The White Shade – William Becker

“So, um, tell me about your relationship with James.”

“I didn’t know him that well. No, no one did. He wasn’t much of a talker,” said the boy.

“Yes, but you paid attention to him.”

“Yes sir, I did. He just showed up one day and he just wasn’t right.”

“What do you mean? Why?”

The door to the interrogation room slammed open. A deputy stood in the doorway. He had yellow pit stains, and in his hands was a composition notebook. He panted, as if he had been chased directly into the police station.

“Chief, we, uh, found some stuff in his house. Nothing too out of the ordinary. We’re gonna need to go through his internet searches. Oh, and this- you need to go through it.”

“What is it?”

“His journal,” the Deputy said.

“What’s in it?”

“I didn’t want to look.”

“Why not?

“There are things that I don’t really need to see. Protocol, y’know?”

“Let me see. You got the paperwork filed?”

The Deputy grunted in response, motioning to the notebook.

The White Shade|The White Shade|The White Shade|The White Shade

tHE WHITE SHADE

A story BY William Becker

eNter Here

Black

If you went into dictionary and looked up “boring,” you would probably find a picture of James Carver. Life had never been extraordinary for him. He had been happy with his life. Sticking out was not particularly his hobby. Each and every person seems to have a “thing.” For some it is writing, others enjoy painting, some make movies, and even some like to make food. That wasn’t James, because he liked being James and nothing else. Perhaps he was happy with his existence, happy with having no social life, happy with having few hobbies, and even happy about allowing life to simply pass him by. Indifference would be the best word to describe his views on life.

He had one “friend” where he worked. She had an uncanny resemblance to Betty White. She wasn’t exactly a nice person and could be extremely bossy sometimes. Her name was Alice. He had great small talk with Alice, but he really only liked her because he was slightly obsessed with Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland, which was the only book that he owned. To some this would seem strange, but he always wondered why he should get any other book than his favorite.

In a physical sense, James was not particularly noticeable except for curly hair that extended into a mullet and almost reached his neck, and a tattoo of an olive tree on his right wrist. He had no scars of any kind, he had an insane obsession with shaving most of his body to keep himself clean, and this got him labeled as “fag” in his schooling days. He worked a job he was not upset with, but he did not enjoy it either. He bagged groceries at a local farmer’s market that saw a fairly steady stream of business. It was located in the a city that had been featured in the Revolutionary War, Westford, Massachusetts. However, like many people, James was not a character that was incredibly interesting, and his town seemed to match his niche in life.

“I can take you at this register,” Alice said to a couple whose cart was stuffed full of groceries. She motioned for James to approach behind her and bag what she rang up. This was simply how work was. It was grueling, exhausting, and above all a little bit mind numbing. It was almost guaranteed that each day would be the same, except for the occasional confused customer that would not have enough money for what they had selected. Alice or whoever else was working the register would tell them to get rid of some items. James was forced to sit in silence while the problem was resolved. Usually, he would get along with Alice, so the two would often be paired together. He would stare blankly as she punched codes into a computer that generated the receipt and calculated how much money would be shoveled onto the counter.

After a few tiresome hours, he would go outside the grocery store and get onto a bus, and if one wished to be specific, he could be found two rows away from the door. The bus would take him to a house on a hill on the edge of town. It was two stories tall. The first was dug into the hill and served as a basement. The second had a bedroom, the front door, a bathroom, and finally a dining room with two chairs. James never used the second seat; it always sat empty in the corner of the room. He would sit down every night and eat a turkey and mayonnaise sandwich he had gotten from the farmer’s market at discount because he worked there. He would drink red kool-aid, then clean up the mess he had made. From the time he waked up, to the time he finished dinner, each day was perfectly systematic. Take the bus in the morning, work, take it home, and then eat a Turkey and mayo sandwich. Systems helped to keep things comfortable, and that was the easiest way for James to survive.

Since he was the only one at his house, he had never had much to clean up; therefore, the building always looked clean. After doing the house chores it would be reaching eight in the evening, so he would go into his room and turn on his computer: A Dell Inspiron 15300 series laptop. He would roam the internet and illegally download movies. One might say this was the most exciting thing he did on a regular basis, and perhaps in his entire life. Unlike his day to day life, his taste in movies would vary. From Romantic Comedies, to horror, and even some movies that didn’t fit into any genre, he had seen most everything that the film industry had to offer.

That particular night, he was searching for a very tame movie. It was some kid’s movie he had heard about from a customer that happened to be interesting, so he turned on the computer, scrolled onto his browser, and searched for the pirated movie.

The movie opened with the credits, then slowly zoomed over a group of trees. As soon as the trees came into focus, hundreds of ads boomed onto the screen. He groaned in annoyance. Websites often would take over these backroad movie websites with ads, usually in an attempt to steal info. James proceeded to close the ads; most seemed to only advertise sex or dating sites. Then one caught his eye: it was sleeker and much more polished than the rest. The color scheme was a pale white color. The simplistic design was slightly obscure, especially considering the lack of fine print, disclaimers, and brightly colored labels that said, “Buy Here!” or, “Penis Enlargement!” It simply had a button that commanded, “Enter now” and above it was a strange title:

“The White Shade.”

There was nothing else on the page; no advertisements, no videos, nada. He closed the rest of the ads, but left The White Shade open. He was drawn to it, even though nothing about the name or the page was particularly interesting, especially considering that it sounded like an online lamp shop. The idea of watching that kid’s movie had been wiped from his mind. It felt strange to actually click on the ad, rather than just skipping over it. James had spent years going onto the same movie website, and for years he had seen the same ads. How many times had he seen this ad and allowed himself to go over it?

He moved the mouse of his laptop, then tapped on the touchpad. It took about thirty seconds for the foundation of the website to load. The screen changed to show thousands of thumbnails, as if he were still on the movie website, but it was obvious that something had changed.

Each video thumbnail showed naked females in a variety of positions. They were indeed naked, but unlike most porn that James had seen, these women were pictured in unclean places such as warehouses, fields, and in the back of cars. As he scrolled through the pages and looked closely at each woman, he noticed that some of them had bloody noses and bruises on their arms and legs. He wasn’t sure if he was disgusted or interested, but he knew that he was curious. Was The White Shade only a violent porn site, or was it actually a sicko’s collection of snuff films. James had heard of snuff films, and had even seen several movies about them, but he had never believed they were real. After some moral consideration, he eventually came to the most vulgar looking thumbnail he could find. His curiosity and repulsion had peaked, nearly forcing him to click on the video.

The video started with African men standing in a circle. Each man was wearing a matching pair of camo shorts, as if they were trying to replicate uniforms Beyond the men was a gorgeous Savannah. Tall grass fluttered in the wind, and a tree was blocking the setting sun in the distance, casting a massive glare into the camera. The sunset lit the sky and surrounding clouds with strokes of orange and purple, making the sky look more like a strange painting than a natural occurrence.

The camera rotated away from the sunset, allowing him to see a square building lying in the shadows. At least to James, The concrete building seemed out of place in the savannah; it was an unnatural shade of grey, and the shadows setting upon the building screamed that something evil was beginning to take place; an abomination of nature itself. It was as if the entire world’s sins had been dropped into one spot on earth, then a building had been erected to protect it.

The man holding the camera turned it around, allowing James a view of his face. His head was covered with a red beret, symbolizing that this man was leading the group. He whispered something James could not understand into the microphone, then rotated the camera back to the men. As he moved the camera, James caught a glimpse of a group of pickup trucks on one side of the circle.

