Why do I do this?
Is it because I like hurting people?
Or is it because the phone tells me to?
Is this just a dream? I wish this was just a dream. It needs to be a dream, this is just too unreal. To murder. To mutilate. All because a phone says to do it. Even worse, I don’t feel guilty or disgusted doing this. It must be the masks. Yes! The masks make me a different person. Each mask makes me feel different, act different, be different. Or is it me. Do I chose to do this? Is it all in my head? Now that I mention this, the phone, the phone never tells me to murder people. It only tells me where to go in subliminal messages.
The next day, there is a message on the phone. “Hi it’s ‘Kate’ from Hotline Miami’s Dating Service. We have set up a date for you this evening. She’ll be waiting for you at Southwest 53rd Place. As usual, make sure you wear something fancy.” So I go there with my mask almost as an instinct. When I arrive there, there are Russian mobsters, the same people I have been killing for the past days. So I go through the house murdering everyone I see. Until I walk into this one room where a large man with a bullet proof vest stands there right next to a drugged women. But when I saw this girl, I noticed it was my girlfriend that went missing a while ago. At this moment, I actually felt something, I… felt… anger. To be honest, anger isn’t even close to the feeling I felt. I felt more than anger, I was furious, no I felt VEHEMENT. Yes, that’s the word. So I picked up a shotgun from one of the corpses lying around and shot the man until he was on the ground gasping for breath.
“Oh god,” he said as he was coughing out blood, “Please, don’t!”
But out of rage, I ignored his plea of mercy and got on top of him and jabbed my thumbs into his eyes until I heard only my breath. When I was finished, I picked up my girlfriend and walked to my car. Then we drove to the safety of my apartment before the police arrived.
That night, in some kind of dream, I walk into a room with 3 people wearing masks. This room had a disgusting scent to it, and the swarm of flies in it vouched for it.
“Oh, it’s you again…” a women a horse mask said, “It looks like you’ve been busy since we last met.”
“I see that you remember me now. Don’t you?” a man wearing a chicken mask said, the mask I wear. Not only that, but he is wearing the same clothes as me, a letterman jacket and jeans! “But you still don’t know who I am. You don’t even know who introduced us, do you?” It was true, I knew nothing about these people, only that I have seen them before.
“Why did you come back here?” a man in an owl mask yelled at me angrily, “You’re not a nice person are you? You make me sick!”
“A picture is starting to take form here…” the horse mask-lady said, “I wonder if it’s accurate. Some pieces don’t seem to fit. Or maybe I just don’t like the way it looks.”
“I think our time is up… But we’ll meet again. The chicken man said, “Before you go, here’s four questions to ponder. Question number one, Do you like hurting other people? Question number two, who are leaving messages on your answering machine? Question number three, where are you right now? And the final question, why are we having this conversation? That’s all for now. See you soon…”
These questions disturbed me. Was this my subconscious screaming at me? Trying to get a hold of me. Past my wall of inhumanity? This morbid dream may have spooked me, but I continued to do as the phone said, whoever was leaving the messages. I don’t even know how they got my number.
After a few missions, the phone calls stop. But I start seeing the people I have killed in my dreams. They talk to me. They are rude to me. But what do you expect, I am the one who killed them. Has the guilt building up inside of me finally been released in the form of schizophrenia?
It doesn’t end there. I now see them when I’m awake. I scream at them and then notice the people of reality staring at me. There is nowhere to go, they are everywhere. It has gotten to the point where I accidentally killed my wife trying to rid them from reality. They put me in an insane asylum, the ones with padded walls and strait jackets. I try to ignore them but they haunt me twenty-four seven. If I wasn’t insane then, I must be insane now. Whenever I hear a phone ring, I start screaming. Then two men come in and give me anesthetic. So I guess I will live the rest of my life here. No help for me. No hope for me.