“I was condemned to behold the beauty of the world without being able to touch it.”

  — From The Sleep

  My printer printed a page by itself.

  The printer sits in the corner of the desk, silent. The green Wi-Fi light blinks like an eye watching me in the dark. Sometimes, at night, I hear clicks, small mechanical sounds. As if it were breathing.

  It happened some time ago.

  I rub my eyes. I’m tired, but I can’t remember sleeping badly. Or maybe I did?

  I was studying at my desk when it started making its usual pre-print noise and, after a moment, printed a page. Surprised, I went to look and picked up the sheet. It was blank except for a sentence printed in an unusual font: hopeitworkshelpme.

  Very strange. A computer error? I check. I do a quick search through the open programs, the active processes, the history. Nothing. No one gave the order to print. The file didn’t come from my PC.

  Could it have been a website? A virus? That would have been strange, but not impossible.

  I shrugged and left the sheet on the printer, going back to my studies and forgetting about it. I notice a cup of cold coffee on the desk. I don’t remember making it, but I probably did this morning and forgot.

  I look at the clock on the PC. 2:30 PM. Strange—it still felt like morning to me. I must have lost track of time while studying.

  I woke up. Or maybe not. Maybe I’ve been awake for hours. The light filtering through the blinds is strange, too high. What day is it? Tuesday? Thursday? I look at my phone: Thursday. Thursday. It seems impossible. Where did the other days go? I shake my head. I had breakfast, I think.

  The plate is empty, so yes. I’m playing on the PC before settling down to study when I hear another sheet come out of the printer.

  H?lp m?

  I stare at those words for a moment. It must be a virus, I think bitterly. I go back to the PC and launch a deep system scan. While the PC works, I look at the two sheets. When did I start the scan? A moment ago, yet the loading bar is already at 80%. Time seems to be flowing strangely today. Instinct tells me it’s odd, that it isn’t a virus.

  Help me. And who exactly am I supposed to help? The PC finishes the scan but, as I expected, it found no virus.

  Who could be sending print jobs to my printer? I live in a building in a small town and I’ve known all my neighbours practically since I was a child. But the thought won’t leave my mind, so I decided to set aside both the game and my studies for a moment to get to the bottom of this mystery.

  The printer is Wi-Fi, but to connect you have to go through my modem, and no one has the password. No wait—the printer is connected to my network, but it also has its own separate network that can be accessed without a password. I check by connecting with my phone, and yes, that’s possible.

  Someone could therefore be connected to the printer and have printed those two sheets. Strange, but feasible. The sound of the printer pulls me from my thoughts. Another sheet is coming out. I go to pick it up.

  Dying of thirst please help

  A shiver runs down my spine after reading those words. My first thought is that it’s a prank. But whose? And what if it isn’t?

  The most likely places I can think of are the garages and the basement. I step out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard to count how many garages fall within range. There are three directly beneath my balcony and three across the way; the others seem too far. I decide to go down and check, even though I feel like an idiot for taking all this so seriously.

  I go down to the courtyard and listen for anyone calling for help from inside the garages, but they’re all silent.

  What if someone is stuck in a car? I try knocking on the garage doors; if anyone were inside a vehicle I’d hear them calling out for help anyway.

  No one answers. I decide to head back inside before someone sees me and starts asking questions. I decide to pass by the basement to check that too; I walk past the iron doors and knock on all the ones that should be within range. No one answers, and I’m relieved.

  I go back inside and approach the printer to turn it off, but something inside me won’t let me do it. What if someone really does need help?

  I could call the police. I’m surprised this didn’t occur to me sooner. I pick up the phone and then stop. What am I going to say? Excuse me, can you come and rescue someone who’s sending help requests to my printer? I shrug; they’ll probably laugh in my face, but at least I’ll have tried.

  I dial the number and place the call. A male voice answers.

  ?Police station, how can we help you??

  I already know I’m going to sound like an idiot.

  ?Hello, something strange has happened to me,? I begin.

  ?Strange in what sense? Please explain.?

  ?My printer printed a sheet with a request for help on it, it says the person is dying of thirst.? I’d struggle not to laugh at myself.