Everyone in the tightly net circle looked fairly similar; they all had very dark skin, shaved heads, and wore camo cargo shorts. One of them had a belt on, in which there was a small handgun. He watched with further interest as the men all began to walk towards the building. They started talking in some other tongue, but it was impossible to understand what they were saying. Some laughed, and it was almost like they were going to some party. All of the men were rather jovial and excited. They pushed a wooden door open, then stepped into a very dark room.

One could faintly hear someone crying in the darkness. A light switched on from a single light bulb in the center of the room, casting a spotlight on a naked girl that was sprawled on the floor in the center of the room. Her stomach was covered with thousands of welts and small lashes, showing that she had been whipped. The girl looked to be European, which was an odd contrast to the African men. Had she been stolen from another country? The girl took a moment to look up from the concrete floor, on which she had left several bloodstains, and stared directly into the camera. She whimpered, and it was then that James recognized that she was truly terrified.

Despite the girl’s obvious terror and refusal, the men crowded around her, filling the room with sweaty bodies. The camera remained focused on the bleeding and crying girl on the floor. One man walked closer to her, then patted her on the head.

The lady looked back, then he smiled.He said nothing for several moments, before slamming his fist into her jaw. James could hear a small crunch and the girl yelp in pain. He grabbed the girl’s ears, then stared back into her eyes. For a moment, James expected the man to kiss her. Not wanting to see a rape, he prepared to exit the tab.

The man whispered something into the girl’s ear, let go of her ears, and then motioned the other men forward. James just kept his eyes glued to the screen. The other men slowly crowded around her, and also began to hit her. Hordes of fists and legs penetrated her ribs and face. He could feel her agony as she screamed. More bones were broken, and her nose began to bleed. She tried to shield herself, but it was futile; there were simply too many men for her to do anything. James watched a man throw his foot forward and kick her in the hand, forcing the innocent girl to scream and clutch her broken fingers. He averted his eyes from the chaos at that part, then looked at his own hand. Before long, her teeth were knocked out, sending a geyser of blood down her chin and onto her bare chest. The video ended as the men backed away, began to laugh and exit the room, and finally the cameraman zoomed in on her bleeding mouth. She coughed up a final puddle of blood onto her chest, then the screen faded to black.

Part of him questioned what he had just viewed, but another part of him had an interest in what he was seeing. Whether he cared about the girls or enjoyed watching their torture, he wasn’t sure. Needless to say, by the time James was lying asleep, the website had been bookmarked on his browser.

Day 2: Grey

The sky was grey that morning: it washed over him and consumed him with a feeling of displeasure. For the first time since he was in high school, James’ morning was less than adequate. Normally, he didn’t care about his morning and the routine that he had, but like the dreariness of that day, a realization that he only wanted to stay home washed over him.

He clothed himself, brushed his teeth, combed his short hair, just as he had done thousands of times before, but unlike almost every time before, it didn’t feel ‘right’ or ‘normal.’ It was almost like there was a heavy weight on his shoulders. He didn’t know what the feeling meant, but who would he ask? Besides, he didn’t know how to communicate the feeling into a coherent sentence; not many people do (unless they want to sound crazy or depressed, of course.) James considered calling into work and telling his boss that he was sick; to put it simply: for once, something wasn’t right in his world. It wasn’t a crippling feeling, but more so a sensation that tinkered with the back of his head.

He waited for the eight-thirty bus to drive through his neighborhood. It was the only bus in town. As if to coincide with his distress, the bus was exactly four minutes late. James climbed onto the bus, nodded to the driver, then took a seat four rows from the front of the bus. The ride lasted four minutes before stopping at the farmer’s market. On a more pleasent day, this odd set of fours would make James’ feel lucky. Why he was counting each minute was beyond him, but he still noticed the repetition of the number four.

He walked in with his head down. The store didn’t open for another twenty minutes, leaving the inside barren other than Alice and a red headed cashier that he had rarely bothered to make conversation with. Alice stood at one of the registers, doing nothing as she waited for customers to stream through the front doors. She glared at James with raised eyebrows. Eyebrows that weren’t raised in concern for James’ well being, but for his productivity and compliance.

“You okay?” she asked him.

“Yeah,” he muttered, not wanting to raise suspicion. “I’m just tired.”

“You wouldn’t be so tired if you slept,” she said rudely, then stopped talking to him. The day continued as normal, although he didn’t smile at passing customers and regulars. People came and went. James feeling a little odd did not mean much to anyone there; Alice barely even cared, as James not speaking as much was merely just a few extra gasps of breath in her cigar infused lungs. The day droned by. He became so bored that he began to count the ticking of the clock on the register. It was by far the longest day he had ever worked, but long and boring days were nothing new.

At around closing time, everyone was tired and ready to go home. Around five minutes before the store would close, a certain lady walked through the doors, making her after-work grocery trip. She was a large mass of a lady, in behavior and actual size. A Sunday School Teacher and Preacher’s assistant at the nearby church, she was known for being rude, needy, and demanding. She was a regular at the farmer’s market, coming in at least once a week, just before the store would close, forcing everyone to stay an extra twenty minutes after the store was supposed to close. The woman’s name was Wanda Walker.

She grabbed a buggy, filled it, then slowly wheeled it towards the register James was working. With each step that the lady took, the hundred pounds or so of fat on her body would jiggle. Her walk was much more of a wobble than an actual walk, and had she not been forced to grab onto her cart to help her keep herself upright, she would’ve constantly held her hands on her hip. On this particular day, James was extremely antsy about going back home and getting away from the world. She pushed her overstuffed cart down to the register, where Alice took the lady’s money.

“Paper or plastic, Mrs. Walker?” James asked as kindly as he could.

“Lemme get down there!” Wanda yelled. She wobbled her way down to him, then looked at him.

“Bit old to be a bagger!” she said, just as she did nearly every time that James bagged for her.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

“Double bag me in plastic,” she said. James began to silent pull items from the counter and put them into the plastic bags.

“You seem rude when you don’t talk too much,” she said, noticing his quietness.

“You look fat in those clothes,” he said. Wanda looked up in shock. Before Wanda or James could counter back at one another, Alice was waving her fist at him.

“James!” Alice yelped.

“Young man, how dare you! Who do you think you are?” Wanda barked.

James slowly blinked.

“I’ll be speaking to your supervisor.”

No one spoke to James as he helped Wanda, who proceeded to storm out of the store with a smug look on her face.

It was the first time he had ever been mean to a customer, but a part of this rebellious state made him feel empowered. Why did he have to take crap from anyone? The customers didn’t care about him, so he wondered why it was duty to serve them. He dashed down the streets, forgetting completely about riding the bus; that would mean having to surround himself with other people. All he could think about was returning home, diving under the covers, and separating himself from the world. He wished that the covers could swallow him, sheltering him away from Wanda, Alice, and all of his responsibilities. When he returned home with the sweat of running home soaking his chest, he sulked into his room, where he shut and locked himself as far away from the outside world as he could. He pulled down the blinds, then turned his computer back on. It filled his room with a brilliant white glow that blinded him. Usually, he just left the computer on his desk and sat in his chair, but that day, James cared a lot less.

