The Nod: Chapter Four. “Masks”

“Why can’t you wear a normal mask like the rest of us?”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s a fucking bunny.”


“Look who we got here.”

“Take the sack off.”

“No, no. He can figure it out.”

A kick in the ribs.

A woman screams.

“Recognize that?”


“Do it again.”

A woman screams.

“Know who that is?”

A woman screams.

“Talk. Or we kill her.”


“Is your gun loaded?”

“Of course it is. Why the fuck wouldn’t it be?”

“We’re not here to kill people.”

“No. We’re here to rob that mother fucker,”

A shake of the head.

“But if someone is going to be shooting at me, I want to be able to shoot back.”

“If you kill someone, it’s on your hands. Not mine.”

“I’ve killed before.”

“Right. I forgot. Big time war hero.”


In nightmares, sometimes, the attacker is faceless. Or a stranger. A friend. But not.

Even yourself.

It’s the struggle that makes it difficult. A struggle against something unknown.

A blank face that pins you down and begins to cut you open. Showing you your insides.

A complete stranger that runs you down with their car.

A friend, that isn’t your friend, shooting you over and over.

Slipping a noose over your own neck.

You wake up. In a panic.

Surprised to still be alive. Searching for holes or blood or signs of an attack.

When you fall back asleep it happens again.

Or continues.

 A series.


Multiple homicides.

You don’t know who they are, where they come from, why they do it.

No escape.


“Please. Please don’t hurt me. I don’t know anything.”

“We know. But he does.”

The eyes can’t focus on her, blindfolded, but she’s close. In pain.

“We can always take a finger off of her.”

“Yeah. Matching thumbs.”

Blackness. Preferring not to see, not to witness.

Splintering of bone.

A woman screams.

“Talk or she loses another one.”

“He must really love her to let this happen. All he has to do is talk.”

Splintering of bone.

A woman screams.

Splintering of bone.

A woman screams.



“Good boy.”


About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
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