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\"Many stories either begin or end with a bullet to the head,\" I tried to explain patiently. I grinned. She just stared at the wall. Vapid. Unseeing. Unknowing vegetable head. Two marks on her forehead. Devil\'s work. Lobotomy.
\"Why?\" she asked. I sighed. I shrugged. My service to human kind. Explaining the mechanics of writing to people who couldn\'t possibly appreciate it.
\"Most writers today are hacks. They don\'t know what they\'re doing anymore. So doped up on the movie theater, they don\'t know their ass from a hole in the ground.\"
Silence. Her eyes finally retreated from the fascinating pattern of the wallpaper and focused on me.
\"Bang, bang!\" I cocked a finger pistol and fired at her. Jokingly, of course. I wanted to put some spark into the old bird.
She got up.
\"Good bye,\" she muttered, unamused.
She pushed her chair in. It made an unflattering grunt. She slowly plodded out the door of the visitor\'s center. I followed her out and, with idle curiosity, watched her slowly return to her room. She ducked inside.
I felt like I should leave. Silence swallowed the whole environment. We were the only two sources of livelihood in the whole compound.
Much to my surprise, she emerged again. At first, I thought she had something to say to me. But she just walked away, further into the depths. In her hand, shaking terribly, was a small, black revolver. She never stopped walking. Just raised it to her head and--pow! Her blood was the most vibrant color to decorate those halls in ages.
I removed the gun from the killing hand. Removed the evidence. The police could figure out whatever they pleased. The power of suggestion. In her other hand there was a note. The sort that I had grown used to. Cryptic. Written in the same style. More than a strange coincidence, though it used to be fun to think so.

In the future, architecture will be sewn together. Our precious buildings will be ripped apart and reassembled. It\'s not techno-cool. It\'s disorienting. It\'s repetitive. Agoraphobics might enjoy themselves here. There are no large spaces to be found. This is not the future for mankind, this is my personal future. The future seems to resemble the past more and more as it trickles in through the present.

I\'m in the kitchen now. Some sort of fast food restaurant. The manager approaches me and starts yelling. Only he\'s very quiet. Muted. I take the old lady\'s gun out of my pocket. I check the chamber; no bullets left. I aim the barrel at him anyway. He\'s still spouting off threats I can\'t hear.
He doesn\'t much care that I\'m about to pull the trigger. I\'m getting fed up. But he lays off of me because, I think, he\'s having a heart attack. I fire at where his head used to be when he was still standing up right. Click. Click. Click.
I turn around and look at the grill. Meanwhile, he\'s slapping me on the ankles in some sort of plea for assistance. The burger patties are char black.

In the future, it\'s not fun to witness death. I arrive just in time to wreck a party. I don\'t feel like a god. I don\'t feel invincible or guilty. I\'m certainly not full of remorse or sorrow. I just don\'t care.

Tickling my heel as I walk for the exit is a note, written on a napkin. It\'s been tucked into my shoe. Whatever works. I sit down in a booth; no one has bothered to clean it yet. Lucky me. Clues. Clues everywhere.
Through glass windows, I can see the outside. Dusk has just fallen. A full moon has just emerged from a massive dark cloud. As usual. Stars are pin pricks, painfully bright. I open the door, and the scenery must have been painted on, because I\'m in the bathroom.
I curse my luck. I wonder. If I had the urge to use the shitter, would I be enjoying a refreshing breath of cool night air right now? This isn\'t the restaurant, though. Too clean. This is a personal bathroom.
There\'s a young woman lowering herself into the tub. Tears are streaming down her cheek. She reminds me of my mom when she was younger. I\'m a bit taken aback. Mostly because there she is. Again. I put my hands in my pockets. I shyly walk over and sit down on the toilet seat. I clasp my hands together. She\'s submerged in white bubbles.
\"How the fuck did you think I wouldn\'t find out, huh?\" she starts. Her mouth choked by tears. I groan. This sounds familiar. Only now it\'s not muffled. Now it\'s crystal clear.
\"Well, was it worth it? Was it worth it, you sack of shit?\"

I suppose I can throw well-formed dialogue out the window. I\'m not the author anymore. I\'m a nameless participant caught in someone\'s whim. Quite a story. And it doesn\'t even make sense anymore.

I get up. Because it\'s too much. I don\'t want to laugh at the hysteria of the situation. I tune her out and look in the mirror. Now I look like my father should have looked when he was younger.
When I return my attention to her, the bubbles are all popped. Her face is under water. Blue. Peaceful. Quiet.
There\'s knocking on the door. Pounding. That\'s me. What used to be me. So this must be a joke to catch me off guard. To keep me from figuring out the punch line. Because I\'m not sure if I\'m a ghost. I\'m not sure if this world is designed specifically for me. Or if I\'m just supposed to walk in, watch someone die, and walk out. Or if I\'m supposed to change the course of history. If so: oops. Oh well. Always next time.
There\'s a note, taped to the back of the door. I take it, but don\'t bother to read.
I walk out. Somewhere in my head, I know I walk back in as a little kid. And I\'m horrified. Back when death was bizarre. Back when I cared. I\'m looking for the next victim. I\'ll see what I can do.