“Yo, Vaycon, you ready?”

Vincent stared out the window. His mind was stalled like a rusted engine.

“Vaycon.” Marty’s voice came in through his headset.

“Oh what?” Vincent asked, snapping out of his daze. He turned back to his computer monitor. “Yeah, sorry. I’m ready if you guys are.”

It was late, but he convinced himself he could play one more match, so he gave Marty the go-ahead. The menu transitioned to a loading screen.

Loading 51%...76%...98%...100% loaded.

A cutscene played, panning over an expanse of plateaus and gullies. Birds scattered from the treetops and mice scurried across the hills. The scene cut to another shot, following tire tracks along a dirt road. Across the bottom of the screen, two words unfolded: Bloodbath Gorge.

“Prepare yourselves!” the announcer's voice blared, “the battle begins in 3...2...1...Capture the flag!”

“Ok...going for sniper.” Vincent said as he raced across the river, his character sending ripples through the water. He heard the rumble of an engine coming to life behind him. A moment later, Martygrubs and Slimbr8dy0 sped past on the ridgeback, an all-terrain vehicle with a turret mounted on its bed.

“Careful, they already got missiles,” Slim said.

Vincent reached a zig-zagging ramp that led up to a cave. He snapped his aim down, jumped, and activated his tech loadout: Shockwave. The ability, normally used to send nearby enemies and objects flying, gave him a boost that allowed him to bypass the ramp completely. A red triangular blip appeared at the edge of his radar as he flew through the air. An enemy was going for the sniper rifle.

He landed and bounced a well-placed grenade off the cave wall so that it landed next to the weapon spawn just as the enemy slid toward it. The resulting explosion knocked the rifle toward him. He grabbed it, dodged a hail of grenade spam, and popped a shot off, knocking down his opponent's shields. He switched to his sidearm and finished the player off.

“Where's the missiles?” he asked, glancing at Shockwave's cooldown timer.

“Stonehenge,” somebody called TxMalimute called out, “he's camping at Stonehenge next to the tree,”

Vincent reached the other side of the cave, overlooked the ledge, and aimed toward a circle of rocks with a tree growing from the middle. Sure enough, he spotted somebody holding a missile launcher over his shoulder, trying to take out the ridgeback. Vincent zoomed in, tracked his target, flicked his mouse, and landed a headshot.

“Gottem.”

“Nice...”

Bullets immediately began to pepper his shields, so he ran back into the cave and chucked a grenade off a stalactite, hoping it would bounce back at his pursuers. But one of their grenades landed at his feet. When it exploded, his dead body ragdolled across the ground, and bounced off the wall. Vincent frowned, waiting to respawn.

Over the next seven minutes of fierce fighting, Vincent got himself killed in increasingly stupid ways. The matched dragged on until both teams were tied at four points, sending the game into overtime.

“Yo, whoever just drove the tank off the cliff,” Maxr3morse said, “you suck at driving. Please go kill yourself, thank you.”

The tank driver immediately left the game.

“You just made him quit.” Vincent said, slightly amused as he traded shots with another sniper.

“Yeah man, he's gonna go hang his' self cuz of you.” Slim said.

“Good! I hope he's fucking streaming so we got it on camera!”

While everybody laughed their asses off at Max's rage, somebody by the name of xxiSlapb1tchesxx joined the team, replacing the tank driver. Their microphone began to flood static through everybody's headsets, and an obnoxious Metal played in the background.

“Yo, who the fuck’s making that noise?” Max asked.

“Hello?” iSlap said. He sounded no older than 5 or 6. “Hello? Can anybody hear me...oh.....ohhhhh! Helloooo?”

“Guys, they have a stinger in the air with three guys in it, coming up the right side!” Xenix called out, “anybody got missiles?”

“Hello? I want to ride in the ridgeback! Somebody pick me up!!! Hellooooo?”

“What'd you say, Xenix?” Marty asked, “I can't hear you over this kid.”

“I said there's a stinger coming–”

“Helloooo?”

“–side with three guys in it.”

Vincent fired another round, but the kid’s high-pitched voice kept distracting him.

“Just a minute, everybody shut up for a second...” Slim said, “hey...whoever's 3-year old that just joined...uh...what is it...'x x I slap bitches'? Do us a favor and shut the fuck up. Okay Xenix, go ahead.”

“Come on guys,” Vincent said, “he's just a kid. Don’t–”

“–Oh yeah?!!...Slim...Slimbrady zero?” iSlap said, cutting Vincent off. “Do me a favor and…suck my big, fat, hairy balls!”

Vincent nearly fell out of his chair.

“...Oh shit!”

