

I was on a high!

I was unstoppable.

I was battling evil and winning, saving the world!

I swore softly.

Please don’t do it you nasty ugly man!

Betty Boob.

Red Rebecca…

I glanced at the one-hinged-skew-doored fridge.

It was still closed.

She was still inside, but definitely aware of what I was doing.

With frantic fervor growing in my shaking hands I turned a few more pages.

I could feel The Red boiling up within me at my inability to remember.

I couldn’t give in to it now, not now, so I bit down on my tongue, the pain replacing the dizzying anger momentarily.

I have to find the answer.

Frantically I scratched at the scar on the left hand side of my head, turning more pages madly.

She was dressed in a soft sky blue dress, her make-up fashionably highlighting her attractive features.

She was a woman I could’ve loved.

A woman I once did love.

In another life I was her protector.

The Cold Hearted Bitch.

“Hi John.” She said tensely, the familiar wrinkles around her lips deepening as she strained to keep the emotion from her soft voice.

The big dressed-in-white gorilla was watching us more like a hawk then an oversized ape.

They still didn’t trust me.

Fuck them.

“Hi.” I mumbled, glaring down at my hands, keeping them firmly pressed against the table top.

“I hear that you will be released in a week.”

I nodded.

She didn’t really care, this cold stone hearted bitch that I had once vowed to provide for.

“I brought you these.”

From within her handbag she pulled out two gloves.

Gardening gloves, the thick heavy rubber kind that protected your fingers against the most ferocious of garden wildlife.

They were pink and the right hand glove had the word “Touch” printed in fat yellow, while the left glove, in a similar font had the word “Don’t” printed on it.

Don’t Touch.

“The psychiatrists tell me that you need to develop a hobby. They say that it’ll bring…” she paused blinking away sudden unexpected tears, “…bring stability into your life.”

With shaking hands I took the two pink rubber gloves from her.

Fuck, in another life, I could’ve been a landscaper.

I slammed the weathered brown book close, tossing it aside carelessly.

I remembered now!

Grinning, hungry, ravenous, I stomped towards the nearest grocery cupboard, slamming it open in my shaking haste.

The world was slowly spinning around me, a red carousal.

I had never such a hungry in my whole life.

It wasn’t just a simple hunger.

I was starving.

Ravenous.

My watery eyes roamed over the contents of the cupboard, coming to rest on a tin of beans in tomato sauce.

With a frantic speed I grabbed the can, searching for the can opener.

Hunger may be the handmaiden of creativity but tonight it is also the dictator of my actions. Worse than Hitler, far worse than Stalin it demanded immediate attention. I only managed to remove half of the lid before the hunger became too intense. I threw the can opener to the ground with disgust.

Devoured the beans, using just the fingers of my shaking hands, I could feel cold streams of thin tomato sauce dribble down my chin, splattering the kitchen table top.

Within seconds I had gulped the contents of the can down, and I still needed more. I craved more. I stormed back to the cupboard, finding a still closed box of cereal. I ripped the box to pieces, grabbing the bag like some crackling treasure.

Tearing the bag open with my teeth, not even waiting to sit back at the table, I started grabbing handfuls of cereal, jamming it into my waiting mouth without ceremony.

More…

More…

I fed the hunger.

<><><><><><>

I awoke with a start. Drenched and stiff. Soaked in sweat, my mouth was dry and hot, my body cold and wet. I struggled upright, slowly taking in my surroundings. The kitchen was dark and quiet. Fuck.

I had missed most of the day, and what I was about to do would’ve been much easier in the welcoming warmth of daylight.

Bah! Finally you wake up you nasty lazy man!

 I glanced instinctively at the one-hinged-skew-door fridge.

It was still closed tight. Sighing, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, swearing as I opened them again. In front of me, on the kitchen table they were waiting like two eager tailless dogs. Ready to fulfill their duty to their master and handler…

Colored a faded girly-pink with fat round yellow letters screaming “Don’t Touch”, they glared up at me in silence.

Tentatively I reached for them, and gradually managed to slip my hands into their gaping rubber holes.

What are you doing with those you ugly man?

I smiled thinly, wiping dry tomato sauce and cereal from my grin as I slowly stood up, flexing my rubber armored hands.

“It is time for you and me to have a little talk dear Rebecca.”

I grinned bigger, limping towards the one-hinged-skew-doored fridge.

No! Oh, please no!

I laughed with evil glee.

