Your left hand. Pale, bloodied and cut at the wrist. Your right fingers. Mutilated and shoved grotesquely into a matchbox, sticking loosely out of its compartment. Dirtied fingernails. Dried blood and a sense of horror attached to them, Your foot, too deformed to be differentiated from your other one. Crushed to dust, covered by a coat of pale skin. A literal bag of bones. There is one question. Why?

I walk across over there; the name of the place is vague, forgotten, not in my memory. I take a chair, blue, or possibly yellow in colour, and sit down. I see people. They mind their business; think back of younger, merrier days. I think back too. I think back to a single day, a Tuesday or possibly Friday. I remember this day well. I look up, and see that this place is made of wood, maybe a timber of some sort. My knowledge of infrastructure is not the best. I look down, and I see a singular man. Alone, distant.
He walks across the cold floor of this place, his heavy leather boots creaking against it. He leaves a trail of water on the floor, making it go dark brown. This trail starts near the edge of the door, and ends near my feet. I stare him coldly down. He has the appearance of a man who no longer lives in flesh and soul, but rather in appearance. He covers his legs, torso and arms with a long trench coat. His face cannot be seen, his rounded, cream coloured hat is casting a shadow upon it.
He looks at the clock on my left side. It reads three o’clock, fifteen minutes. The man, slouching with his left leg trailing behind his right, has a sleepy look on his face. Or perhaps it is one of familiarity, of what, I am not sure.
He looks at the clock, with a peculiar, almost unreadable expression on his face. The minute hand ticks to sixteen, and the man’s face relaxes. He turns to me, and starts to speak. He has an odd voice, gruff, foreign.
“I know a place, an island,” says the man. He talks with quick pace.
“An island free from everything,” he continues.
“Free from corruption, or lies or anything. A place free from YOU. You see everything in such a light, that there is no way to leave.”
I consider what he says to me. It seems odd. This man I have never met tells me of strange islands, and talks in a repetitive voice; a service helpline, or possibly a robot.
“Such a place would be nice,” I force a smile. “But, tell me, how would it be possible for such an island in this day and time?”
“A matter so long discussed,” sighs the man. I am now sure this conversation has been many times repeated. It is impossible to see his face properly, but it seems cold. He starts to look at the clock on my left again. I try to change the conversation, but his eyes are fixed onto the clock, gargoyle like.
“I must go now,” he says suddenly. He turns back sluggishly, as if he is intoxicated. His left leg twitches, and his knees buckle. He drops suddenly. A crowd gathers, circling him like a predator who is playing with its hapless prey. I cannot see the man; he has a human shield by this crowd of concerned people.
I yell at the crowd to disperse, and push my way into the circle. There are cries of amazement and shock. I see why now. I have a dreadful intuition of something bad waiting to happen, and I feel as if I am the cause.
The mysterious man in beige is gone. He simply vanishes into thin air. But he has left something behind, in his round hat, which is now wet, with water dripping into the piece of paper crumpled inside. I pick up the paper and smoothen it on a nearby chair. The ink runs, streaking my hands with lines of blue. However, I can still make out a few words scribbled unto the piece of paper. My heart runs cold, and drop into my stomach.
11.54, the ... of the dooms... clock. Seven of December.
I am suddenly more alert. I pace the room, with bystanders watching me with a look of confusion. Eleven fifty-four. The doomsday time. Seven of December. Today.
I walk down a road, a road that I have many times seen. The pathway is murky, grey, ordinary. My shoes make an awful sound, as I think of that date and time. My mind goes blank and I stop. Then I remember my words to the man.
“It is impossible in this day and time,” I struggle to breathe as I make the connection. I turn a corner, and my horrors are confirmed. The colour in my face goes a ghostly white, and I crash to the floor, my hands over my face, sobbing.
A large, rounded piece of metal is swinging overhead, suspended by cable wires. In the centre is the most destructive way to take a life. Through a clear message. Suspending by wire and somehow sticking to the metal, are four people. Their bodies turned and rotated to spell out four numbers. 11.54. Underneath, was the date. Seven of December. I groan in disbelief.
“A coincidence!” I yell. People start to look at me. They think I am mad. The .....thing.... does not shock them. In fact, they aren’t even looking at it. They are looking at me. Why? There are people dead, hanging over a street but I am being looked at. I grow dizzy, supporting myself on a nearby banister. I suddenly drop, going over the banister, and falling into shrubs. I see two people, twins maybe (they look exactly the same, and their movements are synchronized), looking over the banister. They call out to me, but I cannot reply. I pass out.
I wake up and see that I am in a dark room. Your left hand. Pale, bloodied and cut at the wrist. Your right fingers. Mutilated and shoved grotesquely into a matchbox, sticking loosely out of its compartment. Dirtied fingernails. Dried blood and a sense of horror attached to them, Your foot, too deformed to be differentiated from your other one. Crushed to dust, covered by a coat of pale skin. A literal bag of bones. There is one question. Why?
I see a faint light, triangular in shape, coming from the ground. I blink, once, twice, but the light is still there. In fact, it is growing larger, brighter. I put my hands over the light, attempting to block it. It is not working! I turn away, but the light has now illuminated the entire room. I shut my eyes but to no avail. I start to hear strange sounds, calling me. I remember now. The man! He said I cannot leave this place.....this island of his. I make it my last wish to prove him wrong. I see a knife, protruding out of a man’s chest. I grasp it double-handedly and let out a raspy sob. I snort back phlegm and plunge the knife into my own .......