“Yo, how old are you?” Marty asked, “you shouldn't be using that kind of langua–”

Vincent heard a shuffle as Max pressed his microphone right up to his mouth. “You better shut the fuck up you little shit or else I'll come over to your house, beat your ass, and fuck your mother in front of your face!”

A silence hung over the lobby.

“O-oh yeah?!?” iSlap said, “w-well I already f-fucked your mother you dumb bitch!”

“...Oh shiiit!”

The in-game chat erupted, followed by an exchange vulgar enough to make sailors blush. iSlap proceeded to spew a string of vile, explicit, and racist trash talk through the microphone while Vincent got mowed down by the stinger's turret. What the kid lacked in poise, he made up for by hurling every cuss word his toddling mind could think of.

“Yo, everybody just mute him!” Vincent said, taking the moment to scroll through the names and silence the toxic, foul-mouthed prepubescent.

“I already did,” Marty said, “man, I'd beat my kids' asses if I heard them talking dat garbage. Good God...”

“Their stinger's landing on our base! It's landing on our base! Fuck it up! Fuck it up! Where the hell are y'all at?!”

“Dead. Some guy's humping my body.”

“–For real, shut the fuck up, get off the game, and go watch some Sesame Street you silly little squeaker–”

“–Max, just mute him!”

“Your flag has been taken.”

“Well...shit,” Slim said, “they've got this.”

Like hell they do, Vincent thought, respawning and running toward the middle of the map to intercept the flag carrier. He jumped over a ridge, came up behind a sniper, and went for the backstab, dispatching the surprised player with his knife before grabbing the enemy's sniper rifle. Newly armed, he looked for the stinger.

A moment later, he spotted it flying toward the enemy base, flag carrier hanging onto the side of its cab. Vincent lined his sights up, fired a shot...missed. He fired again, got a body shot and dropped the shields. A third shot, and the flag carrier died, dropping the flag into a valley in the middle of the map. He fired a fourth round at the stinger’s window, hitting the pilot with a lucky shot and sending the stinger careening into an explosive end on the cliffside.

Threat eliminated, Vincent bolted in the direction of the flag. A huge scuffle ensued as the teams converged and clashed. Grenade spam and bullets sparked explosions across the valley, one of which sent a ridgeback flying. The ruined vehicle came barreling out of nowhere into the firefight. Its flaming wreckage bounced across the ground and crashed into a line of players from the enemy team, wiping them off the field and sending their bodies off a cliff.

“Please tell me somebody recorded that shit...” Vincent said while his entire team started dying with laughter.

Unfortunately, only 13 seconds remained on the timer. When it reached zero, the match ended in a draw. There was a brief amount of post-game trash talk before Vincent, Marty, and Slim backed out and returned to the game lobby. Vincent took a moment to check out his stats.

“Man...I sucked tonight.” he said, looking at his kill/death ratio.

“Yeah, that save with the Stinger was great, but you was gettin’ blown up a lot otherwise.,” Marty said, “you's usually the one carryin' us. You getting enough sleep?”

“It's probably the meds I'm taking,” Vincent said, “they're making me feel like shit.”

“Oh really?” Max said, “like, what are you taking?”

“I can't even fucking pronounce it. 'Ari prop pa zizzle' or something like that. I think it's a generic Abilify.”

“Oh..is it for like...bipolar? Because I have a cousin who takes that stuff.”

“Schizophrenia.”

There was the briefest pause in the conversation. A familiar bump of uneasy awkwardness Vincent had experienced a million times before.

“Huh...I never would have guessed,” Max said, “you seem normal.”

“Um...thanks? I was diagnosed when I was like 5 or 6.”

“Oh shit, for real? That's...that's really young,” Max said, “my sister's a shrink and she says most people get it in their twenties or thirties. So does that mean you hear voices?”

“Man, you don't need to be asking him no personal questions like that,” Marty said, “that's rude.”

“No, it's...fine,” Vincent said, “I don't give a shit. I mean...I hear the occasional voice, but they mostly stopped once I started getting prescriptions. It's just...Abilify's new. It's throwing my balance off.”

“Was it not workin' for you?” Marty asked, “before, I mean?”

“What?”

“Your medications, was they not working before?”

Vincent took a moment to process his answer. It wasn't just the discombobulation interfering with his thought process. He could feel something listening in on his words, hanging on every syllable. “Yeah...I mean they were, but the past few weeks, something weird’s been happening. I feel like I'm being watched. That's why I asked my doctor to try something new.”

“What, like somebody's following you?”

“No, just...'watched'. I don't know how to explain it, it's fucking weird. Like...right now, I know there's nothing outside of my window, I don't see anything, I don't hear anything, but I can feel something watching me...and it's like it's listening in on me.”

Vincent glanced at the dark, frostbitten pane of glass, feeling a set of eyes peering through it at him. He kept expecting to see something lurking, just barely visible in the winter night. When he turned back to the computer monitor, he could feel its gaze tickle the back of his neck.