  I hear a moment of silence.

  ?Is this a prank? Be aware that making hoax calls to the police is a criminal offence.?

  ?No, it’s not a prank. Since yesterday the printer has been going off on its own and there are help messages on the sheets, but I didn’t print them. The printer’s range is twenty-five metres; it could be someone nearby who’s trapped or in trouble and I don’t know what to do,? I say all in one breath, hoping the officer understands the situation.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  ?Don’t worry, it’s probably nothing; but just to be safe, I’ll send a patrol to check.?

  I breathe a sigh of relief and give my address.

  ?Perfect, the first available unit will come and take a look,? says the officer, ending the call.

  I set the phone on the desk; I already feel calmer.

  Now there’s nothing to do but wait. I sit down on the sofa. A moment later I’m on my feet again, by the window. I don’t remember standing up. I keep having doubts about those messages; there’s something that doesn’t add up. Part of me keeps insisting I should already know what it is.

  Why does it only print messages every now and then and not more often? Maybe whoever is asking for help is trying to save their phone battery, turning it on only at regular intervals to send a signal, hoping that someone—anyone—will notice. But it’s strange: phones get a signal even in basements, couldn’t they just call the police?

  I hear a knock at the door. Before I go to open it, a voice comes through: ?Police, open the door please.? They must have arrived.

  ?Good morning, are you the one who made the call?? asks the younger officer in a formal tone.

  ?Yes, that’s me. Please, come in.?

  ?May we come in?? asks the older one, glancing past my shoulder.

  The younger one looks me up and down.

  ?Of course, come right in,? I say, motioning for them to enter.

  The officers exchange a strange look, then come inside, but the younger one stays on the threshold.

  As soon as they enter, the younger one wrinkles his nose. ?Do you smell that too?? he asks his colleague. The other nods, serious, instinctively raising a hand to his nose.

  ?Could you open the blinds, please??

  I don’t understand what he means; I look around and notice all the blinds in the flat are down. Everything is dark, as if someone had wanted to seal the apartment, transform it into a tomb. How is that possible? Was it me? A sharp pain shoots through my head.

  ?Yes, sorry,? I say, starting to raise the blinds to let the light in.

  I’m raising the blinds one by one. Or have I already done this? Some seem already open. I’m not sure. The confusion in my head grows.

  It’s really strange: when I woke up I raised them, I’m certain of it. I couldn’t stay indoors in the dark, could I?

  The younger officer seems bothered by something; he’s still on the threshold. While I head to the kitchen to raise those blinds, the older officer opens the living room doors. I watch him, curious. As I get closer to the kitchen, the strange smell I’d noticed grows stronger, almost unbearable.

  What are they doing?

  When I step into the kitchen I let out a cry. Brief. Strangled. A cry that dies in my throat because my brain refuses to process what my eyes are seeing.

  I don’t understand what is happening.

  A powerful stench, sweet and nauseating, hits me like a fist. It is the smell of death: sweet and rotten at once, like fruit left too long in the sun, like something that was once alive and no longer is. A buzzing fills the air, an obscene and frantic chorus: flies, hundreds of flies that swarm at me like living fragments of death itself. Are those flies?

  I rush to raise the blinds as I hear the officers enter the kitchen. I hear the younger one dash out of the kitchen and vomit in the hallway. The other officer covers his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, pale.

  I raise the blinds and my gaze falls on the reflection in the window. For a moment I don’t recognise the man staring back at me. It’s like looking at yourself through dirty water: the outlines are there, but the image is distorted, alien. The beard is long, unkempt, at least two weeks’ growth.

  The hair is greasy, plastered to the head. The T-shirt has dark stains I don’t remember. Impossible. I shaved yesterday. Yesterday morning, I’m certain of it. A stabbing pain hits my head. I close my eyes. When I open them, the light is unbearably harsh.

  I turn to look at the kitchen.

  It’s filthy; there are dark reddish patches in several spots and a plastic bag on the table from which something protrudes. A T-shirt? It looks like hair.

  The officer who didn’t vomit has drawn his weapon.

