Lucky Guy...

Last night after reading some of your articles in here, I decided to write another story and I told myself I may try some light and funny story but I decided not too as am not really good at that genre. So here I am again sharing you another story a thriller one. It's about a man being framed up. I hope you will like this too as much as you like "Dreaming", Theodore, and all other stories I have shared in here. Many thanks to all of you.

I don't have a name. I think I used to, but now it's all buried in the darkest corner of my mind, forgotten, abandoned, and neglected. I haven't known my name for so long; these people just call me Lucky Guy for... what, exactly?

Twigs and dead leaves crunched underneath muddy sneakers, and a trail of blood that wasn't his leave a trace of his whereabouts. He didn't do it! He swore to God he didn't do it! Why were they all coming after him with fire and burning hatred in their eyes? They know he couldn't have done it.

"Chase after him! That bastard." They shouted in fury, guns and rakes in hand. He felt like a deer running for his dear life from a hungry cackle. His lungs were aching and his legs were begging to stop from this mud running, but he knew that if he stops now, he will never be able to see the light of day again.

Unlike everyone else in this manor, I don't know my origin. I don't know where I came from, or who my parents were. Hell, do I even have a family? I've been here for so long that I could no longer recall. It's quite envious, actually, that out of all of us. I'm the only one who doesn't have a name or a personality. I envy these people who know who they are.

"He couldn't have gone far! Search the ground, his footsteps should still be apparent with all this mud around!" His heart began to palpitate as he held his breath in his hands. They were near-so near-and he no longer has the strength to move another inch away. Why couldn't they believe him when he testified that he's innocent?!

"Leslie, please! The women called out to him. He refused to respond-rather, his palpitating heart and his short breaths prevented him to. "Come out and just admit what you've done to Guinevere! We can talk about this." We cannot, was what Leslie thought the more he listened to the women who talk. Leslie was not a moron; he knew that the moment he steps out, he will be dead from those guns and rakes.

Guinevere...that woman was awful from beginning to end. Just what had he done to her that she bares so much hatred?

Sometimes, I get glimpses of my own memory, but they're nothing more than just quick pictures passing by my mind, and then I'll forget them again. If I try to remember, my head will hurt. If I try too hard, sometimes I even pass out from thinking. How weak is this body that just from thinking, I lose all consciousness?

Leslie had always known he's not the most attractive guy in town. He was never the center of attention, and he was fine with it; he never liked the attention anyway. Still, did he deserve such poor treatment from the people his age? What was it with difference and diversity that the younger generation loved to pick on so much? What was so fun with being so demeaning towards another person to the point that it drives them to death?

He always suffered. No matter what he did, something was always wrong. In this town Leslie grew up in, his existence was a mistake, and every day he was reminded of that. Though the elderly and other older women treated him much nicely, the others roughly handled him.

One of the women who bore such hatred towards him is Guinevere. She was pretty and looked like a model. Everybody loved and feared her-leaning more into the fear side, honestly-because she was the epitome of perfection, and being the epitome of perfection came with the special privilege to stomp on the less fortunate ones....like Leslie.

Miss Dyer has done so many check-ups already to see what kind of sickness I have. Maybe it's retrograde amnesia, she asked, but I don't even know anymore. Nothing I do recalls any clear memories in my head. Nothing in my room looks familiar. Every night I ask myself; will I be able to know who I am at all?

I probably will not.

Guinevere loved to torment Leslie. He was what she referred to as an errand boy. She made him do her bidding, even when he was unwilling to do it for her. She always threatened and pulled on his hair, and sometimes would even break his glasses. However, even when Leslie's hatred was on par with Guinevere's, he never once thought of killing her.

Killing her...she did that to herself.

Popularity was a curse and it was the curse that drove her to kill herself. She had invited him to her home one night after classes were over, telling him she needed a few home works done. He walked through the front door, not knowing that this would be the last night he would be looked at as the underdog who was always obeying everyone's orders.

I'm so jealous of the other tenants of this manor and their stories of their lives. Be it good or bad, it's much better than not remembering. I wish I could remember my life prior to coming here, too.

He found her bloody on the kitchen floor, a large kitchen knife wrapped around her hand. Leslie hurried by her side and saw the stab wounds in her abdominal area. He insisted he should go and look for help, but she grabbed his hand and said, "You wanted popularity that bad, right? You're.... you're getting the popularity you so-deserved." Just then, the front door swung open again, and chatter filled the entrance hall. Guinevere quickly place the knife in Leslie's hands. And with the last of her strength, smeared her blood across his shirt.

"Popularity is a curse, and I curse you with this life." She said before heaving her last breath. As if on cue, the footsteps and the chatter stopped, and all eyes were on him. Leslie's mind throbbed with pain and realization, and the blood-curdling scream from one of her friends pierced through his ears. He shot up, dropped the knife, didn't even explain himself, and ran out of the back door.

I kept wondering what my life could have been. Who was I last with? What did I do before I came her? Did I receive a letter, just like everyone else after Emma Woods arrived? There's just so many possibilities.

Leslie clutched at his shirt, the uneasy feeling of being caught creeping quickly in his chest. From beginning to end, that was an ugly feeling. The noises began growing louder and more unbearable; he honestly wished he'd just die right at this moment, but not in the hands of these people.

"You seem lost." The voice woke Leslie from his anxiety attack. Turning sharply to the side, he saw a man of average height, wearing a faded brown trench coat. He extended a scarred hand and for some reason Leslie was not in the position to swat it away. "And bloody. What the hell happened to you?"

"I need to get away." Leslie responded, eyes narrow with fear and desperation. "Th-They're after me, and they're going to kill me. I-I swear I didn't kill that girl...she-she framed me!" The man looked at him as if he was the sanest man on earth, and with a smile, he said, "Are you willing to throw everything on the table?"

I don't remember how I got here in the manor, either. I just knew that I woke up here one day, and I had to play the games to survive. It's not like we die here, but that's much more terrifying than death itself, isn't it? I bet a lot of us here just wish to rest permanently.

"I-I am!" The man's lips stretched to a smile so sinister that it sent shivers down Leslie's spine.

"Even if it's your name, your life, and your identity?"

"Anything! Please, take me away from here!" He might regret it later, but what is he going to regret if he doesn't remember anything? Was the man's thoughts as he evaluated Leslie's desperation to be free from his situation. He grinned wider.

"I'm conducting a major experiment for something I've always wanted to try. Agreeing to me will mean that you're permanently my lab rat for this. Are you really sure you're willing to throw your life away like that?"

"I have nothing left to live." Leslie replied, voice shaking as he gripped on the hems of his shirt. "I lived an honest life as much as I could, but every time...every time, something goes wrong and I am to blame. That woman, I didn't kill her, and look what happened; everyone is after me because they saw me holding that knife and drenched in her blood. I don't have anything to come back to."

Everything in this place hurts. Everyone wants to leave, but even after they walked past the gates, they'll comeback to where they were before. It's an endless loop of hiding and being found, of running and being caught. It's a tiring game of cat and mouse.

"Then, you've made yourself a deal." The man extended his hand out again and without a moment's hesitation, Leslie took it. As his mind was beginning to become hazy, he heard the man speak. "What's your name, boy?"

"Les..." he trailed, his world swirling before him. "Leslie...Satie..."

"My name is Orpheus, but you will remember neither of our names. From now on, you're Lucky Guy."

And his world blacked out before him.

Will there ever be an end to this life? I'd love to rest soon.

*End*

*Lead image and other images are from Unsplash....

Message of gratitude:

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