“You messin' with us?” Marty asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, that would freak me out,” Marty said.

“It doesn't worry me,” Vincent said, “I've seen some fucked up shit, so it's hard to scare me. It's just...distracting. I have lab reports and shit to do for my engineering class. It just makes it hard to concentrate. It freaks my cat out, too.”

“Wait, it scares your cat?” Marty asked.

“Yeah...it's weird. Whenever I feel it watching me, my cat will be hissing at the window. It's like those horror movies...you know where the animals are always the first ones to sense the ghosts? That's what it's like.”

“Naw, you are messing with us,” Slim said.

“I'm really not. This morning, I felt it staring at me through my bedroom window and my cat wouldn't even come inside the room. She was at the door freaking out. You know how their ears lay back, their hair sticks up and their eyes get all dilated? That's what she was doing.”

“Do you think it could have been another cat?” Marty asked, “maybe a stray you couldn't see? Our cat will go apeshit if it even smells a cat it doesn't recognize.”

“Maybe. But she only freaks out when I feel this thing watching me.”

At that moment, Slim returned. “Okay I'm back. Sorry it took so long, I was fucking starving, so I had to grab some food.” Vincent heard him rummage through a bag of chips.

“No worries man,” Marty said, “we ready for another round?”

Vincent checked the time. “I actually gotta get off,” he said, “I have to get up early and head to the IRS offices.”

“Oh shit, what for?”

He stared at the ceiling and sighed, “I don't even know. They fucked up some paperwork that screwed with my student loans. Apparently, I can't work it out over the phone, so I have to go all the way to their office to get this shit sorted out. Or else I can kiss my grant goodbye.”

“Yikes...well, good luck wit' that.”

“Yeah, that sounds miserable. Good luck.”

“Thanks...I'm going to need it.”

After saying goodbye, Vincent closed the game, removed his headset, and laid it on top of an open binder filled with lab notes and essays. Strewn about his desk were textbooks, various bits of circuitry, and a breadboard for circuit testing. Burn marks scorched the wood in several places where stray bits of solder had splattered. He leaned back in his chair and massaged his burning eyes.

“You...really need to stop,” he muttered to the thing watching him.

When he swiveled around and opened his eyes, he half-expected to see a face staring at him through the window. Nothing. Not even a floating pair of eyes in the woods. His stalker was just a projection caused by some misfiring synapses. He just wished the medication would do what it was supposed to do instead of making him feel so paranoid. Out of nervous habit, he made sure the masking tape he'd covered the webcam with was still there as he shut his computer down. He stood up, walked over to his bed, set the alarm on his phone, and got under the covers.

A light frost gathered at the corners of the window, framing the night beyond. Inside the house, the heat would occasionally churn, causing the structure to creak and groan against the cold winter night as it paid its due to the laws of thermodynamics.

But outside, there was mostly silence. Every now and then, a car could be heard in the distance, but it was barely more than a passing sigh. Nothing ventured out in these woods. Nothing except for the thing that watched Vincent sleep.

Waking up this early always sucked. It was the kind of morning that made Vincent feel like hurling himself in front of a car. He could still feel the Stalker's distracting presence, so he popped a few pills, chased them down with water, and gave it the finger.

Screw you, he thought. He changed into some suitable clothes and began his morning routine.

Skittles greeted him with a meow as Vincent shambled into the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face to wake himself up, then he shaved his stubble, wincing as the razor nicked his cheek. For a heartbeat or two, he remembered a blade pressed up against his throat.

No...that happened a long time ago, he thought.

After brushing his teeth, he headed downstairs with Skittles in tow. The walls seemed to breathe as he walked, moving in and out like the walls of great, sighing lungs. Skittles ran ahead of him and out of sight as he walked past the living room, where the television droned about the weather.

“–mostly clear skies this morning,” the weatherman chimed. “but don’t stay out for long unless you have three layers of coats on. At a peak of two degrees, it’s going to be a chiller! And this evening, heavy snowstorms are expected to come out of the south to dump nine inches of snow. Now’s the time to head to the store and get your groceries. There’s a storm coming and it’s coming for you, Vincent. They are coming for you.”

Vincent hardly twitched at the sound of his own name coming from the television. Such a thing used to be a typical occurrence. Nevertheless, he picked up the remote and turned the TV off. He found Skittles in the kitchen waiting in front of the food pantry. When he opened it, she rubbed her head against the bag of cat food, demanding to be fed.

After pouring some kibbles into a bowl and setting it on the floor, Vincent grabbed a carton of eggs and some bacon from the fridge and began to cook some breakfast. Skittles, after finishing her food, jumped onto the kitchen stool to watch him, her green eyes wide with interest as Vincent poured water into the coffee maker.When he finished cooking, Vincent dumped the eggs and bacon on a plate and sat down with it at the table. He looked aimlessly around the apartment as he chewed.

