Operation: Farm Grown

     It's odd, the things you remember when you're watching someone die.
     They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, but if you're a serial killer, do you die in a  place full of blood and screams? Or do you see the times before things went all wrong and you started killing people in droves? What does the mass murderer see? No one's life is 100% clean and cheerful. Everyone has ugly parts in the past, present, and future. When they die, what do they see?
     I'm not sure what I'll see when I die. It won't be filled with rainbows, but it will surely be better than most. I think. I'm not sure, because no one has come back from the dead to tell me what they saw when they died. No one asks Ouija boards to tell them what comes after.
     My friend is dying.
     He isn't really my friend. His name is Paul, and he tried to kill me thirty minutes ago. But I'm the only one here in this place, in the dark and sad and dirt. No one should be alone when they die, no one should be without at least one friend with them. That's why we're friends for the time being. His blood is starting to soak my socks.
     Paul is fortyish with dark brown hair already beginning to show strands of silver, and he has fish-belly white skin, dopey brown eyes. He's got a paunch, but I guess that's what happens when you age; I don't really know. He's looking at me with all this anger, his mouth opening and closing, gaping like a fish caught on a hook. Lying on his back, he doesn't look as big as he did before, in fact he seems almost...normal. His khaki slacks are dirties by mud, and his green polo is stained with blood, ripped in some places, but all in all... I feel under-dressed. Here I am in socks, pajama bottoms, and a dingy white t-shirt. I should have dressed up for my attempted assassination.
     His intestines are all in a ropey pile poking out of his stomach. I tried really hard to put them back in, but there was just so much of the stuff... At least his other organs fit in nicely. But he's bleeding all over the place, and the pool of his spreading blood has soaked my woolen socks through. It's impossible to get blood out of wool.
     "W-what are you?" Paul asks, voice all raw. That was kind of my fault, though I don't think I punched him in the throat that hard. His question is weird, I mean, 'what' am I? I'm not a what, I'm a who. It's an important distinction.
     "I'm just me," I answer. Crouched down next to him, I can see all the lines of his face, and it seems so odd. It reminds me of Gramps.
     I miss Gramps. He wasn't actually my grandparent, but he treated me like it, and he was old with iron gray hair and lots of lines on his face. He never called me 'asset' like the other people at the farm. Like Dr. Carriday and Mr. Farson. They never called me my name, but Gramps did. Sometimes he even called me "son". He always dressed real nice and had a funny hat he'd take off when he came into my room. His coat was covered in shiny buttons, and sometimes he'd let me play with them. People got real quiet when he came around, they would stop what they were doing and listen to whatever he said.
     This is what I'm reminded of watching Paul die.
     "You're a freak," Paul gasps.
     "That's not very nice."
     Paul goes eerily quiet, and his eyes begin fading. Several heartbeats pass, and then his isn't beating anymore. I really didn't mean to hurt him. I told him to stop trying to cut me with the big fat butcher's knife he had, but he wouldn't listen. I feel bad about it. It isn't my fault but I still feel bad about it. Gramps called that feeling "guilt". He said guilt didn't have a reason or explanation, that it just was. That sometimes you felt guilty for no other reason than being alive.
     I miss the farm. It was a nice enough place, there were cows and pigs and sheep and goats and horses... We grew all kinds of fruits and vegetables, and worked hard for every meal. Well, mostly I worked hard. Dr. Carriday said it was a test. All a big test. Mr. Farson was the one who wanted to shut down the farm after Gramps died. I was really upset, but Gramps always said you don't take out your anger on people who don't deserve it.
 --
     "Listen to me Michael," Gramps put down the hoe he had been working with while helping me till the yard, and looked at me. The sun was dazzling behind him, making his hair appear like a halo of strong iron, "People, they aren't always that smart. They'll say things and do things that hurt you, or make you angry, or just put you in a poor mood. But you can't hate them for it. They're only human."
     "Well if they're only human, what am I?"
    He smiled at me then. "You're you, Michael. Pure and simple. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
--
     When Gramps died, I was so sad. Three weeks later, Mr. Farson came to the farm for a second time - the first time had been when he talked about closing the farm down. He came to my room and acted all nice, like he cared. Then he shot me with a needle and syringe full of funny blue liquid, and the room spun, and I passed out.

     I woke up on a cold table, a gurney it's called. There was a big light right in my face, and all these people in weird blue hats and masks and gowns. They had gloves and shiny sharp things. They were doing something to me. To my insides. I could feel their fingers digging around, looking for...something. I didn't think, I just reacted.
     I killed them all, even Mr. Farson. I didn't mean to, but I was scared, and everything was still a little fuzzy. I was afraid I was going to die. When it was done, I had to patch myself up. I put all of my normal shiny stuff back into my body, and I got a stapler and made sure to stick my skin back like it was supposed to be. My organs are all shiny and reflective, but all the other people I've met and seen inside have squishy weird lumps for organs. I don't know why.
     Dr. Cassiday walks through the small arch that leads to the kitchen of the abandoned building. Dr. Cassiday is Gramps's real daughter. She didn't tell me until she rescued me after I got all stapled back to normal. Then she took me to live here. The place is supposed to be abandoned, but I found a little family of rats in the closet. I bring food to them and pet them and play with them, but I've never taken her to meet them. I don't want her to scare them, or them to scare her. She looks at the body on the floor and back to me, her face is sad. I wish she wouldn't look so sad, I don't know how to fix it.
     "Michael... What happened?" She asks. She trusts me to tell the truth because Gramps always told me that I should endeavor to keep to the truth of the matter, and I listen to Gramps.
     "He came in while I was sleeping," I point to my now rumpled pallet on the floor in the corner. "He had a big knife, and he was trying to cut me. I told him to stop but he wouldn't, and I didn't mean to, I really didn't. It just kind of happened..." Dr. Cassiday swallows, looks at the man, but when her eyes find the knife she relaxes.
     "Oh, Michael," She murmurs. She walks over to me, real careful to avoid the blood, and tugs me off the floor. "Take those dirty socks off, I'll buy you some new ones. I'll take care of this, okay? I might have to be gone a little longer than usual, but I'll be back real soon, okay?"
     "Yes, ma'am."
     She hauls the body back through the kitchen archway and I'm left alone again. Peeling off the dirty socks, I leave them in the now stagnant blood pool and pad back to my pallet, remaking it.
     It's so odd, watching someone die.