Deus Ex Machina

With a single glance, they assess the man. Average height, average build and with a crown of greying salt-and-pepper hair. The sunlight streams through the showcase panels, and it highlights the narrowed features and creases of pale skin. Bleached, like fading metal. It’s in the first stages of decline, they know.

It’s really too bad.

He has beautiful eyes, they think longingly, and move on.

He’s approaching forty years of age now, well past the prime of his youth and by all accounts and expectations, should have already settled down into the rhythm of life. A white-picket fence, maybe… the apple pie life with 2.5 kids and all that. 

Life is unexpected that way, because somewhere between his childhood to maturity, the rhythm of life that dictated every beat of his choice had changed. Fickle decisions steer him blind through several crossroads, and he supposes that he will never know the full scope of what he has lost, because all that he has to go on is his own worn memories. And if he were in the mood to wax poetry, he would almost say that it were a tumultuous sea; with wave after wave of highs and lows, and such little precious time spent surfing the euphoric crests, but still evenly tempered by disappointments and hard-earned victories.

He’s... lonely, he realises abruptly. The full impact of that jolts him one afternoon, while he’s peering into the fogged mirror of the bathroom. Shaving cream drips down the bare skin of cheeks and chins, and when he moves his jaw experimentally, it is to the nauseating sentiment that there’s a stranger looking back at him. 

The blade clatters from his slack grasp. It’s almost as loud as the silence itself. Sacrilegious, like a trespass in the dead quiet of a buried tomb.

He can’t stop the flinch from seizing his body.

But what he can do is this: he swallows, and then picks up the fragmented pieces of himself.

(And if he wipes clean the misted reflection of himself, no one is any the wiser to play witness or psychiatrist because - in the end - there’s only him.)

Silence is what they like. The sun rises and falls, and when the darkness finally steals over, it’s about the only time that they get the rest that they deserve. All day long, the chittering gnats insist on invading the sanctuary of their dwelling. The greedy, greasy touches make their skin crawl with revulsion, and for a moment, they wish that they can slip the skin that they’re trapped in. 

But they can’t. They’re stuck.

This thought infuriates them, and they sulk for the remainder of the night. Rinse, repeat.

His car breaks down in the middle of driving to work. 

There’s a moment of stunned disbelief, before frustration finally kicks in. He’s ashamed to say that there’s a split second in between, where he contemplates slamming the palms of his hands against the steering wheel. It’s pure rage - white-hot anger - and the promise of cathartic release is nearly too much for him to resist before he is startled back into reality by the blaring horns of other disgruntled drivers bottle-necked behind him.

He shudders back a breath, and claws himself back from the cusp of utter madness. Knowledge of the inevitable plunge still linger at the back of his mind, but he’s collected enough to scrape up even the slightest semblance of control. It’s not enough, but for today, it will do. 

He takes another deep breath, and bites down on his lip to keep the haunting words from spilling over. He gets out of his car, with one hand clasped tightly around the brim of metal and the other already signalling frantic apologies to the people around him.

Later, he finally finds the courage to admit to himself two things. Firstly, the timer is running out, and he needs… someone, something. 

Secondly, no amount of scrubbing or apologising can ever fully wash away the memory of hurled insults and fury-filled glances thrown his way. 

Even as undeserved as it might have been.

Fear is an interesting thing. There’s a fragile sort of reverence in the subconscious worship, and they find that they like it. It’s a meal - piping hot sustenance - where falsities and pretence fails, and they find that it’s more refreshing than any other range of emotion because it’s the real thing reaching tentatively out from the shadow of a carefully constructed persona. 

Darkness attracts darkness. It’s recognition. 

An acknowledgement, almost.

He gets by on most days. He’s not rich, but he’s not poor either, and he thinks that he should be grateful because that puts him in a better place compared to so many others out there. His frugal upbringing shapes him to be reluctant, especially when spending money, and he is more of the practical sort really, so that means that he doesn’t typically concern himself with the particulars of superstition.

He doesn’t spare any thought to it, when - upon realising that the old one had completely died out on him - he makes the transaction for the new car. It's merely that, isn't it? A means to an end - a convenience born of necessity - and nothing more.

Believing this - it's his first mistake.

Hello, the man says softly.

For a moment, they are startled. Respect is rarely ever given to them, and they preen at first, before quickly realising that the man doesn’t actually mean it. He doesn’t know that they’re real - doesn’t know that they are desperate for someone to see them - and the disappointment that spikes at that is enough to bring the bitter taste back into their mouths. 

They are grumpy for the rest of the day after that.

(Or, at least, they mean to be. The man reaches down and gently scrapes his knuckles against the grill in greeting. In return, they purr contentedly.

