I confess, I was none too alert when that terrible mishap occurred. It was a rough day at the factory, and, rather than calming me, the pair of light beers I grabbed at the gas station only left me more distrait. The surge of adrenaline I so horribly needed only arrived after I heard that sound… that awful, awful sound…

Instinctively, I went rigid and waited for my groggy head to collect itself. Once it did, I leapt out of the car and checked the rear.

It was a man, alright. A run-over, bruised, totally motionless man, lying a yard and a half away from my car.

Soon after, I cringed at the realization that my reckless alcoholism possibly put a man in his grave. I crouched beside his limp body and placed a hand on his abdomen.

His heart was beating. Rapidly.

I got up and headed to call an ambulance, but as I straightened myself, I looked at the man again and hesitated. He was dressed in a formal indigo suit, one that I certainly couldn’t hope to ever afford, with a small white pin attached to it that bore the name, Sydney Cloyd.

My heart sank. With such fine attire, surely, this stranger could be no John Doe. The beautiful people were a powerful lot, handily pulling the strings of law and politics to get what they wanted. And if this man wanted justice, he would get it without saying a word.

I then realized who the true victim of this incident was.

I gazed at the dark surroundings. There was so little light here that many stars I hadn’t seen before blinked merrily above me. After some digging in my trunk, I found a flashlight and threw light on a section of a river that accompanied the highway. I dragged the body straight into the water and let the quiet echoing splash swell my guilt. There went twenty-four years of innocence.

As I shuffled back into the driver’s seat and shut my concerns on the other side of the door, the dark side of my imagination constructed that man’s story. He had children, maybe; two, both brown-haired, just like him. Perhaps he’d been rushing to a local hospital, for he’d heard of some terrible misfortune that befell his wife, till his trip was cut short by the blinding headlights of my car…

God, I needed another drink.

I parked by a smart-looking tavern a few minutes later, on the outskirts of a quaint town I used to frequent, with the hope that a nice glass of upscale whisky would ease my mind. The glowing white sign above the door simply read, Syd’s. The namesake brought back the memory of that man, but I swiftly shook it off. If I was gonna get drunk, I’d much rather be mad than moody.

The inside of the bar appeared even more lavish than its flashy facade suggested. Soft, ivory couches lined the maroon wall beneath some ornate lights. Oddly enough, all the seats were empty, despite the hour. I was in no mood to question the aristocratic protocol, though. I shuffled to the slick marble counter and took a seat.

“Scotch, please.” The familiar sound of whisky rushing into the glass mug pleased me very much.

“That’ll be twelve dollars.”

I took out my wallet and grabbed the bills, but before placing them on the counter, I glanced at the bartender and froze. There, right in front of me, stood the exact same man whom I ran over mere minutes ago, with the same face, the same clothes, and the same name tag that bore the same moniker: Sydney Cloyd.

“W-what the fuck⁈”

“Now now, sir—there’s no need for profanities. What seems to be the problem?”

Had my eyes deceived me? No, sadly they hadn’t. That man was definitely there. I raised a shaking finger at him. “Y-you’re supposed to be…”

“Sorry?”

I scanned the room for cameras or hidden faces, then turned back to the strange man. This was all wrong. Very, very wrong. And I knew wrongs had to be corrected. “I’ll be right back.”

“Alright.”

I scurried out the door and jumped into my car, snatching from the glove compartment the tool that would fix this paradox, this glitch, this… whatever the hell was happening here. I can’t tell you precisely what drove me to do this, but trust me, if you saw a person you just murdered return to serve you a glass of whisky, you wouldn’t be very level-headed either.

I hurried back into the tavern and contemplated the man. He was sitting on a stool behind the counter, apparently enthralled by a corner of the room. I took aim and pulled the trigger. At the same moment, a sudden and almost physical pain swept through me, as if the bullet ricocheted off the man’s head and killed a small part of me. I dismissed it as a pang of guilt.

I hoisted the body on my shoulder and whisked it into the trunk, then turned the car around and headed back to that same section of the river where I dumped the man’s previous “incarnation,” which was now nowhere to be seen. The splash continued to ring in my ears as the stream carried my victim out of sight, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth. I knew this line of thought was wrong, but I took some comfort in the fact that the man was filthy rich.