He didn’t go and watch a pirated movie, instead he went to “The White Shade.” It was the only thing he could think of that would take his mind off of what was going on. Every movie would find a way to remind him of the events of that day. He zoomed almost instinctively to the website, then to the first video that seemed appealing. The thumbnail showed a rusty knife soaked in blood that stuck out from the bottom of a sink.

The film opened with a slow jazz track that consisted of saxophones, bass, and drums. The screen was black, but still occasionally moved, as if it were covered in a bag. Underneath the music he could hear the busy hustle and bustle of a restaurant: the sound of forks scraping against plates and patrons laughing and loudly having conversation. James’ stress was taken away as he was sucked into the music. He made a mental note to comment and ask the owner what the name of the song was.

The blackness ended, opening into a bathroom with three stalls and two sinks. There were no visible urinals, so James assumed it was a woman’s bathroom. All the walls and the floor looked extremely shiny and clean, which seemed strange to him, given the nature of the video. The walls were painted with a checkered red and black pattern that stuck out to James as expensive and tidy. He heard a smothered whimper under the music, which then began to increase in volume, as if the editor of the video was purposely increasing the volume so that nothing could be easily heard other than the jazz music.

The person holding the camera walked towards the final stall. A leather gloved hand opened the door and stepped into the stall, where a very tiny girl sat on the toilet. She was more or less strapped down by large pieces of duct tape over her thighs, arms, and chest. A piece covered her mouth, so that she could not scream at a volume that could be heard from the outside. A pair of handcuffs secured her wrists, allowing her with no chance of escape. She was completely naked, but it looked like the abuser had not laid a hand on her yet. The camera remained focused on the girl, whose head was shaking as she fought to break from her restraints, shaking her long black hair through the air, but the man holding it didn’t do anything to stop her. Her muffled screams were unintelligible, and the tape was far too strong for her to do anything. Unlike the girl from the first video, this woman did not show any signs of obvious pain or physical damage to her body.

James growled in anguish. He was getting bored of the video. Just as he prepared to close the video, the person pulled out a knife and gripped it in his leather glove. He raised it and slowly sliced along the girl’s leg. A tear traveled down her cheek. The only way she could convey her terror was by shaking her head back and forth and shedding tears; she did both thousands of times. He watched as the person started slicing cuts along her exposed skin and onto the girl’s upper body. The video was an hour long montage of the person cutting slits through her skin. The blood would slowly flow out onto her restraints, the toilet, and the tiled floor. After fifty minutes or so, the knife cut the pieces of duct tape loose and she fell onto the ground into a puddle of her own blood that had leaked beneath the other stalls. Despite being set free, she had clearly bled to death nearly ten minutes earlier. The camera turned back around and left the stall. An elderly Japanese man in a grey uniform with a mop stood near the door, presumably waiting to clean up the mess. The Janitor moved towards the camera, then winked: The film ended a few seconds after. A black credits screen that had clearly been made with Windows Movie Maker followed with the name of the song, which James would later fall asleep to.

Day 3: Beige

“Mr. Carver, you must understand, we cannot tolerate you calling customers names. I cannot tolerate you calling my customers names,” Mr. Tenor said. James had decided to go to work that day, but when he arrived, the store manager, Mr. Tenor, took James aside and lectured him on store policies. Mr. Tenor was a small man. On most days, Mr. Tenor wore a beige trench coat that concealed most of his upper body, as well as a pair of wire rimmed glasses that often reflected the fluorescent light of the store into his own eyes, but his size did nothing to inversely influence his power over everyone in the store.

“Hear me out-”

“I don’t know what happened, and I’m not sure I care. I don’t know you well, Mr. Carver, but I have seen you work. You come in Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and you do your job. Simple as it is, you’re better than this.”

“Sir, she came up to me and called me creepy. What was I supposed to do?” James asked.

“They’re just words. I run a business, not a WWE ring. Tolerate her, I don’t know!”

“But that’s stupid! I can’t be forced to be nice to her if she won’t even have a shred of decency to be kind to me.” James yelled.

“Look, James,” Mr. Tenor said with a heavy sigh, “you can’t call the customers names. It’s bad for business and there are dozens of lawsuits that’ll come from it. I hate to tell you this, but I know ten other men who need jobs, who need to feed their families; people who would be happy to take your place, and people that could work just as hard as you do, but instead of working for themselves, they are working for their families. I don’t know you, but I do know that you are only working for you, not a starving family. Keep that in mind. Be grateful that you even have this job in the first place.”

“Yes, Sir,” James said in defeat, then walked out of his boss’s office.

“I like you, James. Just don’t be stupid, don’t make stupid choices and things will be okay.”

The day continued as normal; he felt a little better than he had the day before, as he was somehow still able to smile, but thoughts remained unresolved in the back of his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about what the conversation he had with Mr. Tenor; what would he do without his job? Mr. Tenor could essentially control James’ entire life, because all James had was his job at the market. James just had to mess up one more time, have one more slip up or bad day, then he would be thrown into the world without any means to pay his bills. What else would he do? Where would he go? He had never gotten enough money to get into any college, so he was limited on jobs. When he ran out of cash, what would he do? When he would be evicted from his home, what could he do?

At closing time, he followed his routine of getting on the bus and taking it straight home. He didn’t feel sad or happy, but rather than feeling a casual indifference, James was terrified. With each new emotion he felt, it seemed that the fear grew.

He could only think about what his life had become. He was doing the same thing, over and over again, and he would probably continue that until the day he died. What had he gained from it? What was left to gain? He was alone and nothing was changing in his world, at least not anytime soon. James didn’t understand why the world was like this. No, he didn’t feel as if he was going through a lot, but he considered each detail of his life. What had he done to deserve this? He felt that he had been a good person, but in the end, it made no real difference about his fate. James knew that he was still “quiet.” James knew that he was still going to be called “creepy.” Above all, James began to understand that he was totally and completely replaceable in the lives of everyone around him.

He watched a few videos on “The White Shade” that didn’t do much to distract his restless mind, and before long, he was fast asleep, hoping that the worries of his week would simply be washed away.

His final thoughts as he closed his eyes were simply, “My fate must change.”

Day 4: White

James rushed into work that Thursday morning, hoping to forget about the day before and avoid Mr. Tenor. It wasn’t a very busy day, which left James roaming from the checkout counter to checkout counter.

Several minutes before his brief lunch break, a man wandered into the store. The man walked down each aisle, before grabbing a pocket knife. He wandered around the store once more, as if he was looking for something else. After a while, the man sighed and came up to James.

“My name’s Mark, Mark Hammelton,” the man said with a bored expression on his face.

“Okay, Mr. Hammelton. How may I help you?” James replied.

“Mark, please. How much for this knife?” Mark asked.

James took the knife and examined it for a price tag. It was a pink knife with a folding blade.

“Four-Ninety-Nine.”

“Hold on, let me call my daughter,” Mark replied with a nervous grin.

“Yeah. No? Why not? Okay. No. Hand me to your mother. Okay, thanks,” Mark quickly muttered into his cellphone.

With that, the man began to pace and become quiet as someone who James assumed was the man’s wife screamed at him through the phone. Before long, Mark had wandered back outside of the store, phone still pressed against his ear as he moved to his car. James stuffed the knife into his pocket, then forgot about it, which was odd, considering how close he was to the pocket knives and how boring his day had been.

The day was going well, until his dark contemplations began to gain control of his mind and force his day to spiral downhill. It was just two hours until closing time. Perhaps if James had stayed home or if the market had closed earlier that day, James’ life would’ve returned to normal.

