I explain to Alex that no one did, because John got wounded. I gestured to Mike, who was snoring obnoxiously loud. "So, you believe he was the culprit?" Alex said, holding his head, probably from his hangover. He was great at drinking, usually drinking anyone under the table, but afterwards, his hangover was hell. "I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he was, because he passed out next to John with a knife." I say, surprisingly confident for having a horrid hangover. I finish bandaging John's chest, grabbing another nearby blanket and tossing it on him. He curls up with the blanket, proving that he was awake, and not unconscious like I suspected. More than likely asleep, but I'm giving him he'll once he wakes.
"So, anything else happen while I was out?" Alex asks, scratching his head. I ponder asking or telling him about The Man. He was still hungover, so I could tell him and he would just brush it off, or believe me and not consider me being mentally ill. My mind chooses for me, ignoring all logical thinking, thus my mouth speaking faster than my brain. "I do. I saw a tall man." I said, my logical side kicking me in my teeth, as I realize how absurd I sound. Alex stares at me, half confused, half concerned. My head pounded loudly, as I felt a wave of complete cold wash over me. I collapse on to John, as I lay my head on John's chest, to attempt to regain my mind and stop the pounding. It hurts, like a jackhammer in concrete. With the exception that the concrete is my head and the jackhammer is a massive hangover and my liver tag-teaming against me.
Alex, concerned for my health, picks me up, under the arm, carrying me to the kitchen and sitting me down in a stool by the bar. He begins reading off the list I wrote, quietly, but still auditory. I began to question myself. So, I've lived alone for a few years. Only people I've had around me, are my closest friends, and hardly any doctors, with the exception of myself. Could I truly be going crazy? That's, honestly, a question I wouldn't think to ask myself. I'm intelligent enough to know that, if I can still ask myself, "am I crazy?" I'm most certainly am not. However, that man could just be a figment of my imagination. Or a mental representation of my loneliness or internal sadness. I have no idea. By the time my brain finishes processing useless junk I won't remember, Alex hands me a drink that has the color of dark orange, and the texture of a chunky smoothie. "Hangover blaster? That's bound to be the best thing you've invented, Jay." Alex says, attempting to look on the brightest side to drinking a vomit-looking smoothie. "Cheers." I say, as I begin chugging the thick drink.
Alex didn't blend the mixture because I can still taste the raw egg ,bacon grease and mayonnaise. However, the concoction certainly helped out. My head is clearer, I can now operate similarly to a normal human, but it'll hurt less with my hangover on the back burner. I sit at the end of the couch with John on it. I need to address his wounds properly. John's never been great at self-treatment of injuries. He had a cut on his arm from one of our many Hunts, and he didn't treat it for months, until he dropped by to talk. I addressed it, thanks to my military service. I was a shield unit to those who were injured on the front lines. I could run out, my armored ballistics shield taking the incoming fire, as I pick up an injured soldier and carry him back to our outpost so I could properly treat their wounds. Regardless, I am the only one here with a sense of medical treatment. I can't leave John's side, not until Michael leaves. Who knows what vendetta Mike has against John. They had gotten along as long as I was around, but almost as soon as I vanish, Mike is hurting him.
I look at Alex, who is browsing through my fridge. "Where's the orange juice?" He asks, hardly being quiet. "Second shelf, behind the sodas." I say, around half as loud as he asked. "Thanks." he says, realizing his noise level, and adjusting it to be more quiet. Alex was always loud, both verbally and emotionally. He always had a great emotional state and doesn't fear much. What he does fear, he wants to try and hug. And by that I mean, he wants to hug it until it's heart-rate registers zero beats-per-minute. Michael slowly wakes up, holding his head. I have some very intense words for him. I get up, apparently too quickly, as my mind races to support myself. I walk over to him, my bare feet stomping across the wood floor, as I pick him up by a fold of thick skin on the back of his neck.
He grunts and twitches in agony, as I forcibly toss him against the wall. The glass shattering on the window behind him, pieces of glass falling around him to the floor. He slowly turns to face me, his eyes growing wider than a balloon getting filled with helium, as if I were a horror movie slasher. I attempt to understand what's making him so scared because I am not scary, even when I'm upset. I pan up from where his head is, looking in the reflection of the remaining shattered glass. The Man, is standing mere inches behind me, as my heart drops. I decide to take matters into my own hands and attempt to hurt the entity. I clench my fist, spinning around for a hopeful haymaker gut shot. My fist finds air, instead of any form of The Man. I follow my punch through, causing me to stumble forwards. In the moment, I realize I have my back to a possible murderer.
