Happy New Year

December 31, 1999. The night air held the sounds of excitement and chaos; it was the ushering in of a new year. People stood in the streets and on the sidewalks, singing and dancing to a million different notes. Confetti flew threw the air and danced lightly as the tiny pieces slowly settled on the people and fell onto the ground. Along the waterfront, fireworks were getting bigger and brighter as their canon sounding bursts became louder and louder, leading up to the climax of midnight on the dot.
Inside the apartment everything was silent with the exception of the muffled festivities being held 20 stories below. David Gaven slowly woke up finding himself on the floor with masking tape held so tightly around his mouth that the rest of his face was becoming as red as the blood fluidly dripping from the left side of his head. Sweat rolled from the top of his black receding-hair head down his face and onto the floor. His white shirt was bleeding through at various points and his black pants were slashed and ripped. Fiberglass boxing tape secured his hands and feet from ever trying to relax or escape. Gaven slowly turned his eyes to the darkness where he could see the silhouette of a person, a thing if you will.
This person was dressed in ebony black that was 10 shades lighter the core of his soul. He sat there, a chameleon of the world of darkness, intensely staring at Gaven the stare of a demon watching the activities of schoolchildren on a playground. Gaven looked at the person from the standpoint of a man staring into a black hole. On his lap was a briefcase of some kind, plastic instead of metallic. Opening the briefcase one-by-one he set its contents on the table to his right. As he did this task, there was an eerie silence, as if he absorbed all sound of the metal components being placed on the table.
Gaven was in total confusion. He began thinking back to how he got here. Was this his apartment? He quickly surveyed the area around him: a bed, a table, the chair, a stand-alone lamp, a television set, an alarm clock, a small bathroom. These were the exact things that he had in his room but weren’t they in other rooms as well? Weren’t most of these rooms the same? Gaven suddenly thought, where are my things? Briefcase, laptop computer, luggage? Was this HIS room?
The person loaded the cartridge into the black gun, and swiveled the silencer-end onto it. His gloved hands smoothly caressed it, setting it on the table, pointed at Gaven. Gaven was whimpering, his head bouncing up and down like a bobber in the lake of a park on a Sunday afternoon. The person reached on the floor and found the remote control.
Who is he? What am I doing here? What did I do to deserve this? Is this a joke? What the fuck is going on? These words and thoughts kept replaying in Gaven’s mind, faster and faster. He tried standing up, but his bones ached and cracked, making him appear as an overused Jack-in-the-box. Tears started to roll down his cheeks and onto the masking tape. He whined and wanted to face the person, wanted to know everything, something, anything he could. A clue was all he wanted; a motive that somehow made sense out of everything that had happened up until this point. Gaven stared at the black space that was the person, looking for some kind of remorse, joy, sorrow, evil, vindication.... something. The person had no distinguishable features; no face, no connection. He sat there in a cool detachment as if he had willed himself into this place and time. Gaven almost flew backwards as his heart jumped when the TV instantly came to life.
“Yes, Dan. It will soon be the end of 1999. It sure looks like festivities are going great. I wish I could be down there!”
The anchorwoman rattled on and on, ranging in topics regarding all the acts playing at various cities around the world, to what her plans for the New Year were going to be. There was a commercial break, and the person rose from the chair and went into the bathroom. Gaven was thinking about doing something. He wanted to do something, but it was far from being possible. He started crying as the anchorwoman returned with a more solemn expression.
“In light of tonight’s events, I feel we have to make mention of the New Year’s Eve killer. For the past 10 years, detectives across the country have been trying to find the New Year’s Eve killer. It started in 1989 with the death of Stefanie Sinclair in Cuthbert, Tennessee and continued on to J.T. Reynolds in Mt. Washington, Vermont, and lastly, Amanda Irving in Hoffcity, Wyoming. Each victim is beaten-up, knocked-out, and killed execution-style. These murders occur in apartments, motels, and hotels. The killer checks in, kills at the exact stroke of midnight, and then leaves. There have been no videotaped records of the killer, nor any witnesses.”