A few pieces of Christmas decor adorned the dining room and kitchen, including a rope of lights lining the counter-top, a porcelain tree sitting at the center of the table,, and several illuminated candy canes hanging from the arch leading into the living room. There was a time when all of this decor would bring a smile to his face, but now it just seemed empty.

It was a meaningless mishmash of useless trinkets that would be stored away as soon as the holidays ended, with no friends or family around to enjoy them. His mother, who, years ago, would have been busy behind the counter during this season, was no longer present to fill the kitchen with the aromas of nutmeg, lemon, and cinnamon. The only thing Vincent had to look forward to this season was seeing his twin siblings and three-year-old niece over the holidays. Beyond that, life was nothing more than various shades of gray and brown.

He stared at the contents of his coffee, at the cream that swirled in it like a fog, remembering the days before his medication when it would boil for no reason. Out of habit, he took out his phone and scrolled through his messages. As he read, a new text showed up from Joseph, his father.

“Have to pick up the tractor from Robert this morning. Before you leave, call me.”

Frowning, Vincent scrolled through his contacts until he found Joseph Cordell, and called him. As the dial tone rang, he tapped his fingers impatiently on the wood, staring out the window at his invisible stalker.

It was fascinated with him for unfathomable reasons. At least it had the decency to remain silent instead of manifesting any voices. He did not miss the meaningless jabbering of the phantoms, or the lies they would whisper in his ears to provoke him into picking fights.

“Vince?” his father answered.

“Hey, I got your note. I thought Robert was going to deliver the tractor later on.”

“Hold on a moment,” Joseph said, “having a hard time hearing you. Let me step out of the shop…okay, try it now. What’d you say?”

“I said I got your note. Wasn’t Robert going to drop the tractor off later?”

“He was, but he told me he was going to drop it off around four. I told him I can’t wait that long since it’ll start snowing around 5. We’re supposed to get about a foot and a half over the next few days so I need to make sure that tractor is back before then so I can clear the driveway out for your sisters. I don’t know if anybody else will make it this weekend if the weather is going to be as bad as they say. We may be in for a very white Christmas.”

“Right. I saw it on the news this morning. I think the weatherman said the storm is coming to get me.” Vincent fed a scrap of bacon to Skittles. She sniffed it, tilted her head, grabbed it from his fingers, and ran off.

“Yeah? Well, it’s coming to get all of us.” A gust of wind seemed to punctuate Joseph’s statement. “Anyway, the reason I wanted you to call me is because I don’t want you to take your car. Take the Altima instead. I don’t like the idea of you driving back without a four by four.”

“I'll be fine.”

“Hey, all three of you are legally adults, but I still worry about my kids,” Joseph said, “Just be very careful. If for some reason you feel you are unable to drive, pull over and give me a call. Try to avoid stopping off at any stores, if you can. I’m not kidding around when I say this storm is going to be nasty. It's even supposed to rain tonight. It's some freaky stuff.”

“I’ve driven in nasty weather before. This won’t be my first time.”

“I know it won’t,” Joseph said, “oh, you might want to pack some extra jackets. It is really fucking cold outside. Don’t stay out too long or you’ll freeze your ass off. And don’t let your cat out or she may get frostbit.”

“Okay. Hey, I better get going,” Vincent said, eyeing the brightening tree line.

“Yeah, me too. Talk to you later.”

“Yeah.”

Vincent hung up and checked the clock. Swearing under his breath, he picked his plate up and dropped it into the sink. Then he ran upstairs to grab his backup meds. He came back down wearing a black hoodie, then layered up with a winter jacket and stowed the meds in one of its pockets.

If he got caught in the storm and had to spend the night at some hotel or, heck, in the car itself, he wanted to make sure he had his prescriptions. He grabbed his keys and paperwork from the counter, slapped on some gloves, and stepped outside.

The morning greeted him with its icy breath, licking his cheeks with premonitions of shitty weather. Vincent lifted both his hoods and tightened their drawstrings. The Stalker seemed further away than before. Nevertheless, he could still feel its gaze follow him as he approached the car.

Frost glazed the Altima, covering the doors and windows. He practically had to wrench the door open, as it had been frozen shut. He slammed it, put the key in the ignition, and turned. For a moment, it seemed like the engine would not start. It chugged weakly, but just managed to sputter to life. Relieved, Vincent reached behind the passenger seat and grabbed the ice scraper.

As he ventured back into the cold and cleared the windows, the Stalker's gaze continued to tingle on the back of his neck. He imagined a pair of eyes floating in the woods, watching him, but all he saw were the trees, their limbs naked and brown.

