• The discordant noise of humanity stifled the air. People pushing past each other, cursing under their breath or aloud through the haze of nicotine and menthol that pervaded the subway terminal. The sound of their spit hitting the pavement, the proceeding thud of poorly worn leather shoes treading it underfoot and resonating down the tunnel; mixing with the echo of the vicious smoker’s cough that clawed its way out of the mouth of every homeless person… All of it polluted the platform. They were a disease, and Bartleby hated them all.

    He stood at the platform to Metro 9, reading the time on his wristwatch by the light of the single fluorescent overhead lamp. For him, this was a chore not only because the pink bulb was flickering erratically, but also because he had cracked the face on his watch and had to stare through a warped and tinted image of his own face to read the time. As he squinted to read the silver hands, his reflection seemed to be missing its jaw as it passed over the sliver of cracked glass, and pink veins of light splashed across his reflection’s face. He shivered as a gust of wind blew down the tunnel and scattered newspapers and stray advertisements across the terminal.

    10:23. or 24. Maybe 22. It all depended on how he cocked his head, really. It was even possible that none of those were right, as when he looked at the watch head on, he couldn’t see the numbers or hands. At any rate, he was displeased with whoever was in charge of the Metro. They were at the very least two minutes late. He wrinkled his nose in disgust and looked down the subway track in hope of spotting the glaring headlights that would herald the arrival of the insufferable late Metro car. A sigh of frustration almost escaped his lips, but he restrained it.

    A paralyzing fear of their disease seized him. He wanted nothing more than to exhale in disapproval, without the repercussion of taking in their plague with the returning breath. The very thought of their sickness made him gag. They were despicable. All of them were beneath him. In spite of his feelings, he could not bring himself to feel sorry for them. At least they had the right to be upset with their lot in life. Nearly every one of them had been dealt a poor hand by Fate and not given the tools to cope with the situation presented. The upper-middle class to which he belonged had no such luxury.

    A cacophony of ruffling feathers incited him to turn his head in time to see several pigeons that had somehow found a way into the station fighting angrily over an upturned bucket of popcorn someone had dropped as they got into the last car. The one that Bartleby had just barely missed. Well aware that he had no right, he cursed his own luck. He should not have stayed so late at work, but he had been faced with no alternative. For almost three straight weeks he had been cutting corners on his work, and had the strange feeling that his bosses were catching on to him, so he had stayed an extra hour just to make sure all of his papers were properly covered and filed. That hour had thoroughly upset his schedule.

    Suddenly, he was drawn from his thoughts as he heard the screech that preceded the Metro’s grudgingly anticipated arrival. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of where the pigeons had once been, now an empty and grimy spot in the terminal, coated with a few drops of blood where one of the birds had been wounded in the fight. The glistening red caused him to turn away almost immediately. He hated the sight of blood. He shook his head vigorously to clear the surfacing images of a few years ago, when he had cut his hand on a letter opener at the Exchange and nearly fainted at the sight of his own blood. Shelley had laughed at him when she showed up at the hospital to check up on him. He felt a pang in his heart as he thought back. Nothing like nostalgia. No, this was an angry feeling. One that caused his blood to pump at a murderous rate. Things had been so good…

    By the time he managed another conscious thought, he was in the Metro car, watching the lights of other stations fly past the otherwise black windows opposite him. This world was so gray. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, in his mind. Shelley had always commented on him having a pessimist’s view on the world. But she had always been wrong. Always putting him down, just because she was so well educated and had to transfer out to an ivy-league school and work on her Ph.D. He felt the bile rising up in his throat as he recalled her face. Most especially those full, red lips of hers… She’d left only a few days ago, and everything they’d once had was already degenerating to something disgusting in his mind. That was how he worked. It was what was expected of him. Women were naturally repulsed by him, and he saw no reason why he should give them the courtesy of his respect if they were only going to abandon him in the end. And so, with every relationship, bitterness was his final emotion.

    With a kind of sinking feeling, he saw that his face would not reflect in the glass of the car’s windows. Some young punks had spray painted over a good portion of them, and some other kids had done their best to shatter the glass, which had resulted in deep spiderwebs diverting his reflection every which way. Even more perturbed than when the car had been late, he went back to glaring at the passing lights. An unrequited emotion, as they passed too quickly to return the favor, glancing over him as they hurried along. Just like women.

    The car squealed as it pulled into the first stop. Five more, Bartleby noted, as the doors lurched open to allow in the sick bastards who rode the midnight cars. It was only on these rare occasions that he would associate with them. Even then, the contact was purely chance, and by no means of his own volition. So he told himself, and so it was.

    His tired green eyes scanned their faces, each one showing telltale marks of disease: their eyes were sunken in, cheeks sallow and taut with hunger, a haggard twist on their features… Simply, they were too much to stand. The lowest common denominator of reality. The ones who should not exist in the world of Bartleby James. He smiled to himself at the thought of a world without disease.