He saw a couple: a boy and a girl, standing near one of the registers. They were teenagers, an age that had long ago slipped by James. He watched them passionately kiss and embrace while standing the line. He never understood public signs of affection; they seemed so pointless and time consuming, but in a small way, he envied the boyfriend. He didn’t even remember getting his first kiss, and oh how he wanted to feel something like that; he wanted that attention. He didn’t know how to attempt to get a kiss or a phone number from a female. He didn’t even talk to any girls, minus Alice, but she was far too old for him. Or was she? Even still, she was a bitch in his eyes.

“James!” Alice barked. A gay couple and their children stood before the counter. One of the mother’s glanced at James, then darted her eyes away from him when he glanced back.

“Quit your daydreaming and bag these,” Alice commanded, then started talking to the family. He did as he always had and began the stupidly easy work. Why was he still working to do a job that a first grader could manage? As he continued bagging, he noticed an old lady walking towards the register. She seemed to notice James, but then she turned and walked to another register.

Was he really that creepy? He instantly wondered what he could do to make himself seem a little more normal and welcoming, but he couldn’t come up with anything. He questioned if something was actually wrong with him, something outside of his head, but he had no choice other than to keep about his day and continue working.

Mr. Tenor slithered out of his office and started to walk around the registers, checking on each of the workers and watching their progress He came up behind James as he was bagging for the family and whispered into his ear, “I know you can bag a little faster. C’mon, you’ve got this, James.”

Mr. Tenor winked at James, then moved on.

“I’m sorry about him. Lots of idiots they love to hire these days,” Alice spat out at the family.

Her words stung; he was trying his hardest, he knew this. He was just doing his job. Besides, there was a lot on his mind. Perhaps his mind was moving too quickly, but at first glance it looked like the family was whispering at him and laughing. He didn’t understand what was wrong with him. He was just being himself, was there really anything wrong with that? A few more families started to avoid his check out lane.

Alice didn’t even seem to notice. He imagined the children laughing at him, the parents snickering, and the elderly telling their grandchildren to avoid him. He began to feel like a monster. No one in the store seemed to notice the whispering, or even do anything to get it to stop. He looked around, but couldn’t see anyone nearby besides Alice. Who the hell was laughing at him? Why were they making fun of him.

His head began to ache. The pain gradually increased until it felt like something was drilling a hole to escape his skull. His knees felt weak, and he struggled to maintain his balance. He slammed his hands onto his temples in the hopes that it would prevent whatever was leaving from escaping.

“James!”

“Why are they laughing? What’s wrong with me?” He growled in pain to no one.

“Nobody is laughing,” a bold voice cried, then echoed into the nether regions of his brain. Alice smacked him across the face with the back of her hand and the whispering stopped; he felt fine again.

“What happened?” she asked.

James looked back at Alice.

“James, talk to me. What happened?”

“Headache,” James replied solemnly, praying that she did not sense the pain in his voice. He saw that only Alice and him were standing there. Where had the whispering come from? After he took a bathroom break and drank a cup of water, the pain of the headache subsided, before disappearing into a light tired feeling that seemed to signal the end of the day coming closer. It was then that James remembered the pocket knife. Normally he would’ve waited, but he didn’t want Mr. Tenor to assume that he was shoplifting, or even homicidal, because being “creepy” was obviously a worry for Mr. Tenor.

“Alice, can I go put this up?” Just as he asked, a single customer walked down towards the register with a cart full of groceries. It was a police officer in full uniform.

“Can it wait? Please,” She said, obviously fluttering her voice to make James feel less pressured.

Before James could offer a reply about the severity of his concerns, the cop put the groceries by Alice as she rung him up.

“150.79,” Alice told the man, who then proceeded to reach into his pocket and pull out two one hundred dollar bills.

“Double bag, make it quick!” he said to James. Just as James reached for a bag, Alice smacked his hand. As quickly as they had begun, her attempts to be kind to him had faded.

“I can do it faster,” she said to the officer, and began to place the groceries in plastic bags.

“Gus,” she called to another guy working at the store, “I need a thirty, you got one?” Then the man named Gus went to help the cop check out.

James felt anger rush over him, he knew soon he would get fired, as no one working in the store trusted him to complete the simplest of tasks. James felt that he was pathetic.

In the end, that is all it takes for a man to snap. Most epic causes begin with the smallest of words, the emptiest of insults, the most pitiful injuries, but the most intense hatred boiled behind layers of serenity.

James stormed past the register to face the policeman, until they stood nose-to-nose away from each other. James simply stared, he didn’t know what he planned to do originally. In an odd way, it was how James wanted to show the man that he wasn’t going to be pushed around.

“What?” He could feel the cops hot breath on his face. The frustration in his breath smelled of old tobacco. Alice was sharply whispering at James to stop and get away from the man, but there was no going back by then. James was done and he knew it.

“Stop,” James said.

“Stop what?” the cop asked.

“You think you’re better than me. Every person here thinks they’re better than me. Why?”

“I don’t care.”

“You should. Quit doing it to people. You aren’t above the law.”

“Watch it. Take a breath, buddy.”

“No.”

The cop smiled, then replied, “I stomp on little punks like you everyday. You don’t know me, Kid. I’m here to do some shopping and head home. Get outta my face.”

“I’m not doing anything wrong. Am I, Officer?”

“You better get out of my face.”

Then James started to move. He was sick of being looked down upon, sick of not standing out, sick of being so normal, and sick of being so alone. Was it really worth it to simply let someone beat up on him like that?

It wasn’t just tired, it was a literal disease that seemed to have no cure. He was sick of the same stupid life, he wanted to end it, because it wasn’t going to change. He didn’t know if the videos had somehow awoken him, or if there was something broken inside of his head that had been revealed by The White shade, but he did know that his days of being “James Carver” were long past.

James reached his hands out, lunging out at the man, until his hands were wrapped tightly around the cop’s throat, who whole-heartedly assumed that James was going to back off. The world melted around him, and before he knew it, the cop was beneath James on the ground. James held himself steady with one hand and relentlessly pummeled the man with the other. He heard his own knuckles crack, and his blood mix with the blood of the cop’s.

He could feel Alice slamming her fists against his back. She was screaming by then and telling Gus to call the police, but James didn’t care; he barely even felt it. The police man flailed his arm, uppercutting James and knocking him off balance. After a significant amount of wrestling, the cop was sitting on James’ stomach.

“Hand’s over your head, now!” the cop screamed through panicked breaths.

“Fuck you,” James replied.

“NOW!”

The cop reached for his gun with shaking hands. From this position, James remembered the pocket knife he was planning to return. Just as the cop got the gun out of the holster, James unfolded the knife and flicked it into his hands. He almost grinned at the look of surprise in the policeman’s eyes, then he rammed the sharp end as hard as he could into the man’s jaw, leaving the man without a chance for any final words. The officer moaned as blood leaked out of his mouth and down the pocket knife. James slowed his heavy breathing, then shoved the cop onto the ground. Alice stood frozen in fear behind James and the still body; she was shaking. He chucked the flesh-drenched knife down one of the aisles.

“Did you just-” she sputtered. Gus was still hiding behind the counter.

“Shut up,” James whispered.

“James,” Alice said.

“Shut up.”

“Please, take a deep breath, James,” she coaxed.

“I told you to shut up. I have a headache.”

