Modernism

Darkness. The good half of the day. Nobody around to pester him with their tedious small talk, and their unrevealing eyes. Lying. Everywhere. During the day, they wandered round I their thousands, each with their own pathetic life, their problems and attitudes. It irritated him to the point of suicide the way they went about their lives. Believing everything they saw on TV, the internet, or heard from politicians. Of all people, he thought, it had to be them. Ignorance may be bliss, but it sure pissed him off. If he could just educate them...or alter their thoughts. The world would be a much better place.

Daydreams about what he could do crept into his mind... an end to conflict, a perfect, incorruptible leader, and no more psychological disorders. He fell asleep, wishing that he, even for just a day, could wield those powers. Perhaps a week. His last thought.

He woke. His head hurt. There was something he needed to do. Sign it. That was an odd thought. Sign the contract. He dutifully picked up the pen, and signed the large contract on his desk. Odd, he thought as the contract disappeared in a large ball of fire. He drifted back into unconsciousness.

Interesting, he thought as he woke for the second time. There was a scorch mark on his desk, and a black pen with clotted blood at the end. Why were they there, he wondered. He looked out the window, down to where a small boy was happily carrying a large stack of boxes, and about to walk into a pothole. Stupid git, he thought, wishing for just that one moment, that the boy would know the hole was there, and avoid it. Something happened in his head, and the boy elegantly stepped around the hole, and continued his business. A strange sense of something like pleasure crept over him. He tried again on a nearby waiter. An instant headache, but the waiter suddenly picked up a heater, and moved it onto the curb. He took a painkiller. And he practiced. Small things that people wouldn't take notice of. The religious freak next door became an atheist, seeing the absolute stupidity of believing in God. The hobo on the road became motivated, and got himself a job. A baby across the road shut up. His headaches became less with each success, but as the day wore on, he began to feel empty. He ignored it. Soon afterwards, his powers stopped working. This seemed perfectly reasonable to him. There was only a limited number of things he could do in a day; the same with his powers. He knew this, though not how he knew this. It had something to do with the scorch mark on his desk though. He knew that. Unconsciousness claimed him, and he fell into a dreamless, restoring sleep.

One week. His first waking thought. One day over. His second. Strange. His third. He was now fully awake. What the hell was he thinking? One week? It was all connected with the mind powers, and the scorch mark. Perhaps the pen. It hadn’t been there before. He got up, and thought hard. A test, he decided. A test to make sure this wasn’t a dream. Everyone sell their shares in Microsoft.

The pain between his eyes was terrible, he thought as he awoke. He logged on to his shares website. Microsoft down 91%. He bought a quarter of Microsoft. No problem. The shares were dirt cheap. He laughed to himself. Everyone buy shares in Microsoft. Bang. Blackness.

He woke up, sold his shares in Microsoft. Instant millionaire. He was almost dead with the stress though. Why was he stressed? Five days. Hearing voices, he thought. Can't be good. Outside. Fresh air. A visit to the shops. A stroll. Dogs, ducks, and people performed tricks in his wake. Amusing, he thought, new headphones in. He vaguely remembered wanting to do something important. Violence? No, that wasn’t it. He had never been very violent. Some street kids fighting. Now, wouldn’t it be amusing if they had knives? He made them stop, buy knives from a shop. He made them stop. Bought some popcorn. Just like the movies. The fight continued, blood and gore falling onto the sidewalk. A kind, brave stupid pedestrian tried to stop them. His arm fell to the ground. He fell, screaming. The crowd watched, horrified, as the two boys united briefly, and stabbed him to death. His guts flew. He walked away, pleased.

A serious thought. What did the voices in his head mean? He wasn’t crazy. You weren’t supposed to know if you were going crazy. Something in his head clicked. Power. Limited time. Five days [seven originally, he remembered vaguely] scorch mark. Contract. Pen. Blood. Death. Hell. Pain.

The thoughts continued, everything falling into place. He needed to do something. Naturally. He had to decide what to do in his 4 days remaining. He altered his own mind not to want sleep. An army. The citizens of his city. His world. They would be his slaves, all of one mind, one thought, and one purpose. To serve