28th January 2001
Cloaked in shadow the figure crouches in the darkened doorway of the building on a dimly lit street. Across the way the lights of a cafe go out, one by one. There is the sound of a door closing, a fumbling of key and the door is locked; footsteps retreating down the street. Apartment lights flick out as time crawls by, no stars or moon to counter the encroaching blackness as the city falls asleep. Silence smothers the night, swallowing the exhaled breath and occasional shifting of clothing before it can escape the narrowness of the doorway.
6th February 2001
I do not recall the beginning, of how I came to accompany the strange old man to this shed. Nor do I recall its location, save to say that it must have been in an old part of town.
I followed the man into the shed, or so I must assume. His clothing was grey, as was his complexion, both nondescript and drab. He never spoke as we entered, hints of cloud-filtered sunlight sneaking through cracks where boards fell away from the walls.
He made no sound as he moved to a rickety old ladder and ascended to a crude storage platform amongst the rafters. I stood below. Perhaps from amongst the cobwebs and debris up there he fumbled with the lid of a can of something, which he began to pour through gaps between the boards, and for the first time he spoke. Or at least I head him say, "I'm going to pour my pain on you."
The occurrences were in rapid succession and blurred together. I set fire to that dripping goo, and then briefly the figure of that poor wretch was before me, immolating.
And now, only moment later, all that remains is a small patch of whitish grey ash, not even a bone to be seen. Come to think of it, the ash is the colour that he was...