He then reached over to yank the cop’s handgun from its holster. Alice shrieked and ran out the store, whimpering like a dog as she did.

It wouldn’t be long before the police arrived and tried to arrest him. He wasn’t going to be remembered as a cop killer. James had bigger plans, and there wasn’t any way for him to turn back.

“J-James,” Gus said, waving his hand at him from behind the cover of the counter. “Put the gun down, man! I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re friends. Please, please!” By then, a few customers had noticed and ran out of the store. James paced to the other side of the counter, where he stood over Gus.

“Fuck you,” James snarled. He didn’t really aim the handgun, but still managed to fire three shots at Gus. Two of these bullets pierced into Gus. The first hit him in the collar bone, the second hit him in the bicep, and the third hit the counter, just inches away from his head. With each shot, Gus howled and whined in fear, but he was unmoving in his sheer terror, before he sank to the ground as the sound of the bullets echoed across the store. Blood oozed from his unmoving body, but James knew that his coworker wasn’t dead.

James heard several people scream, then they scattered like roaches in the direction of the entrance.

James got off the ground with his gun, then ran after the people trying to escape. James dived behind a counter and waited. Before long, a group of people dashed for the door. With an instinctive bloodlust, James sprayed rounds into the crowd with the semi-auto handgun, causing multiple people to fall onto the ground in front of the door, none of which died, but could only crawl or pull their phones out to dial 911. Three people managed survived without a scratch, then went sprinting into the parking lot. The few that were left hid in the aisles or eventually made their way to the bathrooms.

He glared at the screaming pedestrians, but their suffering wasn’t enough. It didn’t feel “final” enough.

Did the headline Nine Dead In Vicious Shootout really capture what he felt?

James scavenged any bullets he could find off of the cop’s dead body. He found two more magazines on the man’s belt, and four more in his ammo bag. There were ten rounds a clip, totaled to 60 shots total, and with typically one or two shots a person, this translated to about 30 people. Not including the six or so that he had taken down seconds earlier. He thought about holding up the market, until he got arrested or killed; it didn’t matter much about what happened, all he knew was that he didn’t have much longer. He was either going to be killed in a few hours, or he was going to prison, probably for the rest of his life. Besides, how many more years would be wasted working at the market? Why should he suffer alone?

He honestly preferred death as his way out, rather than any form of imprisonment. That way less people could look down on him. Maybe some people would see him as a messiah of sorts. There was no way he could take the bus home and it would take him a while to find a car in the parking lot.

Minutes later, James ran with the dead cop’s stolen set of keys into the parking lot. Instead of sprinting out into the lot, he stood at the entrance, waiting to see if anyone was actually going to stop him. James assumed Mr. Tenor had heard the shots in his office, got scared and decided to wait until the coast was clear. Obviously, the coast was not clear and there wasn’t anything Mr. Tenor could do to defend himself.

James dragged Mr. Tenor from the store and into the front seat of the police car. James took a seat in the passenger seat. Sweat poured down from Mr. Tenor’s forehead, but somehow James was perfectly calm.

He trained the weapon on his former boss, then smiled.

“Drive,” James commanded as the sound of police sirens echoed from the distance.

A lady across the street stared as he dragged the body up onto his porch, then clumsily pushed it inside and closed the door. James had made a scene out of smacking the gun against his boss’s head, rendering his body as limp as the dead police man’s. He took Mr. Tenor and a wooden chair downstairs, then secured him in his basement. He used duct tape he found on a shelf to strap Mr. Tenor to the chair. James knew exactly what to expect. He estimated that the police would be on standby outside the house in a little less than fifteen minutes. They would either call him or announce over a PA to get out of the house and let his hostage go. There wasn’t a chance in hell of James obeying either command.

The beautiful thing about his basement was that it was completely underground. The only way up was through the stairway leading to his dining room. This provided excellent cover, as there were no windows or doorways for his hostage to escape through.

Red

“Suspect is a thirty-three year old black male. He has dark brown hair, blue eyes, and approximately 150 pounds. Suspect is armed and dangerous.”

Police Chief, Hector Sherwood was lying around in his office at the beginning of his shift when the Police Department got a call from a woman named Alice, who was panicking about someone named James Carver shooting up the local farmers’ market. Beyond the name of the suspect, details of the shooting were extremely sparse. Within the five minutes following the first woman’s phone call, the Westford Police Department received nearly twenty phone calls, ranging from reports of a man breaking into a police vehicle, people hearing gunshots, and even to reports of a kidnapping a few miles away from the market. Those who saw James gave physical descriptions, and after a few more minutes, the Westford Police Department had James’ I.D., address, credit card information, email, and even knew how long he had been working at the market.

The entire police department, minus one man who had not responded to his radio and was a presumed causality/hostage, raced to find James Carver at the market. Every street leading away from the supermarket was blockaded as Chief Sherwood negotiated with dozens of deputies, various Officers, and a fully loaded S.W.A.T. team that was making its way to secure James’ home.

Hostage situations weren’t common for the town of Westford. No, scratch that, they never happened. Needless to say, Hector was terrified. All it took was a couple of misplaced bullets that could get him to lose his job.

“Watch the doors. NOBODY gets in or out. Don’t shoot unless I give you the okay. Hawkins, Ramierz, Buntel, take the back door. Take it slow!” Sherwood screamed at the top of his lungs as he stepped out of his car and into the empty parking lot. He wasn’t about to let anybody screw with his town, not without a fight.

Four of the town’s six police cars created a semicircle twenty yards away from the sliding glass doors. As the officers pulled shotguns, handguns, and semi-automatic rifles from the trunks of the cars, they began to see the pile of bodies that had accumulated on the ground on the interior of the store.

“Shit,” one of the younger offices muttered.

“H-how many do you see?” another stuttered.

“Gotta be at least five.”

“Cut the chatter and shut up. Stay focused,” Sherwood said, then wiped a stream of sweat from his forehead and aimed his handgun at the doors.

“Not hearing anything inside, Chief. Just give us the go-ahead when you’re ready,” Senior Officer Buntel whispered through the radio to Sherwood, who did not reply. His eyes remained on the doors, just waiting for the shooter to run through the doors. Even if he had a gun, there was no way he could do anything but surrender. After a few more seconds of waiting, Hector scurried to his car, which he had parked behind the barricade. He ignited the engine, then brought the PA microphone to his face and spoke into it.

“This is Police Chief, Hector Sherwood speaking. I need you to come out with your hands up. Keep your gun inside. We are prepared to use force, and we will make you come out if we need to. Do not make this difficult.”

“What can he do? He’s only one guy with a gun,” another officer said from behind the barricade.

“You have ten seconds to come outside and put your hands in the air,” the Chief continued, then motioned for the others to begin their advance. Unfortunately, when the ten seconds were up, the chief’s demands were met with silence.

All the police slowly moved in, guns ready. Each of the officers would have their own defense to this, but no one really cared if they took him alive. Too much blood had been shed, and it was likely that the shooting would receive an official name and be declared a massacre. No one in Westford wanted the town to become famous for a massacre.

“Kick his ass,” Sherwood muttered into the radio as the doors opened to reveal the bodies, three of which were still bleeding and alive. They had only been lying motionless on the floor for a matter of minutes, but the question was: where had James gone?

Suddenly Sherwood’s radio buzzed, “this is dispatch. We got an update on Carver. He’s moved to his home, 5731, Beverly Creek Avenue. S.W.A.T. has been dispatched.”