    For a moment, the image of his office invaded his thoughts. He wondered whether or not he had cleaned up his most recent snack from his desk. The janitors were usually quite good about tossing the trash on his desk, so he didn’t worry terribly. He was slowly weaning himself off of his snacking habit. Only twice that day had he run out to the sub store across the street from his office, each time only ordering a few sandwiches to tide him over until his next official break. No one really noticed, and if he received any phone calls, he knew that Linden Bauer would cover for him and say he was in a very important meeting. They had a good understanding. Linden would cover for Bartleby, and in return the latter would keep Linden’s extramarital affairs away from his wife’s careful ears. At the end of the day, everyone won.

    When finally he had roused himself from his thoughts and opened his eyes, he spotted something unusual. Someone like him, someone normal… was riding the midnight car. She sat opposite him, checking her appearance in a small powder mirror, and made Bartleby’s breath catch in his throat. She was beautiful to him. The signs of disease, so abundant in the rest of the City had somehow passed over her form. He strained his eyes to find even a single flaw in her form, but could find none. He was captivated. She wore a long black dress that reached down to her ankles, but made no attempts to be conservative, as it sported a large slit that reached up to her mid-thigh. Her every curve was emphasized by that dress, and yet the most striking feature about her appearance; the object that most captured Bartleby’s attention, was the long red scarf draped around her neck.

    An oafish grin sidled across his face, and he could do nothing to stop it. His eyes drifted down to her shoes. Her delicate feet were uncomfortably squeezed into a pair of breathtaking heels, black as the dress she wore. From there, he glanced up and followed her toned white leg to the slit at her thigh, where his eyes lingered for more than a moment before proceeding on their quest. He proceeded in his attempt to fully take her in but stopped dead at the sight of her scarf. Something about it simply drew him in and captivated him, refusing to relinquish him unless he pried his eyes away, and his own lack of willpower prevented him from doing that.

    Coming out of his thoughts, he was momentarily surprised that his lips were moist. It took him a moment to realize that he had unconsciously been licking them, staring at her as an animal does his next prey. He jerked his head away and stared at the floor, silently praying to God that she hadn’t seen his stare. But what was the use? She didn’t know him. There was no way that she would speak to him, even if he did make some feeble attempt at starting a conversation. There was no way that she would be different from other women. Again, the bile rose in his chest. She was just like Shelley. They all were.

    A mechanical groan cut through his thoughts as it announced the third stop of the Metro car. Two more, and then I’ll never see her again. Just two more stops, and this gem is gone from my life forever… He thought to himself. On the platform outside, he could hear several pigeons cooing, almost as if they were warning the sick people exiting the car not to go near them. Bartleby couldn’t resist a smile. Even the animals in the City could tell how diseased the inhabitants were. He thanked God that he was one of the healthy ones.

    He could try… He was certainly a good enough man, as far as looks went… Though in past few months he had gained a bit of girth, his face was still attractive enough, and his personality had a powerful charm to it. But women were somehow not interested in him, despite these qualities, and it perplexed him to no end. For a moment he considered walking over and asking her what her opinion was, but the thought of her likely reaction brought about a fear of rejection and he remained in his seat, watching her from across the car.

    One more stop… Now or never… A voice at the back of his head hissed, goading him to do the unthinkable. Insisting that he court her. If nothing else to ask for her number. He wanted to find the source of that irritating and irrational voice and quell it permanently. What Bartleby desired was something far more primal. Much more simplistic and easy to attain, no wording required. A jolt of tension shot up his spine as the red light above the doors announced that the next stop would be the last one. The place where Bartleby would exit… The same stop that this mystery woman would have to get off… he was so overjoyed by the coincidental excellence of the whole situation. He wouldn’t even look suspicious as he left from his usual stop, and his neighbors would be able to corroborate his story that sometimes he worked late… If they even found her within the next week… It was all so perfect. Again, his tongue flecked out and moistened his lips with a fresh coating of saliva.

    As he walked up the filthy steps out of the Metro, he did his best to keep a good distance away from her. After all, if she became skittish, everything would become much more difficult. His mind drifted back to his job as he followed her. He remembered that he was in line for a promotion and again almost sighed. It was less that he deserved. He knew how to do his job better than anyone else at the Exchange, and as far as he was concerned, he should be running the whole place. The others were nothing but useless placeholders, pacing around and doing grunt work.

    They crossed McNaulton Avenue, and Bartleby caught a glimpse of more pigeons. They really were everywhere, just like the sick and the dying. He wondered what could make such useless creatures cling so avidly to their existence, but reasoned that they were simply stupid animals; birds incapable of doing anything intelligent or productive. He almost laughed as they paced about, as if hesitant to fly away. To him, they looked scared and expectant. Waiting for something dangerous... He thought.

    The woman in the red scarf took a sharp turn down Mainland Abbey, her heels clicking as she went. There was an uncertain rhythm to her step; determination and rhythm under her wavering pace.