Vincent had experienced many disturbing hallucinations. He’d witnessed the walls sprouting eyes, and arms reaching out of vents. But none of those unsettled him anymore. This manifestation did.This sense that something lurked completely undetected agitated him. It conjured paranoid conspiracies in his imagination.

But he knew it was just an illusion. If there was something in the woods, then the dead, frozen leaves that covered the ground would crunch under its step. Instead, the morning was still, and it was quiet, save the gentle rumbling of the car. It reassured him that nothing was really lurking out there. Nothing at all. A light gust of frigid air made him shiver, and he retreated into the car. After punching the address of the IRS office into his GPS, he headed out.

At the corner of his eye, Vincent thought he saw something come out of the tree line and barrel right toward the vehicle just before he pulled out of the driveway. But when he checked his side view mirrors, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. It was just the exhaust plumes playing tricks on his mind. Yet he still felt the Stalker following him, matching the speed of the car. Why the hell wasn’t the medication working?

It didn’t matter. He needed to focus on the impossible task of getting the IRS to sort out their mess. That distressed him more than any phantom could..

It was around eleven when he arrived at the hideous cube of an office building. He pulled into a parking garage, picked a spot and shut off the car. After putting on his gloves, he grabbed his papers, opened the door and locked it. Once more, he felt a little tingle on the back of his neck, but this time he didn’t even react. It just made him want even more for this to be over and done with, so he hurried off to the building entrance.

His heart dropped when he passed through the rotating door and saw metal detectors in the lobby, flanked on both sides by security. Vincent had no reason to believe he would get in trouble. He brought no weapons or knives. Yet he always suspected they would find some reason to pull him aside and take him into custody. As he approached the guards, one of them slid a blue plastic basket toward him.

“Morning sir,” he said, “please place any metal items you have in the basket: Keys, jewelry, wallets...take your boots and jacket and put them on the conveyor belt. Then step on through.”

Vincent did as he was told, trying to keep his face straight and his manner casual. Certainly the green light on the detector would glare red, and then he would be pulled aside and questioned. He would be innocent of course, but they would find some reason to lock him away. They would look at his profile, perhaps and see that he had a history of violence.

No, he thought, as he stepped through the arch. That was the paranoia at work, a sentiment proven right when the light remained green.

He waited for his belongings to pass through the scanner, grabbed them and took a seat. While he was putting his boots back on, he noticed a camera in the far corner, looking right at him. Of course a place like this would have security cameras. There was nothing unusual about that. But he tensed at the sight of it.

Don’t look, he thought, act casual. Look at the camera and they’ll think you’re plotting something.

He grabbed his stuff and hurried toward the elevators. An arrow on the wall chimed, and the elevator doors opened. He stepped on, picked his floor, and waited. The doors slid shut and the elevator shifted, rattling as it ascended five stories. A moment later, he felt his feet tingle.

The Stalker was in the shaft with him.

It was there in the darkness below, rushing up after the carriage with incredible speed. Something thumped against the elevator floor and the carriage shook. The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. Vincent stepped into a drab hallway with beige walls.

The hallway was surprisingly quiet. In fact, the only noises were the droll hum of the HVAC and the monotonous ticking of the clock that hung above the doorway to the IRS office. Vincent expected a line of people, but apparently he was the first to arrive.

Several chairs lined the hall, but instead of taking one he leaned against the wall right next to the door, claiming his spot. A sheet of paper laminated in peeling plastic, hung from the glass. It listed the hours: 12:00 PM to 4:00 PM Monday through Friday.

What the hell? he thought.

When he called the day before, they said their hours were from 11 to 6. It was a small mistake–one that worked out in his favor since he arrived early–but still, it made him angry. If they couldn’t even get their office hours right, it was no wonder they ended up losing documents and screwing people over.

He peered through the glass to see if he could make out any movement. There was some activity beyond a partially opened door, but the cubicles within were surprisingly empty. An array of security cameras hung on the back wall. Seeing them, he slowly pulled back and turned away. He pulled his hood over his head and closed his eyes. Now it was time to wait.

The elevator door chimed and an elderly woman stepped out.

“Good morning!” she said, sounding unnaturally cheerful. “Are they closed? Is there anybody in there?” she peered through the glass.

“I think so.”

“I thought they were supposed to be open by now,” She read the sign. “What does this say...‘12 to 4’? Goodness, I would have grabbed another coffee.”

“I don’t know,” Vincent shrugged, “I called them the other day and they said they’re open from 11 to 6.”

“That’s what I thought too. Well, I’m glad I’m not losing my mind then,” the old lady laughed, “but that’s bureaucrats for you. They can’t tell time. I guess I better take a seat. Aren’t you going to have one too? It might be a while before they open.”

