It had been seven days since he had had a drink.

Seven days since he had seen a single drop of water in this godforsaken place. Seven days since he had encountered a merchant, seven days since he had left home. Seven days since he had cupped his callused hands—cracked as they were by the snaking lines of heat and drought—under the barely functioning faucet from which water used to cascade seemingly without stop. Seven days since he had seen civilization, har de har har.

It had been seven days.

Seven days since he’d become trapped in the middle of this desert, that’s what it was. He didn’t know how, or why he was here; if he had more energy, the very concept might have gotten a derisive snort out of him, maybe even a roll of the eyes. It might have even led to a tirade muttered to himself under his breath, and wasn’t he famous for that back home. As things stood, though, he was too focused on getting to the end of whatever this lifeless road led to. He had convinced himself that he’d get there soon enough; seven days since he’d left meant he was that much closer. Seven days closer to whatever it was at the end of this place. Har de har har.

A voice in the back of his head told him ever so gently that he was in Hell, but he shrugged it off. A small cloud of dust dissipated off of his shoulders and clung to the air behind him. Hell was supposed to be a never-ending torture of fire and iron, staffed by The Great Satan Himself and His Evil Demons. There was none of that here…All he had to worry about was dehydration and crumbling into the sand that surrounded him. Maybe if he did so he’d make a neat little pile, right in the middle of this untended but miraculously intact pavement. Maybe some little kid, accompanied by his ever-so-oblivious white-collar parents on their way to the beach, could make a neat little sandcastle in the middle of this neat little fucking road, a neat little middle finger to the broken scenery of this goddamn desert.

It almost got a chuckle out of him. A brief humorless snort made its way through his nostrils, and he was acutely aware of the way it brushed his unshaven face as it went along. It wasn’t all he felt, but goddamn was it a weird sensation. Like an unrefined comb over the brittle excuses of hair across his lip (seven days since a decent grooming, har de har har), just without the environment or hand or comb to go with it. It was…strange. Strange that he’d be fixated on something like that. Almost as if he was crazy, delirious, suffering from heat-stroke, what-have-you. The key word was “almost.” Not quite, “almost.”

The key word was “almost” because the way he saw it, he wasn’t actually delirious by any means, oh no siree. He could still hear and see as clearly as ever. He could still feel the gritty dustiness in his haphazardly stitched-together boots, still smell the never-ending, sickly sweet stench in his nose goddamn that smell. He could still taste the smoke in the air, no matter how parched his tongue felt. He could still hear—

(HECOULDSTILLHEARTHESCREAMSOHGODTHESCREAMS)

He could still hear that damned vulture flapping its wings. Just as it had done for as long as he could remember being in this state, the ugly bald creature lazily circled the cloudless sky high above him. The bastard even glanced down occasionally to see if he was dead. He wasn’t—hadn’t been for the last seven days, by his count—but the damned vulture didn’t know when to give up. He looked up from under the brim of his hat. The son of a b**** was looking him dead in the eye this time.

And this time, he just about laughed.

It was a dry, wheezing cough of an attempt—strangled as it was by the harsh desert air and choked as it was by the parched agony in his throat—but he just about laughed. It was an ugly, pitiful noise that stuck to the relentlessly sandy air, riding the emptiness and carried away into the baby blue horizon that seemed to stretch into eternity. He vaguely mused to himself that maybe it did; maybe that was why the road never seemed to end. He laughed regardless.

And oh God, he could feel himself laughing.

He could feel how the darkly tanned skin on his face stretched and wrinkled grotesquely; he could feel how his chapped lips cracked and broadened into a small, sneering shadow of a smile. A snaking string of blood leaked from the crevices and trickled down to his yellow teeth. He could feel that, too, and idly made a note to lick it off later. The moisture could come in handy. It might even help him feel his tongue again.

His ribs shook and shuddered along with the rest of his wasted body, and he finally slowed down and stopped laughing. The remnants of his clothes—scraps of flaking leather and linen at this point—shifted and tore. A piece of his left pant leg fluttered away into the endless wasteland around him, where it settled gently upon the sun-bleached jawbone of some indeterminate creature; the man wondered briefly if it had wandered the desert like he had. He imagined it rooting around for a source of water—

(ANOASISORCACTUSORFLESHYANIMALORANYTHINGOHGODANYTHING)

He imagined it rooting around for a source of water, its movements outlined by the quiet desperation of an animal too stubborn to die but too tired to live. The image in his eyes blurred as they settled on the jawbone, unfamiliar with a sight other than the desert and its bald, ugly companion. He blinked—oh s*** that hurt why does it hurt so much s***—and shuffled away once more to resume his journey. He hadn’t blinked in a while.

It had been seven days.

When he opened his eyes again, however, he saw something else in the distance than sand and pavement. He knew damn well it could be a mirage but he blinked again and dusted the skin around his eyelids off, peering into the distance. He could make out that it was some sort of small structure; it had walls, a roof, and what seemed to be a door alongside what he presumed to be some kind of fancily designed window. It wasn’t a large building, that was for sure. The walls looked like red clay and on the roof was—

He blinked again in disbelief. Was that—was that straw? His half-opened mouth hung just a little lower when he strained his eyes again. There was straw on the goddamned roof. In the desert. Low height, as cozy-looking as such a thing could be in this place, and straw on the roof…Fancy windows or not, there was a cottage in the middle of the goddamn desert.

