The pain was immense. It started in his arm, pulsating sharply, increasing by the minute. The elderly man, in his warm wool jacket, was darting his eyes wildly, looking for the phone. This can't be happening, he thought to himself, as he scanned around teh room. But the phone was gone. I just saw it a minute ago! He tossed the stack of papers, his lifes work, to the ground, knowing he would regret such a move but also knowing they would never be finished if he could not call an ambulance. Outside the rain could be heard beating against the window and the streets below his high rise apartment, wear pedestrains clad in warm close scattered to stay dry, unaware that one of the greatest writers of their time was facing a potential end to his life just a few stories above. Back in the apartment the man heard a vibrating sound. A text! The phone must be near! He dropped to his hands and knees and shuffled around on the carpet like a madman, and saw the glare of his phones screen eminating from under the desk. But it was too late...
It was unreal, like his very body was exploding out of his chest. He cried out in agony and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. His face bore an expression of extreme torment. My work.... it will be lost.. Conciousness began to fade as his vision blurred, the room danced around above him. The phone vibrated with another text, but Arthur Golsten was no longer a being, merely a deceased body on the floor of an apartment.
2 weeks later
The note on the door read "No Housekeeping, at work", but the janitor decided a check in would not be so bad. No one had heard from the old man for a while now. Must be quite the book, contemplated the small latino as he reached for his ring of keys. Finding the one marked "Room 213" he inserted it into the lock and spun it, and upon hearing a click entered. The first thing he noticed were the papers strewn all over the floor, covered in miniscule, curvy handwriting. Then a smell hit him. Jeez, is this guy hording dead rats or something? Finally he noticed a large figure curled underneath the work desk, sporting a familiar wool sweater. "Mr. Golsten, are you ok?" The latino walked over and tapped Golsten, whose skin felt strangely tense. There was no response. "Mr....." he stopped mid sentence as the body fell over, the skin was a purplish tint where arteries had ruptured, strange fluids oozed from the man's mouth. The janitor was first struck by shock, but after the initial surprise he got to work.
Producing a steak knife, he hovered over the body and began cutting away. Starting at the scalp, he carved the skin off the body, like peeling an apple. After several hours the skin was completely removed and lumped together, as the janitor shoved the remains into the trash compactor, amputating several limbs to make it fit. He then placed the skins in the sink, and washed them down, attempting to remove the blood stains from the partially decomposed man. Not that their was many, 2 weeks after death. The janitor then made his way to his personal supply room. It was small, housing various cleaning equipment and a window overlooking a dirty alley way. He removed the skins from his cleaning bucket and draped them out to dry in the summer sun.
A week later he returned to the room, which now bore a revolting odor. The skins were dry, and he took a small stick and beat on them, loosening them up. Then he opened a drawer and removed his small sewing machine and his needles. Taking the skin on his lap, he began cutting it up and peicing it together, until he had something beginning to resemble a jacket. Soon enough it was complete, and he descended to the basement for an Avon box, some tape, and bubble wrap. He returned to his room and carefully folded the skin, then proceeded to place it into the box and tape it shut. He addressed it to Old Navy and smiled, remembering what Mary Strunn had told him "They won't let us use animal skins for leather, so lets use human skin and market it as fake! It won't be worth as much, but people will like the texture and we should still make a profit..." It was a sinister project for the janitor, yes, but with Old Navy paying him a large sum he would soon be able to retire from this wretched life as a janitor.. Just a few more bodies to meet my quota... He then went to the apartments mail room, slid the box into an "Outgoing" compartment, and left to return to his work day.
I forgot i had this thing....
2 weeks ago