“Nah,” Vincent said, “I'm saving my place in line.”

“Oh! You’re a smart one,” she said, settling down into her chair. “You remind me of my grandson. They had this new video game come out and he camped all night in front of the store so he could be first in line to get it. It’s crazy.”

“I have a friend who did that before.”

“It must be a thing for you millennials to do. I must be too old and out of touch,” she sighed, “the only way you’d get me to camp outside of a store in the middle of November is if the Beatles were in it.”

Vincent nodded and turned his attention toward the office. As the clock ticked away the seconds, the elevators began to deposit more people into the corridor. It was certainly a wise decision to arrive early and camp in front of the entrance. Almost every one of these people took a place in line, waiting for the office to open.

He gazed through the glass once more for any sign of movement and became more wary of the cameras aimed for the entrance, all of them staring at him. The sign hanging on the door made him angrier the longer he thought about it. The fact that they had given him the wrong hours after he had spent so much time navigating through a baffling system of automated phone prompts was indicative that these people had no idea what in the hell they were doing.

He needed to calm down. Anger was counterproductive. He tried not to give the IRS' incompetence any more thought, but it was almost impossible. It seemed like the bloodsucking scumbags were trying to screw with him.

In fact, maybe they were. Maybe that’s why the medication wasn’t working right. It was another cocktail of poison, another experiment to test his special mind. He entertained the thought that this was the reason the cameras were looking at him; they wished to observe how a bipolar schizophrenic would react to the situation.

“Shut up,” he whispered to himself in an effort to stop the conspiratorial thinking. He had been scarred by the habit of conjuring insane, nonexistent scandals. Habits were hard to break.

That’s why he was at the IRS office. He was impaired. He needed assistance. But the mistake they made threatened to take that assistance away and compromise his future, a future he strove hard to secure, harder than any of the tools who resided in those sheltered cubicles.

Somehow, those morons had fucked up his paperwork, and now it was his problem that his grant was endangered. Student loan providers, the IRS, both had told him to call the other to get help. How was anybody supposed to navigate this bullshit without throwing fists?

“They're supposed to open up now, aren't they?” the elderly lady asked, her laughter turning into a cough.

“Mmhmm,” was Vincent's only answer.

“You'd think with all that tax money the president's been taking, he'd hire better workers. But instead, they screw around.”

“They take our money and spend it on his vacations,” said a man behind her. A few people in line laughed at his “clever” commentary.

Annoyed, Vincent checked the time. The clock on the wall read 12:15. He tightened the grip on his folder. Every second that ticked past opening hours made him want to strangle the incompetent asses who couldn’t tell time.

Finally, he spotted motion inside the office. Somebody opened the door and let the line of people inside. Vincent worried he would have to fight for his rightfully earned place, but fortunately he was the first to make it to the front desk. He explained his problem to the receptionist.

The IRS had lost the previous year's tax return and marked it “not filed”, but they never told him it had been lost, so he hadn’t done anything about it. For this reason, the grant he had received for his college tuition was in jeopardy. Why? He had no idea. Somebody fucked up and he hoped to get to the bottom of it.

After making his case, the receptionist gave him a number and told him to wait until he was called. He didn't have to wait very long. In less than a minute, the receptionist told him to go to “stall number four.” In there, Vincent found himself arguing with “Fred”, a tool without a personality or soul, that he had filed the previous year's paperwork and even had the documentation to prove that he had done so.

“I am sorry Mr. Cordell,” said Fred, “but your 2013 form is listed as 'not filed'. That is strange. You’ll need to go to the IRS website and follow these instructions.” The moron wrote them down on a piece of paper and handed them over.

What the fuck, Vincent thought as he read them, I’ve already tried all this shit!

He tried to explain to Fred that he couldn’t follow these steps because one of them required the missing tax return, AKA the documentation the IRS lost. It was like asking somebody to drive a car without wheels to the mechanic in order to get the wheels replaced. The asinine logic blew his mind.

The jackass spent the next ten minutes rapid-fire typing, apparently trying once more to figure out what went wrong with his tax return. The man showed about as much enthusiasm for his job as a rock. How did these people even manage to breathe, much less operate a computer?

Vincent felt as though his blood was turning to lead. It shifted to one side of his body, threatening to tip him over, but he gripped the chair’s armrest to steady himself. The rest of his conversation with Fred was completely unproductive. As Fred allowed the bureaucratic stupidity to flow from his fingertips and onto the computer, the jackass kept telling him to go to the IRS website. Go here, fill out this form, yadda, yadda, yadda.

How could this tool not understand that his suggestions had been tried and failed? It was almost like arguing with a pigeon who did nothing but warble at you for forty minutes. It was his job to fix their fuck-up, not Vincent's.