He almost collapsed then and there. He damn well might have if he hadn’t seen the jawbone—something different—earlier; for seven days now, all he’d had to see was sand, the road, and the vulture. His knees almost gave out anyway, but the zombie-like shuffling of his feet was close to automatic now; at any rate, they wouldn’t stop until he found out just what the hell a cottage—a black-painted cottage, no less—was doing in the middle of the goddamn desert.

An odd sensation overcame the man as he shuffled ever closer to that goddamn cottage. The mindless strength that had brought him here began to leave him, and he slowly became painfully aware of the relentless heat that enveloped his body. The salt underneath the tattered remains of his shirt chafed with the long-raw skin. He suddenly felt immensely heavier, as if the goddamn vulture had somehow snuck up and chained an anvil to his back. A terrible, twisting ache wormed its way up from the empty husk of his stomach to his chest.

A weak and raspy groan escaped from the man’s throat. He felt old, shriveled even beyond the walking mummy that he was. His skin felt loose on his bones and weighed him down with each step. His legs, bless them and their work, they still walked.

Breathing was getting harder and harder, more constrained. His lungs felt like they were being squeezed from the inside and on their way out. His previously upright head dipped to the side, his ear brushing with his shoulder as he walked. He swayed from right…to left…to right…and then to the road, as it lurched upwards towards him. His shirt tore as he slid. The skeleton he had become pressed onto the burning black pavement. He could hear the skin boil and hiss, and for just a brief moment his nose was relieved of—

(OFTHESTENCHEMANATINGFROMMYSINMAYINEVERFORGETAMEN)

For just a brief moment his nose was relieved of that ungodly sweet odor he’d carried for so long. He was thinly aware of the burns across his torso, but its cloying aroma clouded it, settled it until it, too, wore off. The hazy, muddled realization that there’d be more in the cottage floated to the forefront of his brain, and with as much effort as he could muster he stood back up.

Feebly, almost unconsciously, he stretched his arm out. His eyes, they felt so tired, they felt so used and so dry and they needed a break, they focused in and out of the sight before him. The image of the cottage between his splayed fingers wavered. For a brief, terrifying moment he felt his hair stand on end, a shiver inching its way down his spine. He couldn’t lose the cottage now. Not after all this goddamn walking, oh no siree. He had to reach it.

It had been seven days.

His eyes—previously dull and scratched by the monotony of his work—gained a feverish light, and his broken pace picked up. His torso staggered forward, jerking back slightly whenever his steps didn’t align with his body. Ragged gasps escaped his lungs. He was almost there, the cottage was in sight, oh my god the cottage is in sight—

He stumbled, and almost lost his balance completely, but he caught himself just in time. He dusted himself off and looked up. The cottage was suddenly a whole lot closer than it had been just a second ago, and he could make out the intricate details on the window. It was, strangely enough, a carving of what looked to be himself when he was younger, stronger, better, except that his expression was curled into a menacing snarl. He stood, transfixed, until he was snapped out of his reverie by a flapping of wings and a feathery gust of air.

The vulture descended and perched on the cottage roof. It swiveled its wrinkled head in his direction, its beady black eyes boring into his skull. The man made a mocking salute. Stubborn bastard had followed him all this time, but the man had won. He hadn’t died, once, in this journey, and the vulture damn well knew it. He could do the whole thing over again and he’d still win, and the vulture damn well knew it. The vulture had lost, and it damn well knew it. Tearing his lips into a ghastly grin, the man walked forward, grasped the doorknob—a brilliantly shining silver, he could see his own destroyed reflection—and twisted with all his might.

The door swung open, and the man entered.

Despite the fancy window lining the front, the cottage was almost completely dark. A single candle stood at the center of a small wooden desk, but the rest of the cottage was swallowed in by the inky darkness. He could just make out the outline of another door behind the desk, but there was no doorknob and he was in no hurry to leave. It was sweet, sweet relief from the desert, and he was going to savor it for as long as he could. He simply stood there, alone in the cool abyss. Perhaps he could stay here forever, wouldn’t that be nice…

His eyes flickered from emptiness to the candle. Its flame seemed almost static, shuddering every so often as the wax beneath trickled down and congealed at its base. He noted with surprise that it smelled…nice. It was a sweet scent, almost like a perfume but not so thick and assaulting to the nose. He was reminded of the hand lotion his wife used, that hand lotion that kept her hands so soft and moist; they would lie in bed together, covered in post-coital sweat, and that scent would always be the last thing he registered before surrendering into the land of dreams. He could remember it now, his life before he left. How he used to play catch with his son, how his son was a gifted natural at everything he did, how—

