Sitting within the light’s embrace, Ruby stretches out his tired arms so they can lay atop the bench’s backing. Even now, he has yet to take a breath worth much of anything, but it does not seem to bother him as he gazes across the pond with soft, content eyes.

  Covered in a dense fog that reaches almost to its perimeter without quite touching it, the pool is roughly circular in shape and spans about 150 feet in front of Ruby. Only at its very edges is its shimmering, crimson blood visible, perfectly still as it protects the steep shoreline from the hungry fog.

  Bones and entrails that did not make it into this sunken bowl of the carver’s waste litter the flat, gray beaches surrounding it. Consisting of small white fragments encrusted in blood and unrecognizable strips of rotting, human innards, what was trash to the monsters above is made useful again by the community that has claimed this pond as their own.

  Spiders with hog-like snouts in place of fangs scurry about, paying no mind to Ruby’s gaze as they collect the beach’s treasures in a disorganized fray. Among them, there seems to be three different types, the first of which are not much larger than the average daddy-long-legs.

  Making up the majority, these ones are a chaotic bunch, constantly bumping into each other as they search for interesting scraps of bone and flesh to shove into small sacks woven from human hair and spider silk. Once these treasure hunters can carry no more, they drag their findings towards tall piles of the carver’s waste encircling the pool and its beaches.

  Along their journey, they cross through a check point where a second type of hog-nosed arachnid is stationed. Covered in bone armor and wielding serrated bone swords, only their eyes and snouts remain exposed to the sheer green haze swaying through the air, and they stand about as tall as a clenched human fist. These soldiers frantically wave their blades in an attempt to guide the treasure hunters towards their next destination, but they often end up swinging into each other by mistake and engaging in unskillful combat.

  Once the treasure hunters make it past the soldiers, completely oblivious to their purpose, it is only a short walk to the perimeter of their home – the mounds of precious human scraps where a third type of spider awaits their arrival. These ones are twice as tall, three times as long and infinitely more useful than the soldiers. Upon their backs sit bone carts strapped to their bodies with harnesses of weathered human flesh, and once those carts are made full by the contents of the treasure hunters’ bags, they begin a slow and careful climb up the mounds.

  At the top, about ten feet above the beach, another band of soldiers halts its patrol to rush the cart and claim its goods. Once everything is gathered, they pick out the tastiest looking piece of flesh, present it to the deliverer as a part of their contract, and send the beast back down the mound. The rest of the soldier’s newfound collection is used to build the mound even higher so it might one day reach the dark clouds overhead – clouds that never move and only ever rain when the carvers, whose caves they were formed to obscure, have a victim to carve.

  Those foolish spiders… know they not that they act as mere decomposers for the trash of larger, more sinister predators living in their attic? Then again, most of the hog-snouted never have and never will see outside the confines of the mounds… the confines that have transfixed Ruby’s eyes and stirred his insides until finally… he lunges for the crimson pool and pulls the trigger.

  Nails digging into the shoreline’s edge, the addict deflates his bloated lungs and stomach, returning gallons upon gallons of foreign blood to the pool that broke his fall. The pain is neither excruciating nor unfamiliar, but still, almost an hour passes before the vomiting ceases… almost an hour without oxygen.

  Once he finally *can* catch his breath, desperately sucking air through his acid-shredded esophagus, a wave of discord rushes back into his head.

  You’ve always been headed for this place… made the decision yourself… took your own way down. Think that cigarette would’ve slowed your heart? Think it would’ve shut us up? There wasn’t ever going to be peace… not for you. But I was hoping it would just go black. That’s it… I need to focus on that last thought-HOW COULD YOU… after what you’ve seen today?! No, damn it… god help me… just let me focus on that one thought. I was hoping it would just go black. I didn’t want there to be something after because whatever it was… I knew it wouldn’t be good… not for me. I was hoping it would just go black. I was hoping it would just go black. I was hoping- Ruby repeats to himself, focusing solely on one phrase to drown out all other thoughts and return to the present.

