Gallery of the Dead

Fourteen

The man had always preferred to travel at night. The low temperatures were a lot kinder, not only to the car’s engine, but also to its tires, not to mention how so much lighter traffic was everywhere, but that was only part of the reason.

Ever since he was a little kid, the man had always been a creature of the night. There was no denying that. He had always loved its sounds, its smell, its mystery. He loved the way nighttime scared and liberated him at the same time, but most of all, he loved the darkness and how perfectly it was able to hide him.

The man could easily remember when his mother used to order him to bed — 9:00 p.m. on the dot, every day. No exceptions. Ever.

The man would never argue, either. There was no point because there would never be an argument. If he ever tried talking back to her, or contradicting her in any way, the gates of hell would open before him. So instead of arguing, as soon as the clock struck nine o’clock, the man would quietly and calmly retire to his bedroom. His mother didn’t even need to say anything. The trick was — he wouldn’t really go to sleep. All the man would do was lie on his bed and pretend. Pretend that he was somewhere else. Pretend that he was someone else.

And his imagination was powerful.

A lot more powerful than the gates of hell.

A lot more powerful than hell itself.

But that had been a long time ago. Those particular gates were now forever shut.

Unfortunately, newer, improved and a lot more powerful ones had opened.

The man was dragged away from his memory by a barking dog somewhere down an alleyway. The nighttime drive had made a seven-hour trip last just under five and a half and he had made it to his destination with plenty of time to spare.

The man checked his watch. The center would open in a few hours.

Still sitting in the driver’s seat, he stretched his back and massaged his neck. The movement of people on the streets was starting to pick up, as regular office hours were just around the corner. Bus stops were filling up, strolls were becoming more hurried and traffic noise seemed to be doubling by the minute.

The man sat back and thought about what to do. Maybe he would go get some breakfast in a café somewhere and strike up a conversation with the person behind the counter or at the next table. It would give him a chance to test his new character: Mike — that was the name he had chosen for this particular one.

Yes, he thought. That was a good plan.

After that, he would get back to his car and start bandaging his arm.