HOWHEBURNEDTHEMALLBECAUSEHISWIFEHISUNGRATEFULBITCHOFAWIFETHATFUCKINGWHOREHEKNEWSHEWASFUCKINGDWAYNEHEKNEWITSHEHADPOISONEDTHEMAGAINSTHIMANDSAIDHEWASADRUNKEVENTHOUGHHEWASCLEANHEHADBEENCLEANFORSIXANDAHALFYEARSNOGAMBLINGANYMOREHESETTLEDHISDEBTSHEWORKEDTOHISBONEHEHADNOFRIENDSBECAUSEHEDEVOTEDHIMSELFTOHISWORKANDTHISWASTHEWAYTHEYREPAIDHIMTHEYBETRAYEDHIMANDHEHADTOBURNTHEMALLHEHADTOIMMOLATETHEMALLHEHADTOMAKESURENOBODYWOULDGETOUTANDOHGODTHESTENCHTHESTENCHTHESTENCHOFBURNINGFLESHHECOULDNEVERGETTHATOUTOFHISMINDOHGODTHESTENCHOHGODTHESTENCHITCLUNGTOHISSKINHEHADTOGETRIDOFHISSKINOHGODHISSKINOHGODTHESCREAMSTHESCREAMSTHEYKEPTSCREAMINGSOLOUDABOUTTHEHEATANDTHEPAINOHGODHISSONSTHEYKEPTSCREAMINGANDHECOULDHEARTHEMINHISSLEEP—

His knees buckled. His irises were shrunk to his pupils, and they stared into nothingness. His ears felt like they would burst from the shrieking cacophony until he realized that it was he who was screaming. He let the scream die down, and with a shuddering gasp regained his breath. Slumping forward, he grasped one of the desk’s legs and shakily brought himself to stand. He lurched forward and made a desperate grab for the candle. He couldn’t stand it anymore; its light was too bright, too fucking bright and it was glaring at him for his sins. It wasn’t even his fault, he thought they’d know that it wasn’t his fault, it was their fault for turning against him the traitorous sons of bitches—

The flame seemed to increase in brightness, and he screamed against its illumination. It pierced his eyes, even though his eyelids were screwed shut and his arms shielded them it burned oh God it burned with an unholy fury it was his fault he never should have gone so overboard oh God he’ll repent he’ll repent—

He dropped to the floor, clutching his eyes. He knew it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, it never was and he damn well knew it.

He couldn’t repent, he knew he couldn’t repent, but he knew he had to try at the very least; he wouldn’t reach salvation, but maybe he’d lessen his suffering even a little bit before eternity ended. Staring into the flame, he opened his mouth.

“My name is Aidan O’Neil,” he rasped, “and I burned my family to death! All seven of them! I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry oh my God!” His jaw felt like it would rip off, his face contorted as far it would go. His eyes burned with tears and candle wax, and the latter tore a groove down his sunken cheekbones. The image of the flame blurred, and all strength left him. His arm went limp.

The candle tumbled towards the floor, eventually igniting the desk leg he had stood upon. The flame spread in a slow circle around his feet before crawling up the walls. Sobbing with what little he had left in him, he could only watch with dull fascination as fire consumed the door and illuminated the window. All of a sudden it seemed to fit so cruelly, excruciatingly well.

He was dimly aware of the flames licking at his back and that what remained of his shirt was aflame. The primal survival instinct within him —awake even now—pushed him forwards, lifting him up to avoid the burning and crumbled remnants of the desk. He trudged towards the door with no handle, his hand brushing against where it should be before weakly nudging it forwards. The light hit him like a freight train and oh God it’s so bright too bright candle the candle it’s like the candle—

When he came to, it felt like he had taken a deep and much-needed nap; he felt…better. Incredible, in fact. He pushed himself upright and looked down to his arms. They felt fantastic—rippling muscles and all—and his stomach felt well-fed. He wasn’t thirsty. He wasn’t thirsty! His tongue was back to its moist glory, and his eyes didn’t ache anymore. No more salt resided between his clothing and his skin, his shirt was repaired, and there was no more sand in his boots either. He grinned, and was just about to give a celebratory whoop before the stench hit him.

It speared his nostrils, the sickly-sweet, cloying reek of burning flesh slithering and drilling into his senses. He couldn’t mistake it this time—it was the stench of his burning family, of his burning sons and wife as they screamed at him to stop and at the pain. It was the stench of his sins as he so knew them, and carried on his back as the punishment he so richly deserved.

He doubled over, vomiting out whatever it was in his stomach onto the pavement—the very pavement he had just walked on, the pavement that had led to this godforsaken place—and watched in horror as he realized that the feathers weren’t of a chicken, the wrinkled skin wasn’t of a chicken, it was too different and too stubborn—

He retched again, emptying his stomach of its contents. The remains of a vulture, well-cooked and now coated in bodily fluids, lay spread across the pavement. A passing voice in his head suggested that it was the vulture’s middle finger to him. Maybe it was.

He regained his composure, standing upright once more. He couldn’t stay here for long; he knew what he had to do. He glanced back and saw an old faucet, rusty from years of disuse and abandonment. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he turned the faucet and cupped his callused hands underneath.

It would be seven days.