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  At the same time, with all its borrowed blood returned, the crimson pool settles from the splashing, and Ruby stares into its glassy surface to find his own image staring back. His tall, fit figure stretches out, almost bridging the gap between the shore and the fog, and his pale southern-European face and light brown hair reflect in dark red. Baring the same shade as blood itself, the hoops hanging from his ears are almost invisible, and his gray eyes, extenuated by dark, deprived bags, look like empty sockets. Only his black, punk jacket and cargo pants retain their color in the red mirror, and atop his head, an entirely new feature has grown.

  Two small horns curve inwards as if they are trying to connect, and Ruby knows well that they fit right into his look. Running his fingers along their coarse texture and eventually using their points to remove the dirt beneath his nails, he finds that these new growths are about as sensitive as a rotting tooth – a pain that now pales in comparison to what feels like a fire searing the walls of his throat and lungs. Though, even *that* pain is sort of pleasant for a smoker.

  And even more pleasant is the return of a lost cigarette… the lucky one Ruby thought might have saved him from his spent, failing heart. As it rises from the pool, bobbing on its glassy surface, tiny ripples travel out in all directions and erase the addict’s reflection in their wake.

  Of course, retrieving the soiled treasure quickly becomes his sole purpose… who thought it wouldn’t? a small black figure thinks, stalking Ruby from afar. But, as the man reaches for the cigarette, scooping it out of the pool with his right hand and tightly clinging to the shore with his left, he is disappointed and somewhat surprised to find the thing soaked to its core. Once again, it makes perfect sense for this to be the case, but not when Ruby’s body is completely dry. Even now, as he squeezes the cigarette between his fingers, the blood rolls right off his skin, leaving no trail behind, and splatters on the beach’s cracked soil.

  Here I was… thinking I could climb that lamp post, smash it open to get this thing lit, and then watch those weird looking pigs go about their lives with some damn peace of mind… I had it all planned out… and maybe it wouldn’t be fair to hurt the poor lamp… but *this*… *this* really isn’t fair, Ruby thinks, crushing the bleeding cigarette in his palm, when, from across the pond, his stalker responds.

  “It’s never going to be fair!” says a small black cat with a deep, old-timey voice and glowing yellow eyes that pierce through the haze to lock with Ruby’s. After watching the addict’s frustration turn into fearful curiosity, it chuckles and struts towards a tunnel running through the mounds of rotten, human entrails. However, before leaving behind the crimson pool and its beaches, it glances at Ruby once more and jerks its head as if it wishes for him to follow.

  Never really having been able to trust his senses, Ruby is left wondering whether a telepathic cat just laughed at him, or if, like usual, his mind was just trying to deceive. Either way, following the path of the cat beats hanging around this tobacco-less blood bowl, and springing to his feet, he takes a deep breath and a few paces up the beach. These steps are… hesitant though, as the man realizes he has unfinished business with a couple collateral casualties.

  Leaving this place behind also means leaving behind the only friends he has left. The bench, apathetic towards decades of rust slowly devouring its frame, has held a soft spot for Ruby since his first visit to the park it called home. Even now, the hope that he will sit and wander in thought is there, though, it knows the addict will not rest… not without a cigarette.

  Always at its side, the lamp post, crooked and broken as it is, knows well the way Ruby comes and goes… the reasons why he cannot sit still. Even with a shattered bulb, it managed to shine on until this very moment… but, perhaps it also knows that Ruby will soon be on his way. Perhaps that is why its light finally starts to fade.

  In Ruby’s eyes, these two were never more than silent, indifferent, soulless objects… but looking at them now, he knows they were reliable in life and death… that they served a purpose. So, with a slight, half-sincere wave, he says, “well… goodbye then,” before departing for the cat’s tunnel on the opposite side of the pond.