“Alright, we’re moving. Send ambulances to us. Any word on hostages?” he asked.

“That’s a negative, but we have the street secure,” the operator replied.

The entire police force sped down Beverly Creek Avenue to James Caver’s small suburban home. Within twenty five minutes of receiving the call from the terrified old woman, they had created a second barricade of police cars outside, and five snipers were positioned through the neighborhood. Each of which had eyes on windows looking into the house. Every single man was ready to bust down that door and take over the house, just the question of whether or not he had hostages created a wall between the police and James.

“James, we know you are in there. What you’re doing isn’t worth the fight. Just give up. We aren’t here to hurt you,” the chief said over the PA.

By then, several news teams had filled the streets beyond the barricade. James was famous. At that moment in time, news from Beverly Creek Avenue was being broadcasted around the world, which was eagerly anticipating the outcome of the hostage situation. This sickened James. He was just another movie to them, and in a few weeks, there wouldn’t be any mention of him. Perhaps new gun laws would be enacted, but beyond that, he wasn’t going to be of any importance.

James paced around in his basement. His hands trembled as he struggled to load a shotgun that he had taken from the trunk of the police car. The droning of Chief Sherwood given threats over the PA was only a faint whimper from aboveground as James prepared for the worst. He had crawled upstairs when he heard the police sirens and watched as S.W.A.T. snipers took position on the roofs of the adjacent buildings. They trained their guns on him, but did not fire, as if they were waiting for him to make a move.

After much contemplation, James crawled up his stairs, being sure to avoid any windows as he moved through his kitchen, then yanked his home phone from its hook. He then dialed Alice’s number.

“Hello?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Alice, it’s James. Don’t hang up!,” James barked. She didn’t respond.

“Alice, I want you to move yourself outside and put the Chief of Police on the line.” James heard sobbing on the other end of the phone line. James crawled to the front door with the phone still in his hand. He glanced through the window and saw the horde of police, just waiting for him to move. Further behind the barricade he could see Officer Sherwood, whom James recognized from the countless times that he bagged his groceries.

“THERE HE IS!” one of the officers yelled and pointed at James’ face, forcing him to sink down and take cover behind the door.

“I know he’s there. I am looking right at him. Don’t ask why, just do it.”

A few moments later, a bold voice came through the phone, “Carver, talk to me, son. What are you doing in there?” James didn’t respond at first.

“Take a deep breath, James, why are you doing this? Have you got anyone in there with you?” Chief Sherwood said, trying to calm him down. James glanced back through the window.

“One person,” James replied, then Sherwood put a hand over the phone and yelled something at the other officers.

“What is it gonna take to get ‘em out?” Sherwood asked. James said nothing in response.

“James? Who do you have in there?” Sherwood asked.

“Nothing is gonna get either of us out of here, Chief,” James growled into the phone.

“C’mon, Money? Food? Anything, just let them go,” Sherwood almost begged. James was again silent. He watched one of the snipers on the roof change position, and then moved down into his basement.

“If you can just tell me something, I can give it to you. I just need you to let him go. Trust me, we aren’t going to hurt you,” Sherwood explained. James knew he was lying through his teeth.

“I know that once Mr. Tenor is out of my home, I will be in handcuffs.”

“Having money can go a long way in prison. Why are you doing this, James? I know you. You aren’t like this,” Sherwood countered hesitantly.

“I’m not?” James asked.

“No.”

“How the hell do you know? You would pass by me every few weeks at the market and ask me how I was doing. You didn’t know me. You barely even looked at me.”

“That doesn’t matter, son-”

“I’m not your son. And you’re right, it doesn’t matter because you didn’t know me.”

“I know you aren’t like this. This isn’t you. You aren’t capable of things like this. I know how it feels, and I know how rough that must be. I can’t tell you how mad I would get at people for pushing me around. Please, just come outside and we can talk about it.”

“I’ll level with you, James. We’re friends. You aren’t like this,” Sherwood said.

“I didn’t think I was like this either. I just woke up this morning… and poof. It’s a shame that I won’t get to try again. Some days, we all just snap a little, don’t we?”

“Yes, and it’s going to be okay. Just come outside and we can talk it out.”

“So why do you care? Why do you call me your friend.”

Sherwood was silent.

“You aren’t very good at this, but then again, what could I expect?”

“I’m just trying to talk, James. This can be as hard-

You’re practically reading from an index card, aren’t you? How can you change your tactic from empathy to threats in the middle of your own sentence?”

“James, I-”

“Get someone who is at least semi competent to talk to me. Otherwise, get off my front lawn or I’ll blow your negotiating fucking brains out.”

Grime

James cocked the shotgun with a satisfying click, then took a seat next to Mr. Tenor, whose eyes had opened nearly ten seconds prior. Mr. Tenor fumbled and twisted his mouth in an attempt to free his jaws.

“I can’t hear you,” James said, yanked at the duct tape covering his boss’s mouth. The residue of the tape sharply smacked against Mr. Tenors mouth, tearing hair and dead skin from his face. The man took a deep breath, smacked his lips, causing James to hesitate and waddle further away from his hostage.

“HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF HERE! HE’S JUST GOT ME IN HERE! HE’S GOT A HOSTAGE! HELP! HELP! HE’S CARRYING A SHOTGUN! DON’T LET HIM KILL ME, PLEASE!” Mr. Tenor shrieked while shaking his arms, Unbeknownst to James, the strap of duct tape holding Mr. Tenor’s left arm was beginning to give way. It was only a millimeter or so, but Mr. Tenor felt it, and he would continue fighting his restraints until they were broken.

“People can hear you, but no one is getting you out. Calm down, please,” James demanded, then smacked his boss with the back of his hand. Mr. Tenor slumped his head down, then was silent. James watched his boss begin to cry. In a way, it was pathetic to see. Mr. Tenor became vulnerable. His face scrunched up, small water droplets formed under his eyes, and little driblets of snot leaked from his nose. Mr. Tenor was beginning to have a meltdown; in a sense, he was truly terrified. His glazed eyes glanced from corner to corner, then back up at James.

“Let’s suffer together,” James said.

“Mr. Carver,” Chief Sherwood announced through the phone.

“I thought you wanted to call me James.”

“What’s going on in there?”

“Nothing important, just having a staring contest,” James said with a laugh.

“Is your Mr. Tenor okay?”

“Fine and dandy,” James said blankly. It had taken them longer than he expected to discover who he had kidnapped,

“Take this seriously. Why are you doing this?” James didn’t respond.

“Can we send someone in and talk about all this? Negotiate, just talk. No guns.”

“No.”

“James, level with me-”

“I said no; don’t you try me.”

“We can’t let you keep this up. We need to talk. We don’t want to hurt you. We want to talk. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“I’m going to die,” James replied.

“What?”

“You and I both know. I’ve only got a few hours left.”

“What if we send someone you know?”

“I do not have friends in the Police force. I told you: don’t fucking baby me here.”

“Her name is Alice. You might know her, cuz she works with you. She’ll come in with someone who can relay things to me. James, remember. We just want to talk. No guns. I promise.”

“Who will she come in with?” James asked.

“An unarmed negotiator with a walkie talkie.”

“Tell him to take his belt off. His vest too.”

“Do we agree then?”

“Send them in. Tell them to go through the door and wait at the top of the stairs.”

“Thank you for considering, James.”

“Officer.”