Please…

She begged.

<><><><><><><>

Opening the fridge door I saw her sitting there in the dim fridge light, on the top shelve, staring at me with those big black-brown eyes.

I will hurt you if you try anything nasty.

 I shook my head.

No.

I will make you suffer in the worst possible ways!

No.

Red Rebecca growled, slowly lifting her limp arms from her lap.

Don’t touch me nasty man!

I smiled back at her.

She was nothing more than an agent of despair, of hopelessness. Her hold was one I could beat with the help of my secret weapon.

“Fuck you bitch.”

I flexed my rubber covered hands, reaching into the cold fridge. I refused to be her victim any longer! Wildly, red yarn flew from side to side as she shook her head, cowering deeper into the fridge.

Please…

She begged, hiding behind a rotting pile of tomatoes. My hands continued forward, towards her cowering limp form, steadily. In a sudden hysteric moment red Rebecca raced from behind her pile of rotting tomatoes, jumping past a faded pile of carrots.

Jumping towards my outstretched gloved hands…

She was fast, a red blur, slamming into the faded pink gloves with an incredible force that almost made me topple backwards. Grimly I clamped my hands shut, just barely managing to catch her left arm in them.

Let go of me you nasty brute!

She spat at me. She growled and clawed at me with her free hand, red yarn dancing like stray flames, left, right, up, down, all over the place. Biting down on my teeth, I pulled back with all my trembling force, holding on tightly as I heard a terrible…rrrrit!

Shocked I heard her cry as she jumped from the fridge, onto the kitchen floor, running with small pitter-pattering limp legs towards the darkness of my lounge.

“Rebecca!” I growled, struggling to maintain my balance from the sudden exertion.

The fridge door, skew and hanging form one hinge, closed with a soft plop, in front of me. Glancing at the dark lounge, I felt something stir in my gloved hands. A cold chill crept up my spine, a small snake of fear nestling there, refusing to disappear. It was her arm.

In the struggle, I had ripped off her arm!

The little arm, as big as my middle finger flexed and writhed like a small snake, a blind worm, searching relentlessly for a corpse to feed upon…

Shuddering I walked towards the sink, holding the slithering searching appendage tightly with my still rubber covered hand, and promptly fed it into the garbage disposal. I grinned as I fed the last of the still shaking appendage to the hungry garbage disposer.

“Let that be a lesson to you.”

A terrible mourning moan came from the darkness of my lounge, painting my body all over in goose bumps that refused to relinquish its hold on me.

This isn’t over yet, you nasty man!

<><><><><><>

I first limped towards my bedroom, slowly becoming aware of stiff pain all over my body.

“Fucking table.” I muttered, sitting down on my bed and slowly putting on a heavy yellow pair of rain boots.

If she couldn’t bite and scratch me through the rubber gardening gloves, then I’m sure she wouldn’t be able to bite and tear at my feet now.

Pausing, feeling slightly dizzy, hearing the familiar forest drums beating in my head, I took a slow deep calming breath, trying to recover my scattered wits.

How’d this happen? Here I was, in my apartment, ex-attorney, owner of half a brain, chasing after a small red headed rag doll from hell. There simply weren’t any answers forthcoming.

Shaking my head again I forced myself to stand up, body stiff and sore from the exertion.

Trrriing! Trrrrring!!

“What?”

The telephone. The telephone in the dark lounge. It was ringing.

Carefully I walked towards the lounge, switching on every light as I went along the wall.

“Rebecca?” I asked into the darkness.

Nothing. Either she didn’t want to answer, or it was a trap. Raised in the twentieth century on horror shows and late night television, I suspected the later.

“Rebecca?” cautiously I stretched my armoured hand into the darkness, quickly pulling back as I switched on the lights.

Nothing. No sign, no sound, not even a sniff of the little ragdoll.

Trrring! Trrrrring! Trrrrrrrrrrring!

I jumped nervously, swearing as I glanced at the telephone. Who could be phoning this late at night?

Click! I heard the answering machine switch on.

“John? Are you there?”

Fredderick. The fucking psychiatrist responsible for giving me the little possessed rag doll in the first place sounded calm and composed.

I could feel The Red rising up within me, painting the world a dim red, stealing from me my mind and the last edge of control I maintained.

“You bastard!” I growled, hands clenching into rubbery fists.

The Red swelled, bubbling and boiling within the confines of my veins.

