"Useless," he said, "this stuff is a waste of time." I just don't get it, thought Kayden.

A shadow drifted in the snow. Back and forth, they staggered. Indifferent was Kayden, for so common was the sight. Thoughts of the people, face's a sham, began to fall back under the weight of Jillian. How did this happen? The question was a constant across life. This is the culmination of her decisions, both nurtured and nature, a voice replied. Closer the stranger came, as he frowned over the so plainly offered an idea. Before the strange, new voice could elaborate, the sudden stagger of the other pulled him away.

The biker jacket was worn from years of use. Jeans stained dark, their rips zig-zagged across the knees. You get that from working in dirt on a car, a voice offered in case he needed clarification. Kayden's beech wood eyes climbed up the man, for something waved. Like a car lot with a sale, those things that swayed and jerked, that voice added in pleasant tone of a helpful observer. From the neck, a tube of cancerous meat waved in the air, though along the sides, legs like fangs scrabbled at the falling snow. The force of this movement made each step a stagger.

"Oh," said Kayden, but his mind clamored. Among the tumult of the thoughts, the new one mulled over the situation, detachment of the intellectual or insane. He has that off brand of cigarettes, it instructed. You know that one with the name like motor oil. What did you call them? Oh yes, you called them Black Tar Nails.

Where the man's head should have been, the meat centipede finally stilled. Oh, it sees me! The thought blared across his mind, and the Intellectual concurred. It waved; violence of the undulation almost toppled the mechanic. Away Kayden fell, but struck the snow, and he kicked at the earth at the abomination. A hand reached towards him, but he scrambled back onto his feet.

It shambled after him, meat centipede mewled. Over a broken fence Kayden jumped, threw himself forward. Behind him, the mechanic jerked after him, Black tar Nails peeked from a chest pocket. A dog house squatted; lower quarter rotted away, with its former occupant only remained in name above the entrance. Around the back he moved, chest heaved, but the uneven tread of the mechanic grew louder. I have to get to Jillian, he thought, as eyes went over their trailer park's perimeter fence.

Kayden forced himself to slow, hoped the mechanic would lose him. The man moved by the centipede of meat fell over the fence. Snow blinded, wind howled, and the world was mere yards. Within the blizzard, sound of owl Sticks was deadened. Busted freezer taste pried itself inside the mouth. Cold boots slipped on Jillian's steps, and he fell on one knee. Up he flew to the door.

Inside, he closed the door, and peeked out the window. About the trailer park the mechanic shambled, and jerked about the snow. Doesn't see me, he breathed, rested his head against the cold wood.

A crinkle came furtive, like an earth worn dragged over an empty chip bag. Kayden froze. Are her eyes still open? He turned his head, but stopped before the source of the noise could be unveiled. Of course, the Intellectual remarked, but the real question is if she is looking at you. Chaos erupted in his mind, though the new voice was still cool and detached. Hands gently, though firmly, turned his gaze. A groan drooled out.

Jillian sat, head tilted back. Lovely eyes were open to slits. A ragged sigh slipped out, and Kayden's face burned. Tears burst out, face reddened, weight lifted, but his chest heaved. Knees felt ready to buckle, shivers gripped him.

"I have to think," he said. "There is a way out, just a bad trip!" No, the Intellectual corrected, this is the Truth. "What?" asked Kayden, and his eyes drifted away. Jillian, your ex-wife, is dead from a drug overdose, the voice elaborated. A culmination of variables and choices, yours and hers, that ended in her death. You already knew the answer.

Kayden frowned at the thought. A question rose, but a sudden shift at the edge of his vision pulled his eyes. One finger pointed, absently, at the remnants of an envelope. From its tip, a fat thread crawled over the paper. It moved, rose to look about, but froze at his gasp. The shiver of its body ran down the hand. A thin red line traced down the arm like voracious roots of a tree. These razor thin cuts spread over the emaciated body, and a dark part of him thought of a broken vase. Skin peeled back pulled from muscle with a sound like ripping paper though wet. Kayden fell backward, shoulders struck the wood and a hand pawed the air to turn an invisible knob. Skin pulled away to lift her up like a doll. Like an angel of ruin, wings spread out of veiny flesh. Lower jaw split, tongue lulled down to a too skinny chest, and empty eye melted to illuminant blue. Two tentacles extended from the sockets like skinned snakes. Out from the tattered clothes and ruined meat, a pungent mushroom stink choked the tobacco ash smell pushed through the vents.

"Oh, GOD," he pleaded. Even the Intellectual had no thought to share.

"Just move on," the twin snakes hissed low in hateful sorrow.

That was the last words of your ex-wife, before she overdosed, the Intellectual voice insisted. Kayden screamed. Wings of skin lifted Jillian towards him, and he bucked backwards. The wood, being badly broken and poorly repaired, fragmented under his weight. He tumbled back onto the porch. She moved towards him, silent. Another scream tore out of him, and he moved back then kicked it closed.

Jillian bumped against the door, but he kept it shut. Broken was his wail, and Kayden covered his face. Knowing more never changes the past, the Intellectual whispered. "NO," he turned over, jumped to his feet, and rushed of the porch. You cannot flee your own mind, the new voice observed.