The Stranger

The Stranger strode across the deserted street, his gaunt frame illuminated only by a pale street light. His skin was as white as chalk; his eyes gleamed like a cat's. Garbed in black sweats and brown leathers and dark jeans, he was nearly indistinguishable from the black shadows cast by the looming buildings. Bold, flashing letters declared that the bar was open until two. He pulled at the creaking wooden door and entered.
         
Inside, there was silence. It was empty except for an old man puffing away at a cigar and an ugly, sallow-faced woman standing behind the counter. She smiled when she saw money walk in her door.
         
The Stranger did not smile back. He took long strides as he walked up to the counter. The old man turned to look at him, dull grey eyes sunken into his hollow cheeks. He took a pull from a bottle and looked away.

The bartender flicked at a graying strand of her hair with a long, pink nail and said, "Kitchen's closed, but we serve drinks all night." She put her hands down on the counter and tapped her nails against the marble. 

The Stranger stared at her long and hard, but his gaze was blank and sterile. Perhaps he did not quite understand what she was saying. He lowered his eyes to her fingers.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed. "Look buddy, either order or go home." Her eyes flashed with epiphany. "Hey, you can't sleep here. I lock up every night right at two." The old man looked up from his drink at the tall, unsmiling figure.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The man didn't know who he was or where he had been before. His entire existence seemed to be only a half-remembered dream from some lonely night huddled against the stone in some dank and pitiless alley in the dark, always in the dark.
He looked down at the old man, the latter's features wet and ugly and grey with age. The old man's eyes were pinballs; hard and cold and nothing. His body stank of rot and decay; his clothes were musty and unwashed rags. He was nothing.

The man turned to look at the woman; the pink meat of her lips open and flapping; emitting some sounds he did not care to hear. She was pointless; the old man was pointless; he himself was pointless; all of them in the past had been pointless.
He pulled aside his jacket and took out the shotgun. Her eyes widened before he shot her in the face. Blood and brains splattered against the wall behind. The old man put his hands out in front of himself in some pleading gesture; the Stranger put a hole in his chest so wide it could have fit a typewriter. The old man slid off of his stool and onto the floor.

The Stranger returned the shotgun to its sheath inside his coat. He turned to walk outside. He saw his reflection in a mirror on the wall. He saw himself, tall, and emaciated and blank-eyed. He took out the shotgun and fired at himself. The glass shattered; a piece flew by and nicked his cheek. He looked down at the broken glass and saw his reflection still, broken and scattered. He put away the gun and walked through the door outside into the darkness. He was the darkness.