“You haven’t returned my call, and I had hoped that you would be at home by now.” Fredderick continued in that smooth practiced voice. I could almost feel him looking at me, accusing me, analyzing me.

“Anyway. John. It is late, and if I haven’t heard anything from you by tomorrow evening I’ll inform the police.” He paused, I could hear the tape running in the hushed silence, recording. “Don’t screw up now John. We have been making progress. You don’t want to go back to that place, do you?” silence.

Click!

The phone died.

<><><><><><><>

The silence was too much for me. Even the foreign beating drums within my head were silent now. Granting me a respite I haven’t had in a very long time.

The thin red veil that had settled over the world, deepened into crimson.

“Rebecca?” I growled, struggling to pronounce her name, fighting to remember her name.

I stomped into the lounge. Rage has made many a man courageous, but I still cringe at the obscene rage that has boosted my courage into forcing me to act the way I did.

“Rebecca!” I screamed, howling as I grabbed the couch and with inhuman rage threw it halfway across the living room.

She wasn’t there.

“Bat!” I growled, knowing that was not the word I wanted.

“Itch!” I screamed, throwing the wall unit to the ground, scattering dvd’s and music cd’s all over the floor.

Kicking at the pile of junk, hearing plastic shatter underneath my heavy yellow boots, I raged, and screamed and stormed.

“Itch! Itch! Itch!”

She didn’t answer me.

She was nowhere to be found.

Crying, tears of anger and frustration splattering on the pile of smashed music cds and dvds, I followed suit and crashed down in the middle of the plastic pile.

Defeated. Tired. Worn out.

“Muck.” I growled, slowly becoming aware of what I had done.

“Mucking itch!” it was all her fault.

Slowly, the red veil was lifting from the world.

Nasty man, look at how you have destroyed your place, again!

She giggled from somewhere within my apartment.

You are nothing more than a beast, stupid dumb man!

I think she was in my room.

“Mucking itch…” I growled, standing up from my heap of destroyed plastic.

It ends tonight.

<><><><><><><>

The last of my music collection crunched into oblivion as I walked out of my lounge. I needed to retain some sort of hold on The Red.

Frederick had warned me and had explained that The Red was never a part of me, but now, after this night, I know how wrong he was. The Red was a part of me, the stuff of my being.

I still needed The Red to aid me in completing the task at hand tonight. It made me brave and powerful, if at a cost, everything I will need tonight.

With slow, deliberate steps I walked first into the kitchen, gathering the faded brown leather book from where I had thrown it. If anything, I have learned the reality of life tonight. People live and they die.

That is reality. It doesn’t matter whether we want to accept it or not.

Our lives aren’t the beautiful pure little snowflakes we wish them to be, they are simply ending one second at a time, one tick-tock of the clock hand at a time.

The true purpose in life, I see now, is to create something that will survive, something that will live, even when we ceased to do so.

Clearing a space between the tomato sauce and scattered cereal flakes, I placed the book down in front of me.

If something happen to me tonight, then this will be the legacy that I am going to leave behind.

Struggling I pulled my sweaty right hand free from the hold of the pink rubber gardening glove.

She is in my room now.

I started writing, hands shaking badly.

I know it.

A drop of sweat splattered on the page, staining it forever.

She wants a confrontation, and I will give her one. Sure as hell, John Freeman will not be beaten by a fucking rag doll.

The bitch…

Itch, I thought wryly, mucking itch.

I paused, shaking my aching throbbing head, wiping stray sweat out of my blurring eyes.

This weathered brown book contains the tale of John Freeman.

La Loterie! Sortitio! Lotería!

I played the lottery, and it had played me good.

I paused, looking over my shoulder into my neat room.

My reflection from within the Victorian mirror looked grim, grim and tired.

Anxiously I strained to look into the mirror.

I blinked hard, blinking away drops of sweat stinging my eyes.

Nothing but my weary worn out reflection grinned back at me.

I continued my writing.

…I used to think that the human race once was the pet alligators that God had grown bored with and flushed down the toilet. Now I see the truth clearer. Whether we are scum, evil or special and gifted, we are all the same. Every moment is a choice that we have to make.

A choice to hope.

A choice to dream, even against the despair, the anxiety and the deep darkness of our most desperate nightmares.

I glanced back at the mirror.

Still my eagerly grinning reflection stared back at me, blinking at me in mockery.

Yes.

Against this we can never fail.

Never give up, for it is not a battle of flesh and bone that we fight, but a battle of spirit and being.

