The Conduit
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the conduit by Philip Mako Hotel de Salto Tequendama Falls Colombia present day. I've always known it was here, especially in the fleeting moments of clarity. I later deny the blackness inside me, tucked away in the place where a soul should be. I told myself it was a tool to be wielded, a tool I could control. I told myself a lie. It could all be over now. It would only take a moment to snap his neck and finish this. But I won't. He's earned a slow, painful death. He shows the first signs of coming to a twitch. A muscle spasm eyelids pull apart, his mouth fights against duct tape. I rip it off as he screams. Happy. I've taken some of his moustache and beard with it. A sliver of vague bluish moonlight pierces through like a sign illuminating the clip, black and white newspaper photo of you. I hold. I'm sorry, 1000 times sorry you were collateral damage. An innocent trapped in a narrative. Who's ending will be written tonight? His beady, tombstone gray eyes search mine for an answer through round miss covered wire rim glasses. Well, what do you want? He finally asks in a shaky voice, nearly drowned out by the rush of the falls. I suck in a sharp damp breath and let out a slow, impatient exhale. I think you know, uh I don't. He pleads all the color fading from a few visible patches of face not obscured by a thick salt and peppered moustache and untended beard. I grab a fistful of his hair so he can't look away and shove the photo in his face before ripping off the porcelain mask I'm wearing and tossing it to the ground, it shatters to pieces, shattered, pieces shattered like the lives I'm here to avenge. Is I slam shut. You can still let me go. I haven't seen your face. Oh, but you have opened them. Armed struggle urgent under the rattle of chains. Hands fumble for the phone I've taken from his pocket for the smartwatch I removed from his wrist. His honor helplessness something I find myself cherishing. There's no way for your people to track you. Now open your eyes. He fights the inevitable for a time, then accepts it. His eyes open you. He goes white like a ghost as he should. He created me. Do you see this? I asked, picking up my sword, slicing through the air before pointing it at his face. Wet circle forms on his khaki pants. The accurate sting of ammonia fills the air, insulting my eyes and nose. I make a slow semicircle around him, tapping his head with my blade. He flinches with each strike. Don't shut your eyes again unless it's to blink. How you tom. Hey, help me! He makes a wasted attempt to fight his way out of the bindings. I sit down opposite him, watching until he collapses in exhaustion. Ah, you Tommy! He calls out in a last desperate plea. There's no one out there for you. I tell him, leaning forward and sliding my cookery across his distended belly, then sharply up a sweat covered lab coat. Three buttons fly off and bounce on the ground, spinning like toss coins before coming to rest on the cold stone floor near his hairy knuckled left hand. You don't have to do this. He begs the circle around his crotch grows a puddle forms underneath him. I can help you, help me! I spit back the words acid on my tongue. Like you helped Samuel morse grandmother, like you helped Paul, Palin's wife and Children. I raise up his chin with my blade. Our eyes meet their dead, remember hispanic guys search the surroundings for the glimpse of a person, the beam from a flashlight for someone or something to save him. Can I assume you've heard the stories about this hotel? I asked, haunted. He stammers. No one comes here at night. I'll be long gone before staff discovers your body. In the morning he opens chap, spittle line lips. Just tell me what you want. I lift his chin again with my blade. The woman in the photo. I want her life back. I want my life back. I'll settle for yours in exchange, please. His eyes become, wait again. I don't want to die. Neither did your victims, I say, followed by a sharp, unrestrained slap to his face. Take a look at the bend in your right elbow. I've already killed you. His eyes fall, his dry lower lip begins to quiver. You're bluffing. He says, face a night, so we're clear. Takes a few hours. I tell him pointing the blade in my backpack. The antidote is in there. If I decide to administer it in time, you may just survive the night. The shoulders fall. Why are you doing this to me, Nathan? I've already told you the woman. I don't know her. He protests, But you will. For every last minute you have left, you're going to listen to me tell you her story, my story. On the off chance. You don't know all the damage you've done. I hope it weighs on you like an anchor for the whole of ******* eternity. Now pay attention.