The voice of god.

There was no warning.

There was just the axe.

It descended against the door without care, and it was more than enough to destroy the dreams of Jonathan and wake him up with the same violence the ones outside the door promised him. The thud of his body against the carpet seemed to be the trigger of hell on earth, for thousands of voices screamed behind the walls of his apartment. There was a mob outside, a mob asking for his blood, thumping on the concrete, shaking the very foundations of the building like the heavens parting to destroy Sodom.

The gargled breathing of one awakened out of nowhere mixed with the haste of fear and frantic eyes sought something to alleviate the confusion. They found nothing, nothing but the pictures on his walls crashing down, the axe falling against the door again, again, again. They knew his name, his full name, and they cursed it, they spilled it alongside profanities and anger, they claimed that they were here to kill him, to rip his body apart with the same ease one tears pages from a book, nails scratching the paint of the walls and palms banging on it in a deafening cacophony.

It was more than enough to wake him up, to trip him on the carpet and slam his chin on the ground, standing up with a whine as bare feet squeezed distances in frantic movement. The only thing he was able to seize before tossing himself in the small corridor before his bedroom was the cellphone.

The fire escape of his office, the small glimmer of hope coursing through his mind as he slammed his body on a corner and ran between ragged breaths. The chants followed him every step, the door resisting to the last creak and crack of wood as the bolts were removed from the hinges by fire extinguishers and axes swung with violence.

The window nearly had to be broken, for his shaky fingers could not pull the bolt out under the frantic screams behind him, but he moved it up, and rolled onto the fire escape, only to see that the crowd was also outside.

They were many, they filled the small alley, and they wanted his blood. Screams from a mass of people that rose their hands in fury, tossing bottles, rocks and trash in an attempt at a lucky shot to kill him, there was no escape down, the only chance at surviving would come from above. And with bare feet he climbed, his fingers now ramming onto the glass of the phone, desperately calling the emergency services.

"911, what's your emergency?"
"They are coming to kill me!" He yelled with a broken breath, every syllable tinged with despair .

"Who is coming to kill you, sir?"
"Everyone! There is a bunch of people here!" One floor up, two floors up...

"Calm down sir, help is on the way, where are you?"
"I live in the- the fifth avenue! With the twelfth! I'm in the-"
"Gutenberg building?"
"Yes! Oh gods thank you, yes! Plea-"
"Are you Jonathan Levy?"
"Y-yes! How-"
"I hope you rot in hell, you bastard."

And nothing but silence. The desperation fills him with enough strength to climb the top rail of the stairs and hop over the upper edge of the building, rolling on his back over the rooftop. The access was locked, but the mob had the axe, and the same stairs he used. And again he tries to call the emergency services, nothing, calling the police takes precious seconds, but no one comes to his aid. Finally, something changes, someone calls him, he doesn't know the number.

"Jonathan?"
"Mack! Oh gods, man, what the hell is going on!? I thought-"
"Shut up and listen! I'm speaking from a burner phone, you need to get out! You lost your job and-"
"How the hell am I going to get out man!? These madmen surrounded my building! They want my blood!"

The other building was too far away, but he had to try.

"Fuck, already!? They were fast! Alright, I will think of something-"

He could hear them coming, their feet on the steel of the stairs, the hateful blabbering getting louder, closer.

"Why are they after me, man!?"
"You pissed them off!"

"How!? Last night everything was fine! I didn't kill anyone, I just got back home and went to sleep! I- Shit, shit, shit! Hang on man!"

He has to, he wasn't athletic, he wasn't good, he didn't train, but he had to try. From the other side of the roof Jonathan runs, bare feet over concrete, huffing, puffing, swinging his arms wildly before he climbs the edge and jumps, just like in the movies. But the movies don't tell about balance, the movies don't tell about proper ways of landing. He feels his feet bending in ways they shouldn't, his ankles twist, his knees fall too hard against the floor, and he yells.

"It's your fucking message, man! Your stupid joke, man! Run! They-"

They had found their way up to the roof, the door bursting with an eery synchronization as the first of they stepped from the fire escape ladder. And they found him, helpless, whimpering, with ankles swelling with pain and knees that could be fractured, in the opposite building. They, who approached with grins and snarls, preparing to jump if needed with complete disregard to their own safety. They, that in the span of seven hours and half, gazed upon his message, a stupid joke, done after a boring night, with scorn. Scorn that turned into anger, that turned into the need for punishment. And they found who he was, where he lived, where he worked, woke up his boss in the middle of the night, terrorized his girlfriend in the middle of her dreams, and gathered to tear his door and hunt him down, and now invaded the building he had fled to. 'You can't kill black women through their necks, they crank their necks every day, their necks are unbreakable.', he wrote, and they answered.

They, the people, they, the voice of god.