A battle of dreams, for hope and purpose and survival…

Pitter-patter, the sound drew my attention from the page, towards the darkness of my bedroom and my grinning reflection.

Straining, I couldn’t make out anything from within the darkness.

Wait!

Darkness?

When had I switched the light off?

With trembling hands I turned back to my writing…

… And yes, I will oppose the despair in the same manner as I will oppose little red Rebecca…

Neither with mercy, nor with hesitation…

I heard her giggles, coming from within the darkness of my room.

If anybody were to read this, know then reader that I am dead, but realize that my death has not been in vain. Learn from the lessons that I have learned too late.

Slamming the book closed, I stood up, putting the faded pink glove back on.

Don’t Touch

We were waiting for you to finish, nasty man.

We?

Emerging from within the deepening darkness I saw little red Rebecca, grinning at me, holding her side where I had once ripped off her little arm.

“Bitch” I growled, slowly walking towards her.

The world was again being painted in the color of faded crimson.

I had finally mastered my control over The Red.

I could summon it forth like some dark magical power, using it to strengthen my resolve, to drive away the doubt and the fear.

Yes.

Tonight, I have become The Red.

Another Rebecca came to stand beside the first one, this one the proud owner of two limply flapping arms.

I paused, shaking my head in disbelieve.

Another agent of despair.

What’s wrong nasty man?

They asked in unison. They giggled in unison.

Don’t you want to play with us?

A third Rebecca came to stand beside the first two, whimpering at me with those big black-brown Betty boob eyes.

Yes!

A fourth Rebecca jumped from the Victorian mirror.

“The mirror?” I muttered, feeling a finger of fear probing the edges of The Red surrounding me.

Yes.

I should have known it!

The mirror was reflecting back to me, my own doubts, my own fears, and not only that, but it was multiplying them! Giving form and shape to my anxiety!

Another red Rebecca jumped from within the Victorian mirror, landing with a hollow soft thud on the thick carpet.

Slowly, streams of little ragdolls were climbing out of the Victorian mirror, limply walking towards me.

Let’s play!

They cried together.

La Loterie! Sortitio! Lotería!

I played the lottery, and it had played me good.

Clenching my fists, summoning The Red, I ran towards the stream of ragdolls.

I screamed and laughed.

“I am John Freeman and I am free!”

<><><><><><><>

The sun was stinging my eyes.

Blinking away the tears, I reached forward and continued pruning the rose bush in front of me.

My head still aches, pounding at me with more passion and frequency than it used to.

I remember very little of that night I had faced the horrible horde of little ragdolls.

They tell me that the police had found me the following day, in a pile of cotton and material.

Not one ragdoll remained intact.

The mirror was shattered and blood was flowing freely from the scars that criss-crossed my naked body.

Flexing the pink glove I broke the rose stem, bringing the fragrant flower head up to inhale its sweet fragrance.

Yes.

The doctors tell me that I won’t have much longer to live.

The remainder of my brain had developed a tumor that they simply could not stop.

Do I regret anything?

I don’t think so.

I have succeeded and could claim victory over my fears and my anxiety.

How many people can say that? How many people with only half a brain could say that?

I do blame Frederick though.

Psychiatrists?

Bah!

They know nothing.

I can still hear his smug voice…

“You have to disassociate yourself with the rage John,” he had said back then, at the beginning of our long court ordered sessions. “You have to realize that it is not you acting that way. You are not responsible for what the rage does, but you have the power to stop it John.”

I didn’t believe him back then, and I sure as hell didn’t believe him now.

“You have the power to stop it John.” He had assured me back then.

How wrong he was.

I would never again stop myself from being me.

Now, only at the end of my life do I realize that.

Too little, too late nasty ugly man!

Betty Boob whispered to me from within the pounding drums of my headache.

Not long now.

Straining I struggled up, gently removing the pink gardening gloves.

Don’t Touch

Slowly I walked back to my table on the patio of the institute, clutching the fresh red rose.

Sitting down, shaking badly, I opened the last page of the weathered brown book.

We are all actors on the Great Stage of Life.

The warm sun was beating down harshly as I continued writing with my shaky hands, struggling to keep my grip on the pen.

Knowing now that my role is ending, I will change my costume and prepare for the next act. I will race back to The Great Stage, again, and again.

For this is our depression, our battle, our act and our master piece.

What will you do?

Wouldn’t you do the same?

Encore!

THE END.