Fiction: Cheshire Dreams

If you listen real hard, you can hear it.

Really. It's like a very faint heartbeat, only it's slower and sounds a lot like this: thump-thump-thump-thump. Very regular-like.

Someone once told me that's the city's heart beating. I used to believe it, but I don't anymore, not really. You see, I once stuck a knife into the ground in this alleyway no one uses and nothing came out, not even gas. All it did was make me angry and I stabbed and stabbed and yelled until this old bird came and asked me if I was alright and then I told her maybe you could help and suddenly she wasn't breathing and her heart just stopped. There was this sound like a click from her throat and she just died. My hand does that, it does. I had blood all over me, and it was nice and warm.

She made me angry, and I had to clean her. Old women shouldn't be allowed to have jobs like these. They're unclean, and I always have to clean them for everyone else. One of these days I will get tired of it, and who will they depend on to keep the streets safe and clean then?

They never last. Never. I try not to forget them, even when they always call me Jim (and forget my name) . I go to their inquests and I see everyone else crying and worrying. This is foolishness, because there is nothing to worry about. They are happy, after the pain. I deliver them, the same way I have to deliver the little pink pieces I cut out. They must know I am doing this for their own good.

It is a lonely job I have. They call me names. I dislike names that people give me, so I give them one of my own. It's a good name. I hope I don't ever have to change it again, it's such a bother. A simple, strong name.

I hope they will remember it. Dear Diary, I must go out again tonight. There is much work to do.

Truly,
Jack.