Allegiance Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
He was stabbed in the back.
Again and again and again.
The first blow was enough to knock him to his knees. Then someone’s hands pushed him to the
ground. He could feel more than two sets
of hands on him, pushing him down to the ground. His face was pressed down and held in place
so he couldn’t turn and see them. A knee
was placed in his lower back and the full weight of a heavy individual came
crashing down. He was not going
anywhere. Several other arms and hands
and feet were placed on his appendages to make sure there was no resistance
possible.
This was a large assembly of some sort. Criminals?
Thieves? Sadists? A confederacy of serial killers? He had no idea. It made no sense to him. An obscured act with yet undefined goals.
Pain certainly. But pain
with seemingly little purpose other than that. They made no attempt for his
money. They made no attempt to hold him
ransom or extort some action out of him.
They made no attempt to kill him.
It became a slow torture.
They knew they could do what they wanted. They knew they could take their time. The stabs were replaced with tiny little
slashes and slices. Just enough to let
you know they were there. Just enough to
hurt. Just enough to draw a little blood
and keep you down and them on top. What
was the point in ending something when you could just make it seemingly last
forever?
He thought of the sharp pain when he got a paper cut once under
his fingernail. Was that worse? He couldn’t say. Somehow you grow numb with an overabundance
of pain. Some trick of the body he
thought. Thanks body, thanks for somehow
making a paper cut worse than this. He
had heard of “death by a thousand cuts.”
Would this be by a thousand paper cuts?
Was that actually possible? Would
that draw enough blood? Were they here
to find out?
“Justin…”
Someone whispered his name.
It was quiet and muffled and there were grunts and struggles and other
noises to mask it, but it had been said.
Justin had heard his name. They
knew him, or at least someone did.
Was it a conspiracy? “Et tu
brute?” Justin had no Caesar complex. Whatever his level of narcissism was, it
wasn’t great enough to allow that level of self-delusion. Or at least he didn’t think it was. He thought he was honest with himself, but
really who knows that sort of thing? At
some point it’s all subjective.
He tried to think through the pain. He never thought he had any enemies. But he wasn’t sure. Sometimes enemies don’t show themselves until
it’s too late and sometimes enemies don’t even realize themselves that they are
enemies. Enemies were tricky that
way. You never knew for sure who was
going to do what and often times they did a million things in between.
He tried to think about his past.
There were people he had wronged.
Women he had mistreated. Once he
had had an affair, and never told either woman about it. There were friends he had abused. He asked for favors and assistance, but
seldom returned the trouble. He took
more than his fair share and was bad when the bill came. Once he revealed a secret he promised to
keep. There were co-workers he had never
cared about. He had lied and acted like
he was their friend. He had befriended them
for his own selfish purposes; using them to pawn off work to and make his job
easier and his day go faster. Once he
had found out information at a private party and used it to incriminate a
business rival and receive financial gain.
He couldn’t believe that any of these things made him worthy of torture
and murder.
“That’s life,” he sang in his head. “…some people get their kicks stomping on a
dream.”
People were fucked up that way.
Sometimes Justin hated life and every person around him.
They stabbed him in the back.
Again and again and again.
He would never know who it was.
Or why.
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