Brandon took a breather. He finished work for the night, and was heading home. He usually took the subway from the office down to his apartment, a block away from the station. Every day, the subways were always crowded, and he found himself hanging onto the rails rather than taking a seat. But this time was different.
There was almost... nobody on the subway, except for him, and two strangers on both opposite sides of the car. One could be described as a shady man, shaded glasses, with short hair with a raised front.
He was wearing aviators with thin, reflective lenses, and below a neck, a black fabric suit and tie. The man was constantly checking his watch, and beside him was a briefcase.
On the other side, another man, longer, shaggy, black hair with dark grey eyes, wearing a leather jacket, a shirt that appeared to portray artwork for some modern heavy metal band, and dark, black jeans. He appeared to be of college age, and was intently texting some unknown person on his touchscreen phone.
Brandon was always nervous with fewer people around him. Especially if they were seemingly strange people. His eyes kept darting around the car, waiting for his stop. He knew the next stop was Steinway, and he lived on Elmhurst. He was still a bit far away.
He was wondering if he would make it without a panic attack. The meds weren't helping. What they were doing was impairing his vision and making him dizzier. He wondered...He didn't remember anything up until getting on the subway...he thought for a long time...and gently rested his eyes and fell asleep.
He awoke to the stop at Steinway. The man with shaggy hair exited, but not before flashing Brandon a very quick glance. One that implied something wrong.
Brandon knew something was wrong. He was going to be alone with this strange man...this man who had something to hide. He knew the man had something to hide.
He was constantly checking his watch, but never passed a glance at Brandon or down the other side of the car. Or maybe... he was. Under those large shades, he could be watching Brandon. He knew the man was bad news.
But it's only a few more stops... Why hasn't the train left yet? It's felt like hours!
But in reality, probably only a minute had passed, and the train began to pull out.
Suddenly, three large men appeared, squeezed through the door in the nick of time, and took their seats. Brandon was unnerved now more than ever. These three men were large. Burly. The one on the left was a large black man, with a clean shaved facial... and clean shaved head. He looked intimidating, he was built. He reminded Brandon of the bouncer at Winkie's.
The man on the right was not as muscular, but certainly scarier, he had a concerned, almost intent expression on his face, like he was gripping, waiting for something. He too, had a clean shaven head, though a shadow of hair shone on his face. Then in the middle...A smaller man, shorter, skinnier, overall smaller than the other two. He had combed hair, and held his face down with his hands clasped around. He looked like he was in deep mental pain, probably traumatized.
Brandon thought the whole bunch was suspicious. He always kept a knife in his pocket, just in case people got too close. He wondered if he was going to use it. Use it on these men, waiting for their moment, their time to attack.
They were probably waiting for when he turned his back on them and left through the door. Then they could come behind and do unspeakable horrors to him. He wouldn't let that happen. The minute they flashed a single glance at him, he would jump to slitting their throats, cutting them open and removing their organs. Only way to be sure. Then he would stab the man in the suit, this-
No. I'm insane. I'm losing my mind. It's the meds. It's the FUCKING meds.
He realized what he was thinking. He was overly suspicious and worrysome, if not insanely sociopathic, about these three men. He decided he would look away and out the window at the tunnels until he reached his stop.
One of the men spoke to the smaller guy.
"You'll be fine, Jack. Just hold on."
Brandon heard more mumblings like this, and seemingly, some mumbles from the man clutching his head. Then, he noticed this suited man on the other side staring him down. Brandon stared, for what felt like hours, into this man's shades, past the shades...and saw... the eyes of evil.
He knew he was right all along. A clever guise. It was exactly what these demons wanted him to think. He reached for his knife, slowly, and the suit changed his glance to the window. He was about to draw his knife, when the second stop came.
The intercom came on, and the burly black man stood up. He seemed to nod to the other larger man and then whispered to the shorter man saying:
"You're gonna be alright, Jackson. This is my stop now, but Bryan here is gonna be with you for longer, okay? You'll be fine."
He turned his head and slowly approached the door. the Train finally stopped and he walked out. For a few moments, nothing happened. Brandon let out a sigh of relief, and noticed no one had entered the train. He checked out the window; Deserted.
This isn't normal. NY isn't deserted. it's THEIR doing. I'll fix them, I'll fix them by surprise... it'll be normal!
They pulled out of the station and began heading towards the next stop.
Brandon flashed his eyes around. He remembered the doc saying something about the meds, not to take more than twenty-two an hour. No, that didn't seem right. Maybe it was two a day...or two an hour...or two a- He couldn't think straight. He did know that the doc issued them yesterday, and by now, half the tube was empty. He knew he had more than he should....or did he have not enough? Maybe, if he took more, it'd all go away.
He flashed his eyes around, the larger man helping his friend, the suit reading a paper, probably from his briefcase. He flashed his eyes around again, dizzy. He began to sweat. He felt like he had been there for hours, tracing his eyes around the well-lit subway car, at these three strangers, at... his reflection in the mirror.
It's not him. He sees someone else... No, he sees himself, Brandon saw himself, but he saw something behind him. Behind him in the reflection. It was a silhouette, somebody too blurred in the reflection to be made out, but it was close. He looked behind to him, and saw nothing. He let out a sigh of relief, held his forehead, turned his head back to the other side of the car, and saw it.