    She walked with a kind of confused purpose, stopping briefly at a faded, rusty STOP sign and looking about, as if she didn’t know where she was going. For a moment, he considered whether he should ask her where she was trying to get to, but thought better of it. He would follow her until she reached a blind alley. She was obviously new to the City and was fated to be lost in its intricacies very shortly. If she got to where she wanted without being lost, then he would wait for her, night after night, until he realized his goal. His every bodily function was operating in a heightened state, blood pumping furiously through each vein, invigorating him with lusty passion.

    Again, the voice in the back of his head began to suggest things, urging him to go home, to reconsider what he was about to do. He did think about it. He had planned it meticulously. There was one strong point in the voice’s argument, though. It would be, after all, a great deal of effort. It would be a lot more effort than he liked to exert for anything. As he followed, he weighed his options. If he went through with it, the effort would be worth the reward, but if he stopped and turned back... If he gave up and went home... he would be able to get some sleep, relax, maybe wake up and actually feel awake...

    Pigeons. They were everywhere. He noticed them as he walked, perched high on buildings, looking down at him. Bile rose within him. What right did they have to look down on him? He was better than them. He was superior. He was the human. The feeling of their eyes boring into the back of his head was almost painful. Pushing it to the back of him mind, he fixed his sights on her again.

    It wasn’t long before those slender legs found themselves facing a brick wall; unsure of where to turn to; scared to turn around for fear that they may be face-to-face with what was truly there. She hadn’t heard him; of that much he was sure, and he approached with a cold precision, avoiding the large metal sewer covers to make as little noise as possible. He heard a bird flutter overhead as he walked. Something larger than the pigeons that polluted the streets. It was most likely one of the ebony ravens that occasionally graced the City’s cold streets, chasing pigeons away in great packs. They were a mark of purity in a den of corruption, a kindred spirit to Bartleby.

    The steam from the grates and vents warmed him as he drew closer, and their humming disguised his steps as his body neared her defenseless and confused shape. The red scarf still stood out in this dark place, tantalizing to any who may pass. He had planned it all out as he had followed her. It was all so simple… So perfect… so… so… His thoughts trailed off as he stood only a few inches away from her, hands about to reach for the ends of the scarf.

    Sick was the only word that came to mind. He was sick. There was no denying it. The City, his life there, had made him that way… No. he told himself. I made myself this way. I let myself become this way. I need help. I’m about to… He couldn’t so much as think of the word to describe the act that he had considered doing for so many hours... Wearily, he allowed himself a sigh as he turned around. There was nothing poisonous about the air that he hadn’t already taken in too much of. His footsteps echoed off the walls of the alley as he turned around.

    “You’ve been there a while, haven’t you?” The girl’s voice rang out, high and pretty. It was so unlike anything he’d experienced in the City before. He turned and nodded. She was facing him now, and he looked upon her face for the first time. Her lips were blood red. Just like Shelley’s had been… He considered calling her back once he got help… It had been his fault, after all, that she had gone away in the first place…

    “Then you won’t mind doing me a favor?” She asked politely, stepping toward him. He shook his head, as if to say “Not at all. It’s the least I can do.”

    “Good.” She said with a dark smile. He glanced down to see her hand rise to his throat, something silver gleaming in it. “Everything on you. Money. Wallet. Credit cards. Checkbook… Throw it on the other side of the alley. Now.” She commanded; her voice dropping to a commanding tone as she pressed the lengthy switchblade against the rolls of his neck.

    He did as instructed, hot tears of anger rolling down his cheeks as he did. This was unfair. He was changing. He was willing to change. He was ready. God damn her.

    “Have a good night.” She said, turning as if to leave. As Bartleby exhaled a sigh of relief from a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, she sent the knife cleaving across his throat with one sharp movement of her wrist. He fell to the disgusting floor of the alley, clawing for air, for blood, for life, but to no avail. With a sense of practiced control, she wiped the knife off on his blazer and dropped it at her feet. He tried to look at her, to deliver a final dirty look as he died, but saw only her shapely rear as she bent to pick up his things, giggling lightheartedly.

    His eyes were heavy and slowly dropped to the ground’s level. He tried to spit in defiance, but only an unharmonious gurgling sound escaped his throat. His eyes began to roll back in his head, but he fought their movement, bringing them back to face forward. A black shadow clawed the edges of his vision.

    He could see himself. Not the way he had always pictured himself, but a true reflection of what he was. The knife had landed several inches from his face, and reflected his entire body, lying in a pool of his own blood like a dying animal. An overweight monster in a blazer. A doughy face, beady eyes that were nearly black, obscured by the fat in his visage, and rolls that even now threatened to spill from his clothes. This was fate. A raven flew overhead, crooning his song to the night.

    Bartleby almost smiled. He would have, but the pigeons arrived, scavenging at his still warm body. They had no qualms against the fact that their latest find was still laboriously breathing when they first began pecking at him. A grimace crossed his face as they swarmed him, and he could see only his pudgy face in the mirror of the knife. If only she could have cut deeper… Ended his pain quickly… Over the course of several minutes, Bartleby James bled to death in a lonesome alley in the bowels of the City.