Spectre
Barty’s life was a careful exercise in routine and restraint, though the seams were beginning to fray. On the surface, everything appeared orderly. He had a stable job, lived in a modest, meticulously kept flat, and kept to himself. But beneath this carefully maintained facade lay a restlessness he couldn’t quite silence, a gnawing dissatisfaction that he often drowned in alcohol. His flat, tucked away in a nondescript corner of the city, reflected his need for control. Every item had its place, from the perfectly aligned books on the shelf to the spotless kitchen counters. It was clean, almost to the point of sterility, with bare, colourless walls and minimal furniture. The neutral grey tones of the space gave it an impersonal feel, like a hotel room, a place to stay temporarily rather than a home to build a life in.
Each day followed the same rigid pattern. Barty woke up at the exact same time, head pounding from the previous night’s excess, and reached for the two aspirin he kept on his bedside table. He washed them down with the stale whiskey that had been sitting in a glass since he’d stumbled into bed the night before. The bitter burn was familiar, almost comforting. After that, he made his way to the kitchen, where he poured a large shot of jäeger, its aroma mingling with the lingering scent of alcohol that seemed to permeate the flat. Then, he would head to work at a small, unremarkable office downtown, slipping into his role with the same practised ease he used to slip into a freshly ironed shirt.
The job itself was mind-numbing, with endless stacks of paperwork, filing documents that no one ever seemed to need, and the occasional menial task that required little thought or effort. It wasn’t fulfilling, but it was predictable, and that was something Barty clung to. In the fluorescent-lit corridors of the office, he had perfected the art of blending in, of keeping his head down and avoiding unnecessary attention. It was a life of quiet anonymity. For the most part, that suited him just fine, although there was another side to Barty, one that thrived on risk, on the thrill of danger. This was the side that whispered to him in the dead of night, urging him to break free from the suffocating predictability of his days. It was the side that pushed him towards reckless decisions, towards the bottle, and towards the edge of a precipice he couldn’t see but felt looming ever closer.
Lately, however, the monotony of his days had begun to wear on him in a way that even alcohol couldn’t dull. When Barty returned home each evening, the silence of his flat felt oppressive, like a weight pressing down on him from all sides. He had always preferred being alone and craved it, even. But now, the quiet had taken on a suffocating quality, amplifying the thoughts he tried so hard to suppress. To combat it, he would pour himself a generous drink as soon as he walked through the door, the amber liquid swirling in the glass like a promise of temporary relief. The whiskey was his companion, its warmth sliding down his throat and settling into his bones, dulling the sharp edges of his discontent. It blurred the lines, making it easier to ignore the hollow ache in his chest, the feeling that something essential was missing from his life.
But as the nights grew longer and the drinks more frequent, even this coping mechanism began to fail him. The more he drank, the more his reckless side stirred, awakening a dangerous desire for chaos, for destruction. It was as if the alcohol was stripping away the layers of control he had so carefully constructed, revealing the raw, volatile core beneath. Barty found himself taking risks he would have once avoided, making decisions fueled by impulse rather than reason. Although he often woke the next morning filled with regret, the cycle repeated itself with alarming regularity, as if he were trapped in a loop of his own making.
As the days blurred into weeks, Barty began to wonder how much longer he could maintain the facade of contentment. He had built a life that was safe, predictable, and completely devoid of risk during the day, but the nights told a different story. The alcohol-fueled decisions and the reckless behaviour were beginning to take their toll, chipping away at the person he had tried so hard to become. In the back of his mind, there was a growing awareness that something needed to change, that he couldn’t continue down this path without consequence. Yet, there was another part of him, one he barely acknowledged, that craved the destruction. A part that was tired of the careful balancing act and the constant struggle to keep his darker impulses in check. As the whiskey continued to flow, he feared it was only a matter of time before that part of him took over completely, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.