They can be persuaded to be gracious enough to forgive this one thing.)

“Oh my god. You bought the murder car?”

He winces at that, feeling the beginning thrums of a headache reach into the base of his skull. The tone is all disbelief and squawked outrage, an effect that is complete by the punctuated and emphatic pause afterwards. The look that she gives him is all wide-eyed horror, although he can all too easily see the glimmer of enjoyment underneath the pale brown of her pupils.

He should feel irritated, he knows, but years of acquaintance with Beverly has taught him to go along with it and roll with the punches, lest he be swept up in the chaotic hurricane that is Ms Price. 

“It was on sale.” He explains simply, turning to busy himself with straightening the papers on his desk. A quick glance at the clock confirms that it’s late and way past his working hours, and he takes the time to gather his things while Bev hovers anxiously over him.

“It’s haunted.” She argues, dropping her voice to a low whisper. “That’s why it was on auction. Nobody sane would want anything to do with it.”

“Thanks,” He says dryly, and Beverly’s cheeks flush slightly when she releases the implications of her statement. It’s a testament to their friendship - give or take - that she barrels straight ahead without an apology, but the slight softening of her eyes conveys the message well enough.

“It belonged to the Baltimore Ripper. He killed a lot of people, and made their flesh into art. He called them his 'tableaus'. Said that he was recreating art." She shudders. "It was horrible."

"I know. I was there when the whole mess went down." He shakes his head wryly. "It was in the news for days, remember?"

"Right." She says sheepishly. "It's not the first time that I'm telling you this, right? Never mind that, because you will hear it again! It's more relevant now, because oh I don't know, you went and actually bought the freaking murder car!"

"Fine. Whatever." He turns to leave, but he’s only a single step forward before she catches his arm. The strength of her grip startles him enough to hesitate.

“Promise me,” She demands, “That- That you’ll be careful, ‘kay?” Her voice is softer now. Sincere and genuine in a way that soothes the frayed edges of his nerves.

The vice around his neck tightens at that, and her unease becomes his own. "I will." He promises, equally sombrely.

(But apparently, not well enough.)

Most of the fascination lay with the man, rather than the machine. With only the monster, and not the human.

They are the only ones who don't make that error.

They don't. They remember.

“This is better than sleep-walking, wouldn’t you say?” Said a voice from the driver’s seat.

He jolts upright with a start. His face is pressed almost completely to the window glass, and his side aches from where the hilt of the seat belt digs into the bony arc of his hip. There’s remnants of sweat still clinging to his skin, and his face feels simultaneously warm and clammy.

It takes him a moment to register that he’s in the car. Still in the car, he recalls with a grimace, as he gathers from his half-faded memories that he apparently hadn’t even made it home. He must have fallen asleep, somehow. The thought is troubling, and he spares a moment to be grateful that the car had been pulled to a stop, and not actually cruising on the road with him asleep at the wheel.

He nearly forgets about being awoken by a voice that was most certainly not his own - too British, for one thing - and instead chalking it up to his imagination, when it speaks again.

“Hello.” His car says pleasantly. “We really wanted to talk. Is now a good time?”

Heads or tails, human?

“Carthage.” His voice cracks as he uses the pre-programmed name. “Carthage. Take me home. Please.”

"How are you alive?" It asks.

It is afraid. Of them, and what they can do. It is wiser than most in that regard then. 

They smile, finally. "I could ask the same of you."

The radio goes staticky. Goldberg’s Variation warbles out from the speakers, and his hands tremble the whole ride home. It doesn’t require him to drive. It’s demonstrating a threat, he thinks shakily. He’s the prey and it's the predator.

It means that he’s literally in the belly of the beast.

"We want to set you free." They plead-

(The scene plays out in his mind, and he sees the shadows of a faceless creature kneel in front of a splayed figure splayed out on the ground. Talons sprout and dip into shades of red and rust as the creature sets to work. Clear precise strokes cut into the clammy canvas of flesh, and the world around him blurs into obscurity.)

"-No." The pale skin of its throat quivers. Its eyes go blank like its dying-and-dead. "You want to destroy me. To tear into my mind and make it yours."

They shiver as they watch the truth dawn on its face.

"You want me to be you." It whispers, the colour draining from its face.

Pain radiates down the curve of his knuckles. There is a loud crack, and he witnesses himself fracture into a thousand shards.

Insanity and obsession.

(It's madness.)

“I’m not you.” It confesses, turning away from them. “I’m not your mirror. I’m not you.”

And that’s the final nail in the coffin.

The lights go out, leaving him to be swallowed by the darkness.

We’re sorry, they whisper. We didn’t mean to. We liked you.