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The Traveler rose with the dawn.

As sunlight started to stretch its way across the discolored floorboards of the bedroom which wasn’t his, he stretched out on the down comforter and gazed out the window over the expanse of lawn which he did not tend to. Contrasting the tranquility of the scene outside, the bedroom itself was a personification of chaos. Picture frames had been ripped off the walls and shattered on the floor, clothes pulled from the closet and strewn about the room, drawers ripped out of the dressers and smashed into pieces on the floor.

He strolled out of the bedroom and into the hallway that wasn’t his, and towards the bathroom. The claw foot tub looked inviting, but he didn’t really have the time, especially considering how much blood had stained the once pristine porcelain. The water out of the faucet was refreshingly cool as he bent down and took a long drink. He examined himself in the mirror for a long time before pulling the door open to evaluate the prescriptive collection, and marveled at the number of little orange plastic bottles that some people needed just to propel themselves through the day.

Returning to the bedroom, the Traveler took a few moments to select some articles of clothing that did not belong to him from the accumulated mess on the floor. He took one final look out the window; it really was a glorious view, looking out over the expansive farm as the light of early morning was shining down over the world, turning the sky into various shades of blue. Time was starting to run short. There was work to be done.

The stairs creaked and groaned under his weight as he walked, and he took a moment to wonder absently if anyone ever gave any thought to how precarious their lives really were, how close to the edge they really lived. He wondered how close people got to that terminal moment before realizing too late that none of this really mattered.

He made his way down into the kitchen that wasn’t his, a mirror image of the destruction in the bedroom. Despite the carnage that surrounded him, he was still able to take advantage of some of the comforts of the home. Despite what he felt about the people who had lived here, they did have good taste in some things, coffee being foremost among those. The Traveler made a large cup for himself and sat at the table as he drank, mediating on the day and where he should now go from here.

Normally he would have preferred the taste of cream to accompany the bitterness of the coffee, but since the refrigerator was currently lying flat on its side, pulled free from the wall and the door hanging open he doubted that the dairy products would be trustworthy at this point. Every drawer had been pulled free from their tracks and turned upside down, dumping all the contents onto the floor. The table and the chair he sat in were the only remaining pieces of intact furniture in the room. There were stains on the walls and ceiling, probably blood although, who could really say for sure?

There was still a plate in the center of the table, boasting a small collection of now stale danish. He made several selections before standing and straightening out the clothes that weren’t his. The sound of the birds singing outside fostered a renewed sense of purpose and drive within him.

It was time to leave.

On the way through the living room to the front door, he could not stop himself from pausing one last time to admire his handiwork. The family who did own this house and all of the nice things inside were all here in this room. No one stood to greet him or see him on his way of course, they weren’t even aware of his presence.

The stains in this room were impossible to mistake for anything but blood. The bodies were piled up in the corner, cuts and gashes appearing as lines on a map connecting bruises and severed parts. The Traveler looked them up and down, taking in the remains of the room. There, he saw the shattered screen of the television where he had put someone’s face before snapping their neck. Those smears of blood were where he had taken one severed torso and dragged it across the wall in a long streak. The frame of the couch had been damaged after he had lifted it up and brought it down onto the prone body, again and again until his arms hurt from the effort.

The work in this room had taken a physical toll on him, but his pride in his work carried him through. Not enough people appreciated the time and attention of a true artist. He shook his head. It was pointless to lament something that would never change, to strive for recognition of his efforts which he would never really obtain. Better to just focus on the tasks at hand and the work still to be done.

The Traveler left the house that would never be his and walked out to the road. His acute hearing could detect the sound of a truck, off in the distance and moving in this direction. Before long, there would be morning commuters driving past, and shortly after that, his work would be revealed to the world. He pulled his collar up over his face as best he could and turned into the chilling breeze and misting rain. The dawn sky swirled about him in a burst of sunrise, masked by gathering clouds as he walked off down the road, and slowly dissolved into the growing morning fog.

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