  The world narrows. The gun. The black barrel aimed at me. The finger on the trigger. My heart explodes in my chest, too fast, too hard. I can’t breathe. The air won’t come. Am I going to die? Here? Now?

  ?What happened here?? he asks loudly. I can see the fear in his eyes. The other officer is cleaning himself up.

  I don’t understand what has happened.

  ?I don’t know! I swear it wasn’t like this this morning,? I say loudly, trying to calm the officers.

  The stench is truly unbearable and I turn to open the window.

  ?Freeze! Hands where I can see them!? orders the officer, pointing his gun.

  ?I’m just opening the window.?

  ?Negative. Face the wall. You—proceed with the handcuffing. I need to understand what happened here.?

  I do as he says and the younger colleague puts me in handcuffs. Then he leads me out of the kitchen, closing the door behind us.

  I see my neighbour stepping out onto the landing. She always has to stick her nose in. She presses a hand to her mouth in shock when she sees me. Why is she reacting like that?

  ?How long has it been since you last washed??

  What on earth are they saying?

  ?But I had a shower this morning!?

  The officer looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

  I look down at my clothes.

  They’re in a dreadful state. Stains that look like—No, that can’t be. I raise my cuffed hands and touch my cheeks. The beard is rough, long. Weeks of growth. “This isn’t possible,” I whisper, and the voice that comes out of my mouth sounds alien to me, broken. “It’s not me. It can’t be me.” But it is. I know it is. And that certainty makes me want to be sick.

  But how is it possible? I shaved this morning. I feel dizzy; something is wrong.

  Another stab of pain to the head.

  ?Good God…? murmurs the officer still in the kitchen before hurrying out and vomiting on the floor, white as a sheet.

  ?Everything alright? What’s going on?? asks his colleague, coming over.

  ?Control, this is unit 7. We need immediate forensics and backup. Critical scene,? he says, pulling the radio from his belt. Then, turning to his colleague: ?Secure the scene.?

  ?Tell us what happened here,? he then says, turning to me, with a controlled voice.

  ?I didn’t do anything,? I say, my voice trembling.

  ?There is a head inside a bag on the kitchen table! Who does it belong to? What did you do??

  “A head?” I don’t understand. I can’t understand. The world tilts. My head spins. Harder and harder. The pain is unbearable.

  ?Let’s take him to the station,? I hear someone say when the other officer returns.

  My hands covered in red.

  His wide eyes staring at me, accusatory, dead.

  A face. Marco. My flatmate Marco.

  Blonde hair sliding out, soft, cold.

  A white plastic bag. My hands opening it.

  In the moment before the darkness swallows me, an image crosses my mind like a flash of lightning.

  I am seized by the arms and carried out of the flat; as soon as I step into the sunlight the pain explodes and I lose consciousness.

  * * *

  Darkness. Then light. Too much light. Distant voices. Sirens? Someone screaming. Is it me? I don’t know. My hands. Why are my hands red. No, not red. Clean. When did I wash them? The kitchen table. The bag. The hair. Marco. Marco. Marco forgive me. What? What am I asking your forgiveness for? I don’t remember. I don’t remember anything. That is the problem. I don’t remember.

  I have no memory of what I was accused of, and I believe to this day that I am innocent. Someone must have framed me.

  According to the reconstruction of events, I supposedly killed my flatmates and a friend of one of them. The bodies were in the same room and the autopsies show they had been dead for a week. One of them had been decapitated and another had his hands severed. The hands were in the bathroom next to the toothbrush, the head in the kitchen on the table.

  I know I didn’t do it, I’m certain. I would remember something like that!

  I have been seen by many doctors and they say I have a personality disorder. I don’t believe I have one; they are lying too.

  They say the printed messages were sent from my own phone, that I printed them myself. I don’t believe that either.

  The problem is that no one believes me and I am now confined to this high-security psychiatric facility, almost always in solitary confinement since—or so they claim, though I don’t believe it—I attacked a nurse and tore out his eye.

  Why do they make up all these things about me?

  I did not do these things. I have no memory of them.

  I am innocent.

  Do you believe me?