Eventually, Fred's voice jumbled together. None of his incoherent, droning word-salads made sense anymore, so Vincent asked him to type up the precise instructions again, word for word. Fred printed out several brochures and typewritten steps and slid them across the desk.

Fuming, Vincent took the papers. The next moment, he was riding the elevator back down to the first floor. After straining to keep a straight face in front of security, he flew through the revolving doors, left the building of nitwits and fools, and ventured out into the frozen hell, wondering what just happened.

The wind stung his face with icy needles that pierced his exposed flesh. He pulled his hood back over his head in a vain effort to hide from the winter's fury. Several ragged men in an alleyway gathered around a barrel full of fire, hoping to find some warmth from the flames. Was that his future? Was he going to end up on the streets, pissing on bricks and warming up around a fucking barrel? They gave Vincent a predatory stare as if they intended to rob him.

You go ahead and try, he thought, I'll fuck you up.

He ignored the men and headed straight for the parking garage. The fury of the wind was hindered by concrete as he entered, which was a welcome relief as he headed toward his vehicle. But when he reached his car, that familiar perception that he was being followed suddenly came upon him once more.

Vincent turned around. Of course, nobody was behind him.

He cursed his malfunction and desperately fumbled with the keys, opening the door and closing it behind him to hide from the weather. His breath crystalized on the windshield, spreading fractals along the glass. He put his key in the ignition. The engine struggled to turn over, but it eventually gave and started up.

The forecast trickled over the radio and relayed the weather with a synthesized voice: “Two Thirty P.M. Heavy Snow Storms In.....”

He couldn’t risk driving while he was this pissed, so he waited until the engine warmed. In the meantime, he changed the station to something more tolerable, and allowed some shitty old rock music to noodle over the speakers. Eventually, the warmth from the engine dissolved his crystallized breath, clearing up the frost on the windshield. He could still feel the Stalker's gaze, so he flipped it off.

Go bother somebody else, he thought.

As he waited, Vincent took a few deep breaths in an attempt to take control of his anger. He tried to put it at the back of his mind along with the persistent, unseen stalker whose gaze kept pecking at his neck. Most schizos denied they had a disorder, preferring to live in the delusions their broken minds conjured. He did not deny it, but he also would not let it control him.

The IRS’s idiocy enraged him. But he calmed himself with the knowledge that someday he would be slightly less subject to their incompetence. The very concept that a schizophrenic could control his sanity, pull himself back from the brink of a drug-addled waste of life and pursue a degree was incomprehensible to society. Schizophrenics were the outcasts of civilization, they were unknowable, unpredictable. To admit you were mad was to wear an “avoid me” label.

But Vincent would be the exception. He would find a decent job doing what he loved: building electronics, solving problems, tinkering with robotics, designing automation. Somewhere in his fucked-up head was a brilliant mind, but it was too damn hindered by the chaos, by the dazes, by the conspiracies and scars left behind by his screwed up past. Someday, he would be able to make something of himself. He would forge his own path in life instead of being simply another disabled recipient on the government’s payroll.

His thoughts were interrupted by the first flakes of snow falling from the sky. Swearing, he backed out of his parking space and set out. The IRS parking garage was the last place he wanted to be stranded.

The snow fell with greater intensity as he drove back into the countryside. Normally the flurry of flakes would have been enchanting. But the clouds in the sky above darkened so much, that day began to resemble night. The crazy weather began to interfere with the radio, turning the music into a muffled static. He clicked through several more stations in hopes of finding a signal, but every channel had the same thing: white noise and static.

Snowflakes raced across his vision like specks of a migraine. The headlights illuminated thousands of small white bodies as they danced and twirled in front of the car, threatening to hide the road. A sign reading “50 MPH” flashed by, but he found himself slowing to forty, then thirty-five as he listened to the tires crunching through the slush on the asphalt.

Vincent grew more wary by the minute as he navigated the increasingly hazardous conditions. The entire road was blanketed in white. He could only tell where it was by the rails along the roadside. He was caught in a dilemma. It was dangerous for him to drive in stressful weather like this. Stress could trigger psychosis, and psychosis had a very good chance of causing him to crash. The snow gave him the impression of traveling through space at near warp speed. The flakes looked like the streaking light from countless stars as his vessel passed by.

A tree revealed itself in the headlights, its branches clawing out of the air like the hand of a giant skeleton. The abruptness of its appearance caused him to utter a few profanities. Why was he startled by a damn tree? He'd been down this road plenty of times before. Yet as he passed under its branches, he felt its “touch” upon him. Goosebumps spread across his skin as if reacting to some sort of presence.