This next sequence of events and actions happens very quickly. First, I stumble forward after my attempt to hit an invisible entity, Alex walks towards me, Michael grabs a shard of glass and pulls me backwards, wrapping his arm around both of my shoulders, holding the shard of glass against my throat. "Okay! No need for violence!" Mike says, his words dripping with hypocritical bullshit. John wakes up, dazed, but scared after seeing the situation. I am in no position to struggle, so I remain loose. Who knows what Michael might do. He clears his throat before speaking again, "Now, we're all going to play a game. Anyone tries to trick me or kill me, will be killed before they get the chance." Alex knows where my military issued Nineteen-Eleven handgun is. Directly under the countertop in the kitchen. He immediately make a move for it, but Michael, as if a magician, picks up and throws a glass shard into Alex's back. From what I can tell, nowhere fatal, but enough to drop him to the floor. He does drop to the floor as Michael begins talking again, "What did I say? I told you not to try and kill me." His voice in an almost sing-song tone. John, with his blue eyes, scared beyond belief, manages to find his voice and asks something we all want to know, "Why are you doing this?" The sorrow in his voice thicker than tar.
Michael clears his throat and begins what we all can tell is a long story, "Because, I can't seem to find people who can treat me well, and thus, I can't seem to find a right place. I used to be a good person. Until, one night. One unfortunate and horrid night after my father took my mother out to see the outcome of a major business proposition. My mother came home without my father that evening. Her makeup was a slur of colors down her face. I was watching a movie at the time. I stopped it to follow her into her room. I saw something that shouldn't have ever happened and heard words I never should've heard come from my mother's mouth. My father's watch, caked in blood, was sitting in front of my parent's picture frame; an empty bottle of pills next to it. Later that night, my mother sat me down and told me that he murdered himself over the business deal, told me a wealthy family stole his property and company, causing him to lose everything he worked so hard for. She tried to stop him, convince him that opportunities could happen. She didn't stop his suicide. She later told me that she had no reason to live without him. I was horrified. I held her until she blew her brains out with my father's gun. The police arrived at the crack of dawn. Not knowing what to do, because they knew I didn't kill them so, they sent me to an orphanage. The caretaker was nice to me. The kids, however, were the exact opposite. Complete and ugly demons, sent to torture me. The night of my arrival, the kids watched from thier bedrooms at the kid who was covered in his parent's blood. They outcast me, shunned and ignored me. When the caretaker left for the night, that's when everything began, like a circus freak-show, with me as the main event. Every night for the next decade, the children there would torture me. Slashing my back with leather whips, suffocating me until I fainted, dragging me against the cold and rugged floor. Every family interview, they would notice my scars, and immediately say no. I felt terrible until, one night. Towards the end of my stay at the orphanage. I found a small razor blade and I cut the remaining kid's legs, stomachs and arms, as I watched them slowly lose blood, much like a water balloon; thier red syrup-like blood staining thier beds. I then hid the blade in my mouth, when the caretaker found them in the morning. I played with it in my mouth, tasting the blood, and cutting up the interior of my mouth, I could taste their blood and mine. Revenge, never tasted better. The caretaker never questioned me, knowing that a victim wouldn't strike back. I went to school, as usual the next day, where I met all of you. I knew the Hunt was the only way I could return the pain I felt. To those who delivered it." Michael finishes. Alex, John and I give each other confused stares, none of us knowing how or when one another contributed to Michael's pain.
I manage to speak, having to run the risk of the sharp glass slicing my neck. "So, what game shall we play?" John and Alex are looking at me, analysing the possibilities for saving me. Michael's shard of glass is uncomfortably close to cutting into my skin. I know I have a few layers of skin before any veins are hit, but, I'm shocked that he's holding the glass that firmly, despite it cutting into his hand. I concluded that he was very resilient to pain, or just using his bloodlust to drive his strength. "We will play my favorite game. Hide and seek. If you get found, you will run, or die." Almost like a computer, Alex, John and I gulp. Mine being much more delicate because Michael still has yet to release the glass shard from my throat.