“Yes?”

“Do you know what will happen if I don’t like something?” James fought a stutter as he contemplated the outcome of the situation.

“I do.”

“Make your moves carefully.” James hung up the phone as he said this, then crawled downstairs.

The standoff had been going on for nearly four hours when the sun begin to set over the houses. Meanwhile, news that a civilian was being prepared to infiltrate a hostage situation began to spread around the world. Social media began to explode with debate over the ethical issues and moral questions being raised by the outcome of the situation.

Sherwood and his officers prepared Alice and the negotiator to go inside. The negotiator, who was a rookie as far as the Westford Police Department went, wore khakis and a black polo shirt with specific instructions to look as passive as possible, while Alice wore a pink dress with white flowers printed onto the fabric in an attempt to look ‘motherly.’

Within five minutes, the pair walked onto James’ doorstep and knocked on his front door. Had the massive lineup of Police cars, S.W.A.T trucks, and news vans not been littering the streets, Alice and the negotiator could’ve easily been mistaken for a boy and his grandmother taking someone out for dinner.

She had been briefly instructed on what she had to say and how she had to act: basically to remain calm and not to alarm James, but there was not even the slightest chance that she was prepared. The negotiator had a relative idea, one that had come from two weeks of training several months before, but he knew he was stepping into something that would be fairly unpredictable. In a sense, the two were equally terrified of whatever was awaiting them beyond the door. They knew that there was a good chance of James gunning them all down, but it was a chance that had to be taken.

“We’re in,” the negotiator replied into the walkie talkie. The boy glanced around for James.

“Walk towards the kitchen, then look through the doorway on your left. Stand facing it. Don’t move, don’t speak, don’t even breathe unless I say it’s okay,” James boomed from the basement.

The two did as they were told. Alice quivered in her high heels when she saw James. He stood at the bottom of the staircase leading into his basement with a shotgun pointed at the top. He was still wearing his green worker’s apron from the market. She shuddered once more when she noticed the drops of blood on his clothes.

“I-is he oka-y?” Alice whimpered with a gulp.

“Who are you?” James said, then motioned with his shotgun towards the negotiator.

“I’m Nick,” the negotiator said with a smile, then extended his hand forward.

“Reach in your pockets and pull them out.”

Nick did as he was told, then replied, “I’m not here to hurt you, James. We’re friends, remember? Can we sit and talk somewhere?”

“Back pockets. Show me the back pockets of your khakis, Jake.”

Nick again did as he was told. Alice was instructed similarly, before the two were led into the basement by James, who kept his arms pointing the shotgun at Nick and Alice.

The two followed James down his stairs and into his basement when Mr. Tenor began to scream again. His head tossed and turned, screeching and yelping for someone to help. James had set two more chairs near Mr. Tenor, but the two remained standing.

“What did you do to him?” Alice asked in horror.

“Nothing,” James responded, unmoving as he kept his aim on the two strangers.

“UNTIE ME! DAMMIT! WHEN I GET OUT OF HERE, I’LL-”

“What?” James asked calmly. Mr. Tenor continued to screech and yell.

“What are you going to do? Quit screaming,” James said, then moved the shotgun towards Mr. Tenor.

“James, if we’re going to talk to one another, I want you to talk to me without the gun pointed at someone. You can keep us away from it, but I want to be your friend,” Nick said. Alice’s forehead had become wet with a sticky stream of sweat.

“How much have you thought about this? Honestly, James, we’re here to help. Killing us won’t do anything.

James looked up with fire in his eyes. “You think they’ll send me to prison? You think that’ll be better?”

“Well, yes. Yes, I do,” Alice said with a nod.

“We can get you someone to talk to, James. It’s gonna be okay,” Nick said.

“No, I won’t make it to prison. They’ll give me one of three things. The first and most likely is that my brains will be splattered on the floor of this fucking basement, the second is that I’ll be biting dust in an asylum, and if not that, the death penalty. All in the same, right? This is the end, I can’t do anything to go back. It’s over,” He said. A slight cry emerged from his throat as he uttered the last sentence.

Nick looked back at James and replied, “it won’t be like that if you stop now, before-”

“It won’t change. Don’t try and make it,” James growled and moved the shotgun to face Alice.

“The change isn’t up to us. It’s up to you,” Alice said.

Then Alice gave him a stare that could have made anyone feel defeated. Alice wasn’t used to having someone prove her wrong. She was used to speaking to her friends and grandchildren. People who would always listen to her rants and hateful conversations about the world.

This time, there was nothing she could do to defend herself if she was proven wrong. She couldn’t ground him for back talking him, she couldn’t give him more evidence, and she was far weaker than James; plus he had a shotgun that was constantly moving between the three other occupants of the room.

That was when Alice started to realize James was clearly homicidal, but beyond that, he sounded suicidal. There wasn’t going to be anything stopping him. Not only was the threat of being shot in the face making her nervous, but a new feeling was filling her body. She had absolutely no power in this situation. It was a feeling a fear, a feeling of intimidation, and above all, a feeling that she could and WOULD die in that basement.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“I’m just trying to fix this,” she replied. James laughed. He slid the chair he had been sitting in next to Mr. Tenor.

“No, Nick,” James replied, then walked behind the boy, who kept his eyes locked with Mr. Tenor.

“You’re here, why? They sent their little rookie from traffic guard into my house to stop me from killing some asshole, right?”

“James, I really just want to be your friend. We can work through this together.”

“You want to be my friend,” James spat from behind him. Nick kept his body in place, while Alice cautiously watched the shotgun, which had shifted

“You won’t even look at me. Why? Are you afraid of me?”

“No, James. I want to be your friend. I really just want you to put the shotgun down so we can talk.”

“So, you’re scared of the shotgun?”

“No, I’m scared of you trying to-”

No one in the room was ready for it. Even if they were, they couldn’t have prevented it; it happened too quickly. Mr. Tenor was tied down, and Alice was just a feeble old lady. Mr. Tenor couldn’t remember a sound, just something that felt like microwaved tomatoes and meatballs smacking against his face and soaking his clothes, albeit much thicker. Nick’s body collapsed to the floor with a sickening thud. A part of James was worried about mopping it up, but there was no need.

Alice shrieked something intelligible, while Mr. Tenor stared off into space. Brain matter and blood had splashed into his hair and eyes.

“Sit down! Quit your day dreaming,” he said in mockery of Alice. She proceeded to sit down in one of the chairs without any further questions. James reached under Mr. Tenor’s chair and grabbed the duct tape, then strapped her down, just as he did to Mr. Tenor. He now had two hostages.

“Why?” she pleaded.

“My life is hell, that’s why.”

Mr. Tenor finally spoke up and said, “if your life is hell, why have you seemed so happy? Why didn’t you quit? Why did you have to do this?” He had closed his eyes and was staring at the floor to allow the blood to drip from his face.

“Maybe I’m just creepy,” James said, again mocking his former coworkers.

“Every day I go to work, do my job, then come home to nothing, and for what? Nothing ever moves forward. I don’t have a wife, or a chance of getting one. No friends, and lastly, no one gives a rat’s ass about me. I don’t have a purpose. I don’t matter. No one would ever remember me,” he explained. Tears started to blossom in his eyes, which he furiously rubbed away.

“Then why do you have to bring this on us? Those people you killed, they had those things. You stole that away. Why?” Mr. Tenor badgered.