Sinking back into the driver’s seat with a chaotically conflicted mind, I turned the key and hastily left the wretched place. Besides the remorse, I was beginning to feel something else in my heart, something horribly oppressive. I set the malaise aside, however—brooding was no hobby of mine.

I decided to take a wrong turn this time and drive through a different route home. The shadows of the road tempted my grim fantasy to further conceive this Sydney Cloyd’s background, but I was quick to turn on the radio. There appeared to be a community radio station in this region, broadcasting for a small town I could see up ahead.

“—you say that affected your career much?” a voice asked.

“Absolutely,” another one replied. “It was… things like that can be sources of much inspiration, um… not just emotionally but creatively too.”

Frankly, it was refreshing to hear something other than politics on the radio. With all the stuff going on in the world, the voice of a small, simple town reminded me that tranquility always lay somewhere.

“Which leads right back to Chamber Door, right?”

“Right. It’s a very melancholy melody that just came to me some time after that happened.”

Once I entered the orange glare of the streetlights, I slowed down to observe this fascinating hamlet. The avenues in this area were quiet and deserted, which seemed to conflict with the community radio’s activity at this hour.

“But the song’s not about the incident.”

“No. Well, it kind of is. It’s more of a personal allusion to it, but the song itself tells a different story.”

The lane I was on was just about to leave the area. I soon realized that it passed right by the radio station. Curiously, it was located on the very edge of the town.

“I see. Well, I think that concludes our broadcast tonight. It’s been an honor to have you here.”

“Thank you.”

“Local singer-songwriter Sydney Cloyd, goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

…WHAT⁈

I froze on the spot and stopped the car, my head spinning with rage and confusion. Why the hell was there another Sydney Cloyd? Why wouldn’t this damned fiend die already⁈

Soon after, a man walked out of the radio station and started ambling down the street. I could recognize the bastard’s outfit from a mile away. I restarted the car and began shadowing him from a distance. He had a calm and self-important air, just like the bartender. The symmetry only made me more furious.

He seemed to notice me a minute later, as he upped his pace. Nevertheless, I continued to pursue him, keen on erasing this monster. This time, I’d make sure he wouldn’t be coming back.

I opened the glove compartment and took out a pack of matchsticks, placing them in my pocket. I’d always known they’d come in handy at some point. There was a fuel tank in the trunk, I remembered. Hopefully it’d do the trick.

Cloyd was running now. I pushed the gas pedal further and cocked my gun. He was skipping between blocks, attempting to elude death once more. Not today, you son of a bitch.

Eventually, he turned and ran into an alley, where the darkness swallowed him. I jumped out of the car and sprinted in, gun in hand. Luckily, the system of alleys in this town was too labyrinthine to navigate clearly, and it wasn’t long before Cloyd found himself cornered. I almost took pity on him, shaking there like a wet kitten, kneeling down with dread, perhaps praying. But then I looked at that pretentious suit, and I hesitated no longer.

Once again, there came that otherworldly pain I felt at the bar, clawing at my racing heart. Cloyd collapsed on the cement with an eerie thud, while I turned and ran back to the car. Juxtaposed with the boom of the gunshot, the silence in the streets was horribly suffocating.

When I’d reached the trunk, a number of pale townsmen stood in the doorways, murmuring timorous words of comfort to each other. None of them spotted me yet, fortunately. I snatched the fuel tank and returned to Cloyd’s body, poured the gasoline on it, and set the matchstick. Though I’d have loved to stay and see his garb gradually turn into ash, I was hearing police sirens in the distance. I ran back into the car and fled from the scene.

I changed the channel on the radio and turned the volume all the way up, in hopes that it would drown out my thoughts. Of course, it hadn’t; nothing could drown out my thundering heartbeat, not even the wail of the police siren that grew louder and louder as I drove on. When I realized something was wrong, the car had already bumped into mine and sent it spinning violently about. I was too dumbfounded to understand what was happening, and soon found myself in a pool of blood and broken glass, my car leaning against the trunk of a tree.

I stared into the darkness for some time and wondered if I had finally reached the nadir of my life. Somehow, though I knew I had sinned, I regretted nothing.

As the footfalls of the officer neared me, I bobbed my head awkwardly and turned to face the unbroken window. When he showed up on the other side, I was almost looking forward to meet a new face. Alas, it wasn’t new. There stood Sydney Cloyd again, with the same slick name tag and the same boastful suit, blinking at me.