It was at that moment in time that Gaven realized his future would be ended in 6 minutes. The bathroom door etched open with a bright white light that silhouetted the person emerging from it. He closed the door behind him, once again becoming a creature of darkness. Gaven searched inside of himself for something good, but only found entropy of emotions inside his heart and multi-layered confusions inside his head. The killer stood by the bathroom door in total silence. A minute of his silence was an eternity to Gaven.
The killer effortlessly made his way to the table, whereupon he picked up the instrument of Gaven’s forthcoming demise. With the remote control in his left hand and the gun in his right, he walked over to Gaven and stood behind him. He watched the beaten, bruised, helpless 45-year-old look at him with eyes of hurt that forecasted doom. The killer placed the silencer-end of the gun to the back of Gaven’s head.
Total fear screamed from the deepest part of Gaven’s soul. A rage of thoughts regarding the killer stormed into his frontal lobe. Who is this sick bastard?!? Why me, God?!?!? WHY ME?!?!?! The thoughts ran in continuous loops. Was the killer really a homicidal maniac? How many others had he killed? Will he kill the rest of his family? Was he an anti-social loner? Did his parents treat him badly growing up? Was he a normal person that vented his frustrations by being a sick fuck and killing people on New Year’s Eve? Gaven looked at the alarm clock; it’s red digitized numbers showing there were only two minutes left.
The killer came to a kneeling position on the floor, next to the pulverized-with-terror body of David Gaven. David Gaven was as meaningless as the rest. His death was just another in a series as one can of soda was no different than another. Neither pain nor glory lived inside the killer; he was a destructive force that took no notice of who or what a person is before destroying them. Simple annihilation, period. He wasn’t sweating, nor was he anxious. After another minute had passed, the well of hatred inside of him started filling up.
Gaven looked at the clock and estimated that he had about 50 seconds to live. He tried turning to look at the killer, but the killer just kept his Gaven’s head pointed at the TV screen. Crowds were cheering, waiting for the final seconds of the year. Gaven started pleading tried to say something, but his mouth was restricted to the point where the only thing he managed was a medium muffled sound. He pleaded with his heart and his mind to the TV, but there was no consolation, no warmth or empathy from any anchorperson.
The killer stood up and took to position as he had done so many times before. As routine as the Army one could say. He stood behind Gaven with the gun pointed at the top of Gaven’s head.
Please, God, don’t let it end like this. Please. What did I do? What didn’t I do? What should I have done?
Gaven turned to a feeling of hatred. You sick fuck! You jack-off! You goddamn sonofabitch! You stupid-ass piece of shit! If you didn’t have me tied up, I would be kicking your fucking ass right now!!!! Gaven switched between words and moods. Say something, goddammit! SAY SOMETHING! WHY ME?!?! HUH?!?!
The television informed audiences around the nation that there were 20 seconds left.
Jenny. Julie. Brad. Driving. Laura. Picnics. Birth. Death. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year’s party. The office. The car. Movies. TV. The radio. Jim Croce. Classical music.
15 seconds remained.
Laura with her hair. I loved burying myself in it. How she looked at the party. Making love to her. Kissing her. Feeling her beside me. The birth of Brad. Being there for Julie’s birth. My parent’s deaths.
10 seconds remained.
Go to Hell, you sonofabitch! Go to Hell! Burn there for the rest of your fucking eternity! Burn and scream and the fiery pits!
“5...” the crowd cheered as the giant ball of lights slowly descended the pole.
Laura, I love you, and will always love you.
“4...”
The cold steel of the gun pressed against the top of his head.
“3....”
Burn in Hell! Burn in Hell! Burn in Hell! Burn in Hell!
“2....”
Brad and Julie, I love you too.
“1...”
NNOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Gaven screamed out, his face pulsating, trying to force his mouth to overcome the tight restraint of the masking tape, with the veins in his neck showing themselves like two solid steel rods under skin.
“Happy New Year!”