More trees appeared as gnarled, bony forms, their hideousness no longer hidden by summer foliage. The static on the radio grew louder and was accentuated with occasional buzzing. Vincent thought he heard a voice. It lasted a mere second before it was drowned out by interference. After deciding he had had enough of the radio, he turned the knob until it clicked off. However, white noise continued to pour through the dead speakers.

Audio hallucination.

Yeah, I'm fucked, he thought as he glanced at the knob, double checking to make sure it was indeed in the “off” position.

The phantom noise meant he was experiencing a mild form of psychosis. The auditory hallucinations could be accompanied by visual, which would definitely make it dangerous to drive. The snow and trees were already playing tricks on his mind, it was the perfect setting for a full-on episode. It had been years since he had experienced one of those.

The valley he needed to drive through would only get worse with more snowfall. He would find himself stuck. The most logical thing to do would be to turn around and find an alternate route, or to stop somewhere and wait for the psychosis to pass.

But just as he began to consider turning back, he felt eyes boring into the back off his head, tickling the base of his skull. The Stalker was back, and it was pursuing him.

No, he thought, there's nothing there. My brain is playing tricks.

He needed to get home.

Vincent pulled over when he spotted a branch lying across the road. Swearing, he came to a stop, hopped out of the car, and pushed the limb over. He hopped back in and rubbed his hands together. Even though he was only outside for a matter of seconds, he had felt the “touch” of the Stalker. It lurked somewhere out there in the whirling flakes and howling wind. No, again that was ridiculous. Snow was snow and wind was wind, both of which were governed by the laws of physics. Any “supernatural” element was imposed by his own wiring.

After getting back on the road, he kept his eyes open for the hill he knew was ahead. Soon enough, a yellow sign revealed itself in his headlights, showing the black silhouette of a semi-truck on an incline. Vincent crested the peak and began his descent down the winding slope.

The road wound back and forth in steep shelves down the hill. Every movement, every turn, had to be subtle and deliberate. Yet despite the delicate pressure he put on the brakes, he felt the car slip. It slid only a moment before catching the asphalt again, but it was enough to send him into a momentary panic. His muscles locked up and his teeth clenched. Again, he thought he heard a voice speak in the phantom radio, but its words were muffled by the white noise. Was it laughter?

Crescent-shaped reflectors lined the guard rail, watching him like serpent eyes. The car whined as he shifted it into low gear, and let it coast, only applying the brakes sparingly. Flakes of snow dove from the gap in the trees and whirled about the winding road. All the while, he chanted “shit, crap, crap, crap, shit, crap...” as if somehow, his profanities would aid his traction and stave off the weather.

As he rounded the third turn, he began to feel the thoughts of the trees around him. Instead of words, their thoughts consisted of a hum, as though his mind had tapped into a low frequency. The sense of being followed grew even stronger. The Stalker was trailing him. Watching him. Hiding in the shadows of the skeletal trees. It was waiting for him to slip. To make a mistake. Then what?

A screeching wail tore through the white noise in the radio. It was as though somebody had recorded a woman's scream over a damaged microphone. Before he knew what was happening, the car began to spin. The tires slid along dark ice and compacted snow. The back bumper screeched as it scraped against the guard rail. He struggled to regain control, remembering to turn into the spin. But he was one step too late. The back wheels slid onto the hill's downward slope, and with a sudden jerk, the car was stopped by the guardrail.

It was stuck, oriented perpendicular to the road, blocking both his lane, and half of the other. The drop past the guard rail resembled a miniature cliff. If it had not stopped the car, Vincent would have plummeted twenty feet to the next turn of the road below. Half a minute passed before Vincent realized he was clenching the wheel so hard that his joints had begun to hurt.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” he yelled through clenched teeth.

His chest was tight from the ache of adrenaline. His heart drummed against his rib cage. The static screamed in his ears.

He tried to clear his mind, but the scream on the radio would not go away. The presence that stalked him was right upon him. It hid in the shadows behind the dancing, churning weather. Snowflakes whipped against the windshield and stuck to it, as if desperate to find shelter inside his car. To hide from the entity which pursued him. The radio still keened. The trees still spoke.

But it all stopped without warning. Suddenly all he could hear was the soft patter of snowflakes, the squeaking of the windshield wipers, and the rumble of the car's engine.

He waited for a moment, and he was about to get out of the car to see what he was stuck on when the radio erupted. A cacophony of voices, all with various inflections spoke in dissonant unison: Dreamer.

A cold that had nothing to do with the winter trickled down Vincent's spine. Headlights above chased shadows on the trees and a large, hoofed creature leapt. It came down upon the car and crashed against the windshield. The glass broke and crumpled across the dashboard. A limp-necked buck thrashed around in its agonized death throes.

The beast seized. It swung its rack up and caught him in the chest. The last thing Vincent remembered was a sharp pain like a lance through his rib cage where he had been hooked, and blood erupting from his mouth.