Haunting her ever since his death, Mark would always carry around her brother's urn enduring the whispers that would accuse her at every turn. Now a prisoner, those whispers have become louder and with them hallucinations of the thing she truly did not want to be.

2. 4.
Can human beings live forever?
Mark can human beings live forever?
Inquisitively, this little boy would ask with his large green eyes, a hand brushing back brown
locks of fair hair, he made me envious of his beautiful hair.
No they can’t. I would reply looking wistfully at our house, the now empty house, it seemed
cold. We had just come back from the nearby creek, from skipping stones and laughing like
children. We were children after all, and here we were standing in front of our own home,
about to walk in.
A part of me reluctant to pass through the open doors, something felt off about this place,
something felt very wrong, in the pit of my gut I knew the answer. This little boy though, did
he?
My reluctance to impart my knowledge of what I knew to him evident on my face.
So does that mean someday I won’t be around? He asked turning his attention to the house
holding my hand.
Yes. My quiet reply lost on the wind, the sunset starting to light the skies with hues of pastel
yellows, pink, and green.
Does that mean the same for you Mark? His small hand gripped mine tightly, it hurt a little.
Yes. I would answer once more, my voice cracking at the painful answer.
Taking a step towards the house pulling him along meeting with little resistance.
Brother, dear brother.
His hand gripped mine tightly seeing two figures sitting across from each other, slumped on
the table, both hands crossing each other with spoons in their hands, as if they had been
feeding each other.
Glancing at the bottle on the table, verifying my suspicions and noticing the poison label even
in the low light of sunset.
Are you sad? Asking him as he continued to stare and slowly starting to nod his head.
Why? His small fingers brought his shorter form closer to mine, small arms attempting to
surround my waist his gaze piercing the scene.
Because one day you won’t be by my side, you’ll leave me. He stated and I would chuckle,
mostly out of discomfort.

3. Then. Snapping my eyes open feeling the floor against my cheek, immediately getting up to
survey my surroundings and spotting brother’s urn 15 feet away, right across the room,
stationary right under another black board.
Cautiously I would approach it swooping down to grab the clay container and looking it over,
noting a dry red splatter on its surface.
Was I dreaming once again?
Looking at the black rectangle the white lettering clear and legible against it, reading In order
to survive, a being must become the strongest. Searching around for a card and hearing
clicks and whirrs surround me.
Pivoting and immediately backing up in shock at the figure that appeared, my back pressed
against the rectangle. He was an artificial, the intricate curves and markings on his forehead
giving off a light orange hue, eyes bulging, bloodshot, and bags appearing under them.
“So you’re a killer too?” His voice was deep, laced with insanity; I shook turning my head left
then right and repeating the action, shaking my head.
“No I’m not a killer.” I would say. My brother’s voice would drift from the urn to my mind
chiming the same song “Murderer! Murderer! My sister is a Murderer!” Louder than before, I
wish he would just shut up!
“Oh that can’t be right, you can’t be here without having to kill one or two people my dear~”
He would purr stepping forwards, I noticed in his hand a rusted knife, one I had seen from my
dream, the one in the room full of blood, knives everywhere and dead men, women, and
children.
“No you’re wrong, I can’t kill, I…I’m not a killer” Putting a hand up clutching the clay container
to my chest shaking my head with much more fervor. He would stop; the orange glow on his
forehead turning violet and a silence. “Hah! Liar.” He would bark out laughing before lunging,
knife in hand and eyes wide screaming.
“Murderer! Murderer! Sister is a murderer!” Echoing in my mind, for me, time seemed to
freeze. Black and white, in my vision it would flicker, things started to get quiet, as quickly as it
had arrived, the silence broke in an instant.
The fact that had lunged at me before, with a violet glow on his forehead, bulging bloodshot
eyes that told the stories of insanity, were gone. I was lying on the ground, it felt as if
someone had rolled me several feet on cold tile and something moist touched my cheek in my
hair, on my back, soaking into my clothes.
Chills went up my back pushing my body off of the floor and hearing a drip, too heavy to be
water; my hand touched my face then came into my vision.
Blood. Turning around violently to see a puddle of blood surrounding the artificial who had
tried to take my life from earlier, a knife embedded in his chest, a shadow, familiar and very

4. large looming over sullenly, gazing at the form before making eye contact with me.
“Blake?” I would ask, somewhat unsure, taking a moment to process the man’s change in
demeanor and physical features. He wore an eye patch now, over his left to be exact and I
stood up shakily, frightened.
“Did you?” I would point, he would simply stare and my whole body would quiver. “Then those
people, the men, the women, and the children from earlier?” I would ask and he would simply
stand there lifeless, I looked at him, up and down, spotless. His clothes were spotless, not a
bit of blood on them; he would simply look at me then the knife then back to me.
“Become the strongest.” He would say his words slurred, almost unintelligible, as if he were
talking with something in his mouth bending over to pull the blade from the dead artificial’s
chest, holding the flat end of the blade, the handle towards my direction.
“Become the strongest.” He would repeat as crab walked backwards shaking my head.
“I’m not a murderer.”
Frantically looking around the room, the blood pool in the middle of the room, the white walls,
white tiles, a line smeared with blood, the blood I had been lying in not too long ago leading to
me.
“Murderer! Murderer!” Brother’s voice was frantic almost hysterical, partially laughing, and
deafening in my mind.
“Shut up brother!” I would scream pressing both hands to my ears closing my eyes amidst his
laughter, his jeers and his giggles.
“Murderer! Murderer!” An echo of hysteria, it was no longer just brother, it was a chorus. A
clatter and looking up, I would look at the fallen knife on the floor, frightened.
Glinting in the room light, beckoning with its rusted edge, the wooden handle seemed as if it
would fit perfectly in my palm, in between my fingers.
Shaking uncontrollably, an earthquake within myself, a deafening ringing reaching out to the
knife reasoning, this was a dream was it not?
I’m sure this is a dream and a result of the trauma from my injuries, I’m simply getting worked
up because I have to do something right?
This dream is symbolic. It’s completely symbolic. The walls, the men and women, the dead
men and women, Blake, all of it was symbolic, this was a dream!
The voices were loud in my mind the knife seemed so far away, and the room bent, it was
now a cacophony of incoherent mutterings that sounded like the word Murderer, and finally
when my hand would touch the handle, they ceased.
All of it ceased. Tracing my fingers along the wooden handle before taking it into my palm with

5. resolve I would stand, my brother’s urn in one hand, and the knife in the other, walking over to
the black rectangle embedded in the wall looking over the words once more.
“Become the strongest?” Hushed voice in the silent room thinking, this dream is telling me
something, this dream wants me to overcome some kind of obstacle.
Was this what it really was? So whoever died here, they weren’t actually dead right? It was all
just in my head; the world was simply fucking with me!
A somewhat uncomfortable laugh escaped my throat starting to turn into full blown laughter.
This dream, it was all in my head. All of it!
Noticing a strange thing popping out of the black rectangle my hand reached for it and pulled
out another black card. Instinctively, I placed it in my pocket a click indicating the two cards
making contact.
Another opening would appear and I would traverse the room to it, watching the entrance
dilate to accompany my form and allow me to pass. It was another room like the previous,
only it lacked the dead body and the pool of blood.
Thinking back on it. How filthy and disgusting, even in a dream, disgusting.
It was much more spacious and there were six rectangles in the room each with a proposed
message. A dream, a dream that told me to be the strongest.
Did it mean I had to kill?
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