The black silhouette, a pure shade, edgy shade, sitting across from him. And for that moment, he froze. No one, not the three strangers in the car seemed to notice. Maybe they just weren't looking. He was stuck to his seat, in horror. His gut told him the pills were doing this, his mind told him he didn't take enough.
His hands were reaching for more. He closed his eyes, and the silhouette got up at the moment he began closing. He could feel it getting closer, and he jammed four pills into his mouth, and opened his eyes.
The silhouette was gone. But he could now feel his heart wrenching.
It's these other three. They're what's wrong... If they're gone, maybe... maybe it'll go away. The pills only help. I have to take action now or-
Brandon's eyes darted around the room very quickly. He felt like everything was speeding up. He felt faster, more jumpy, more on edge. Like something was about to happen. But what simply happened was the Second large man got up, patted his friend on the shoulder, and walked out. Before he left, he said "Just head home, Jack. Go get some sleep. You'll be fine." The friend walked out the doors, and for a few moments, nothing happened. He began to feel nauseous, and if he wasn't going to puke now, he couldn't tell when. The train finally pulled out yet again, and it was these final three strangers left.
The short man, Jackson, was clutching his head. Brandon could see his fingers digging into his scalp. The man was in pain. The suit didn't seem to notice, he was sitting cross-legged with his hands behind his head, reclining. Jackson began to grumble. Brandon was losing his grip. His fingers shook and were etching for the knife. He looked around, multiple times.
Get it together. These people aren't...NO. It's what they want me to think...I just...have to finish them.
He began to flash his eyes around, rolling them from side to side, only to stop at the suit. Sitting across from him, was the silhouette, who appeared to make out a face. It was pale, gray, his eyes were utter gray, and smoke rings circled around his eyes. He reached out towards the suited man and mouthed a few words...before slipping back in the seat and fading away. Brandon wondered what he said. But he dispatched such thoughts and his mind began to race.
I knew it, I knew it, I FUCKING KNEW IT! NOW OR NEVER!
Brandon gripped his knife. Suddenly, Jack fell over on the floor and a strange red liquid spilled from his head. The suit turned his head to look at Jack, and his mind began to race.
Oh, shit... What the hell...
He got up from his seat and jumped towards Jack, trying to see what happened. He looked at Brandon and screamed "What the fuck are you doing? Get over here and help me!"
Jack was flipped over on his back, and both Brandon and the Suit could see what appeared to be a bullet hole in his forehead. The Suit began to panic.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fu-
he turned to see Brandon rushing at him with a stiletto.
Brandon began to stab. He realized this was the moment. He would stab the suit, and then finish what he started on Jack. He flashed to the moment in the alleyway outside the bar where he pulled a .22 on the man. The man offered him money, a cell phone, his credit cards, his wallet. Brandon knew it was enough to get him more meds, but he couldn't risk the guy running and telling someone, so he put a single bullet in the man's forehead. He heard two men coming from the door of the bar, talking, mumbling about a man named Jack, hoping that "he didn't get too sick" and laughter. Brandon ran. The two men, Dwayne and Bryan, were drunk. They all got drunk, and Brandon was desperate for more drugs. He needed them. He got fired from work after an outburst, and he wanted to get back home.
Jack had a bit too much and went outside to spill. Brandon caught him. This was when he heard the two men. He panicked, and ran down the dark alleyway in the night towards the Doctor. He was an amnesiac and a sociopath. His doctor didn't realize it. You've already gone through your meds in a week? You don't need more. But Brandon had money. and he was going to get more. He lost his job, and his source of income, a day before payday.
When he got to his Doc's office after the shooting, The doctor refused to open up the med cabinet. So he... opened up the doctor. He raced back to the station to get back home. Meanwhile, Jack, who survived the shot from the .22, was helped up by his drunken friends. So drunk, they didn't realize the severity of the situation, thought it best to hit the subway and go home. They stumbled around for awhile, and reached Steinway Station the same time Brandon's train had reached the station. Brandon had managed to forget all events up until that point, and rested.
The Suit dodged the first attack by Brandon and began wrestling with him around the windows. Brandon was screaming, and growling about trying to destroy the Suit and a "shadow person". They wrestled around, till the point where the Suit gripped Brandon's head and smashed it into the windows, shards of glass slicing into Brandon's face, as well as breaking his nose. As the Suit's hands became sticky with brandon's blood, Brandon picked up the stiletto and slashed the suit's arm, and attempted a slice at the throat, which missed.
The Suit kicked Brandon down onto the floor, and began stomping on his head, breaking a few teeth. Brandon knee'd the Suit in the testicles and grabbed the stiletto yet again, this time, slicing up, barely missing the torso of the Suit. The suit grabbed the knife from Brandon's hand, twisted it around, twisted far enough to land him on the floor, and tried to drive the knife into his throat. Brandon could see the silhouette appearing from behind the Suit as the knife entered Brandon's mouth.
Four people waited for the subway to enter the station. as the doors opened, blood spilled out from the door, revealing Jackson's corpse. Screams, yells for help, and the patter of footsteps filled the station. A security guard arrived to check inside, and found blood splattered across the walls of the tram, and a bloody skeleton cleanedo f all excess blood, muscle, skin, and organs, against one side of the tram.
Nothing. Nothing in the world could do something like that. There's just nothing.
The body was unidentifiable, and it may never be known just whose body it was.