The Listener
There's a dull hum right on the edge of ignorable, a canker that I can't stop tonguing. Every now and again there's a spike in it, a sudden, high-pitched whine that stabs through the music into the base of my spine and I have to shed my headphones to focus. Its not the fear of a kid trying to impress his friends with the shiny, metal toy that supposed to be hidden in the house safe. Its not the anger of an overworked father who has decided to show his family some other uses for his empty bottle. The scream is a claw, slicing into my brain stem, taking me to the dark figure in a home office, flickering in blue light. I can hear the *click-click* and the rush of impatient anticipation. I know the dryness in the figure's mouth, the thirst that they keep convincing themselves just needs a little taste, just a little something to take the edge off. There's a buzz as an IP address shape-shifts, bouncing off six different locations around the globe in an instant. The images on the screen are of lives that were ruined before they even started. The seizure is happening before the first image even loads, before any realization that neurons are being gripped and twisted into a spaghetti mess by an invisible hand. Muscles spasm, and as a limp body slams into a desk I can't help but chuckle darkly, "It was better when the bad guys wore capes."