Trey was laughing to himself. A gleeful laugh that verged on manic. It was shrill like that of a child squealing as its fleshy thighs are pinched hard by an unremitting elderly relative with their saccharine smiles and even sicklier sweetened breath, but at the same time it was dry like the wind scouring over old, dead trees that had fallen at the edge of a dessert as the forests slowly retreated and gave way to the scouring sands and blazing heat.

It was a self satisfied laugh.

Trey was reading the news online.

A casual observer would have noted that the story being read was not a human interest story about some delightfully large and retarded cross eyed kitten competition, nor indeed anything to do with cats and their woefully abhorrent grasp of things such as grammar or correct spelling and punctuation.

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“Too soon.”

The voice buzzed across an absolute blackness of the kind that physicists only theorise to exist. The kind of darkness that cannot truly exist in real space and so only exists in the minds of those filled with a gibbering terror at the nadir of the mental trough they find themselves in. The kind of darkness that becomes the totality of existence for a suicide.

“Nonsense,” came a reply sounding of slate dragged against gravel, mortification, and centuries of undisturbed decay “there are seven to be taken by seven in the seventh month. We have done it annually since His Lordship straddled Earth and brought disharmony among men.”

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A sound like a gentle rush of steam from a breached pipe, slowly filling the air with humidity and heat. A sound that announced some imminent, turgid thought about to issue forth from between the teeth that made the sound a sigh by the pernicious act of holding in a soul crushing groan.

“I’m still really pissed off that my lead didn’t come through.” Harvey said, grinding his molars.

This was the present.

A time in which a thing merely is.

Trey, however, was still preening his nails.

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Harvey pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to squeeze out some of the tension forming around his eyes.

He’d been to a Thai massage parlour recently. A beautiful place that just seemed to perpetually smell like sandalwood. It hung in the air, thick but still light, and pleasing in an odd way. And so much red laquered wood that he guessed was probably the sandalwood, but didn’t know for sure as he’d never seen it as anything other than a scent for oil burners. He assumed it was some kind of wood at the very least, although a lot of things had a peculiar habit of being named for things that they clearly weren’t.

Like “sweet breads”, something he was intent to never order for dessert again if he could help it. The memory of the place filled his consciousness, and again his nosed promptly flooded with the olfactory recollection. His supraspinatus could feel the pounding of hands that seemed to grip like iron, but were gentle enough to relieve the aching tension that seemed to perpetually bubble beneath his flesh in that particular spot to the point that his neck would be slightly askew some days. The last thing they did before sending him on his way was to massage his face in a manner that not only relieved the scowl that was by now a nearly permanent fixture, but also clearly demonstrated that they could crush his skull at any point they wanted to during the fifty-five minutes in which they caressed his naked, oiled body. I’m going to have to get some sandalwood incense for in here, he thought to himself.

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