I shot my arm into the glove compartment and rummaged up my trusty pistol, but by then Cloyd already had his own gun cocked and aimed.

“I suggest you drop that, sir,” he warned.

I glared at him and quivered slightly. He might as well have spat on me at this point. I shoved the pistol back into the glove compartment and opened the door.

“Good,” said Cloyd, returning his gun into his suit’s interior pocket and retrieving a pair of handcuffs. “If you would just turn around now…”

I suppose it was fortunate that Cloyd, gloating over his shallow wealth with that genteel facade of his, hadn’t the wit to be more assertive when assuming the form of a policeman. I lunged forward and seized his throat. The handcuffs left his hands, which proceeded to swing about frantically as he struggled to breathe. I was not going to let the disturbing sight stop me, though. Cloyd had to die.

“…gh…sto…”

“Listen, Cloyd. If you’ll just accept death, I will stop bothering you forever. You’re the one making this harder.”

His eyes rolled to peer at me. I tightened my grasp.

“Look at you, flaunting that fancy suit of yours, thinking you’re something special. You’re not, Cloyd. You’re nothing but a loaded piece of shit. I’m so fucking sick of you.”

His hands found my throat and wrapped themselves around it. It wasn’t all that painful, but I could feel my breaths growing quicker and quicker. Accompanying the panic was an unearthly sensation that enveloped me, as if I were caught in the tide and swallowed by the unforgiving profound. I tried not to let the feeling distract me, but it only deepened the stronger Cloyd’s hold on my throat became. It was but a mere contest at this point, to see who would drop dead first. Somehow, I already had a hunch that we’d both lose, but I wasn’t sure until the tone of my thoughts began wavering.

I knew Cloyd would forever haunt me, and killing him again would be futile, but only now did I grasp the true hopelessness of the situation. There was little point trying to claw through a life tainted by a demonic motif, and perhaps even littler point trying to expunge it. So why was I so intent to kill him?

Through the steadily growing vignette slid a glimpse of Cloyd that answered that question at once. Cloyd wasn’t just some immortal fiend determined to stalk me till my final breath—no, he was much more than that. He was the embodiment of everything I loathed: a stiff, arrogant, solemn aristocrat with some well-paid métier and a painless life. He was the anti-me.

The light flickered. Everything was turning white, and Cloyd was slowly melting away. This would’ve made me quite happy if it wasn’t for the fact that I still felt his hands on my throat and my hands on his. Something was wrong.

And when Cloyd was there no more, it was very wrong.

Oh-so-very wrong.

⁂

I lay on a soft cushion in a white room, gazing at the ceiling. The soft smell of careful hygiene wafted into my nose. I was in a hospital.

It didn’t take long till I noticed that my hands were wrapped around my throat. I moved them away and sat up, scanning the room.

A nurse entered through the door soon after, smiling at me and offering a handshake.

“Good morning, sir,” she said.

“What… what happened?”

“You were hit by a car last night. Minor concussion, nothing too serious.”

I looked at the clock. It was five in the morning.

“Who drove the car?” I mumbled.

“Some alcoholic, I think. He’s been arrested.”

“Arrested?”

“Vehicular assault.”

I never really liked the air of hospitals. It gave me a sense of discomfort and worry, even when there was nothing to worry about.

“May I go home now?”

“You may.”

I stood up and ambled through the white corridors. There were a few nurses and patients wandering about, looking rather weary. Some of them smiled at me as I walked by. When I found the elevator, a young woman in tattered clothes entered with me, wearing a troubled face. She didn’t smile at me.

I left the elevator on the ground floor and headed for the exit. The orange glare of the sun was just peeking above the mountains, sending serene beams of light across the steel blue sky. The wind blew softly in my ears, as if whispering consolation. I felt quite happy to put that horrible nightmare behind me. It’s important to remember that all things end well. Life is a gift.

I slumped into the seat of my car and closed the door. The silence inside was rather soothing, so I left the engine off while I contemplated the beauty of dawn. What a pretty sight.

I grinned at the thought of the dejection I was stranded in just a few minutes ago. How could I’ve so easily forgotten the joy of living?

I turned and looked into the side view mirror. There was a man there, sporting stately apparel. The smile faded from his face, and his throat turned sore.

I opened the glove compartment.