“I don’t want to be remembered as someone who kissed ass. No one is ever remembered for just bowing down to people. No one cares about me.”

“That’s sick and selfish,” Mr. Tenor spat, letting go of any empathy he felt for James. “It’s not our fault, so WHY PUT IT ON US? Dammit! It doesn’t make sense!”

“James, don’t do this,” Alice begged. “Please, just let us go!” Then he put his right hand on her face and squeezed her cheek. Mr. Tenor yanked his arm forward, further loosening the duct tape strap.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” James snarled. Spit flew from his mouth and splattered against her forehead. Then Alice did the unthinkable. She was done with fighting, and she wasn’t going to let James hurt anyone else.

She opened her mouth and lunged towards James’ wrist, biting down as hard as she could into his vulnerable flesh. Before she could cause any real harm, James yanked his arm away from her mouth, leaving small indentions from her teeth in his skin that drew no blood. He quickly moved to her right, then shoved the chair down to the ground with a quick jerk of his leg, smacking her head against the cement of the basement.

Unbeknownst to James, the duct tape holding down Mr. Tenor’s left arm was being torn apart as he frantically shook and fought to escape it. After hours of this, it had pulled the tape back just enough so that Mr. Tenor could free his left arm.

“It’s just not fair, is it?” James shouted into Alice’s ear. That was the last thing he said to her before he began to stomp his right leg onto her head. He felt his skull rattle as he did, mindlessly pounding upon her in his blind rage. Again and again, he brought the bottom of his shoes upon her. She stopped crying and begging after a while, but he continued until she was motionless and bleeding.

A piece of plastic smacked against the back of his head, forcing him to the ground, among the other dead bodies. A light pain nicked the back of his skull, but it was nothing that would stop James. Everything moved in slow motion as the world came crashing down around him. This was the end, he knew it. The chair clattered onto the ground behind James as he heard Mr. Tenor touch the first step of his staircase leading up to the ground floor.

Mr. Tenor hoped it would stun James, or at least knock him out, but it had barely even phased him. All he succeeded in doing was pissing James off even further. James whipped off the ground and moved towards the stairs with his shotgun in hand.

Just as Mr. Tenor reached the doorway at the top, James pointed the weapon at the feet of his boss, who had been sprinting and was just reaching the final step. Had James been any slower, Mr. Tenor would’ve escaped. James quickly squeezed the trigger. A slug sailed up the staircase and then made its mark right at Mr. Tenor’s ankle, causing him to trip at the top of the stairs and into the adjacent hallway.

Everyone prepared themselves to bust down the front door. Four members of the SWAT team mounted up with machine guns by the door, while the rest went around the back of the house, just as the police officers had done at the supermarket..

“Move in on the count of five!” Sherwood hollered. He aimed his pistol at the glass window on the door.

“One!” he screamed. James slowly walked up the stairs, then cocked his shotgun. The shell bounced down the stairs.

“Two!” Sweat rolled down Sherwood’s forehead and soaked his uniform. Mr. Tenor had crawled closer to the door, James pointed his gun at Mr. Tenor’s head, then pulled the trigger. Mr. Tenor was silent a final time. The shot provided a longer space between the numbers two and three.

Sherwood looked up before counting. He knew then that all the hostages had to have been killed by James. It was time to take down James with force. It was over.

“Shoot anything that moves!” Sherwood roared. James climbed over the body of his old boss and into his living room. He slowly moved four more shells from his pocket and into his gun.

“Three!” Sherwood continued. James grabbed the handgun he had stolen from the officer at the market and turned to the door.

“Four!” James cocked his shotgun and watched the shell propel out of the gun and bounce off another wall. Sherwood hesitated for a moment longer, thinking about what to do.

“Get ready!” one of the officers at the door yelled. All of the other officers stood behind cars with their guns raised. They were literally prepared for hell. There was going to be blood. Everyone knew it.

“FIVE!” Sherwood roared, and with that there was another moment of hesitation. James held the shotgun around the corner with one arm, then pressed his back against the wall, using it as a piece of makeshift cover. An officer kicked the door forward, then charged into James’ home. He squeezed the trigger without looking, praying that it might hit something.

“GET DOWN!” Someone screamed from nowhere, but it was too late. The slug had been relentless. It had torn into the throat of one of the four S.W.A.T. officers, just next the adam’s apple. The slug kept its momentum, digging into the eyeball of another officer standing on the stairs behind him. They were on the ground in seconds, while the other two charged forward. James cocked the shotgun again, then crawled onto his back and moved away from the corner. One of the officers eventually came around the corner, just as James heard a window shatter from his bedroom. The officer spotted him, and raised his rifle, but not before James fired a slug into the man’s belly, forcing him onto the ground. He tossed his shotgun aside and pulled the handgun out, but the fourth had already retreated through the front door. Another group of officers moved through his bedroom.

James gave a heavy sigh, there was no chance of him fighting off the rest of the police force. He would have to mow down dozens of cops until he would finally be killed. He had killed at least eight people at the market, four cops in his own home, as well as two people he knew personally, which all totaled to fifteen people. He didn’t want to kill anyone else. James was tired; he had caused enough pain. Besides, what would happen when he ran out of ammo? He was going to die either way. He looked at the handgun for a minute, then envisioned himself holding it up to his own head. James shook his head, then ran out towards his front door.

“Stop!” a man screamed.

James didn’t stop. He made it halfway across his front yard, when every officer there fired. It was a miraculous thing, as if something clicked in everyone’s mind. Some bullets missed him and went sailing into his house, but dozens pierced his torso and sent blood spewing across the yard and soiled the perfectly green grass. About half of the officers stopped firing after the first couple of shots.

James crumbled to his knees, then the other half continued firing on his collapsing body. It was shocking, to say the least; someone so normal, someone who seemed so pointless, killed fifteen people, then went sprinting out into the street. Maybe that was why they continued to fire.

Logically, his body should have planted itself in the grass and he should have died, but everyone there would say that he sat on his knees for at least ten seconds. His body had been filled with bullets and made him almost unrecognizable, but he sat there for a few seconds and took his last moment of silence. The remaining officers lowered their weapons, before James collapsed headfirst into the grass. On that late night in April, the exhaustingly normal and somewhat boring James Carver was killed by police in his own front yard.

The FBI began an investigation to figure out why James had almost impulsively massacred several of his friends and customers where he worked, but there wasn’t any obvious answer to be found within his journal and internet searches. After the White Shade website was found in his bookmarks, the Westford Police Department came to believe that James was under pressure and influence from his exposure to violent content and the people who worked around him. The FBI began a second investigation that led to the shutdown of the website. After several weeks of decrypting and tracing, it was discovered that a man named Mark Hammelton had purchased the website nearly three years before the Westford Massacre.

His funeral was hosted and paid for three days later by an uncle who barely even knew James, as he had no immediate family and all of his friends had been killed. A few members of the Westford Police Department attended the funeral, just so they could tell his mutilated body to rot in hell. Other than that, it was a quiet funeral. No one had much to say, but nobody needed to say anything. James had said enough on his own. Besides, who wanted to speak at the funeral of a serial killer.

James was never remembered as the man who was nice to people, the man who worked with Alice, or the person who lived alone and watched movies. James was remembered as the quiet guy who no one noticed, the guy who was so calm and collected, then one day went out and killed a bunch of people. Fortunately for him, that was the only thing he had ever wanted to be remembered for, and he had succeeded.