Bricks make up this House

Two Steps Back

     He took a deep breath as he stepped into the hall. He had told himself he wouldn't do this again, he couldn't. And yet here he was. Drastic times called for drastic measures as he forced himself to continue walking, the clicking of his heels against the dirty stone floors of this damned building echoing along with the presence of a deafening silence stalking it afterwards with every lift of the leg. The silence was so pure that you could've swore it in itself was a sound. No living soul should ever have to experience that kind of quiet that if not for that clicking it could drive a man mad if left by itself too long. It was a miracle really that the floor still had the showings to make such a privileged noise and not various sounds of lowly squishing and splashing. There were patches of feces and blood everywhere you gazed. A floor, once pure marble white, now tainted by the smears of red and black shades that were beyond saving.
     As he opened a heavy metal door that shrieked from the motion he saw what he came for. A sickly old woman, her age being as clear as the natural shaking in her bones, sat in a corner of the disgusting floor. She was naked, obviously freezing from the chill in the air. If she could shake any harder you'd swear she'd fall apart at the seams right then and there. She cried out in a pathetic mess, screaming for mercy and that she had a husband, children, grandchildren, the usual. He winced, these familiar words that haunted him for 40 years flooding right back. The nightmares had found him. And he had to play along.
     Wanting to let her know he was sorry ahead of time, he put a solemn hand on her shoulder and as if mimicking the silence of the halls outside, quietly shed tears along side her. Not a sound came from him but the trickling of his warm tears meeting with what was left of the floor. The old lady let her guard down, her shaking lowering as his body heat met hers and she felt as though she would be spared. And just as that overwhelming feeling of comfort came to her, he forced her face to the ground.
     As frail as she was she didn't die from the impact alone. He had done this so many times to so many people of all ages, even if it had been years he still remembers how to go about this job. He pulled out his camera and turned it on, making sure to get a good shot at her whole bare body, then a close up on her face. She let out a weak scream, like that of a haunting exhale, yet before she could beg for her life again he raised his leg and with one swift motion, the bottom of his shoes met with her skull. But she wasn't dead. He was rusty after all. Again. And again. And again. The crunching made him nearly vomit as he could feel the softness from her wrinkly cheek allow his heel to sink into the flesh with ease. Finally when he was ready to give up, he listened. She made no sound. He looked. She didn't move. It was over. As he turned off the camera he took off his jacket, attempting to cover the poor old woman's body as a sign of respect, and a sign of asked forgiveness. As he sat there with the body, camera in hand, in this building from hell, waiting, he wept. For his punishment would not be hell, but something far worse. He was left with the horrifying, everlasting, absolutely maddening void that was the silence.