[IC] Twilight

[The Eclipse]

Phillip Grandahl slammed the door of his motel room closed. He meticulously went about locking each of the eleven chains and mechanical deadbolts. He felt slightly more assured and at ease with each metallic click they made.
Only after he was finished did he allow himself to slump into the chair beside the window. Although window was not exactly the correct word for it. Phillip had bricked up the window months earlier, when he first came to the town of Twilight Home, the night that Blades Goodwin died. The curtains looked almost comical, neatly framing the crude wall of bricks where once glass was.
Having recovered his breath a little, Phillip stood up and walked into the small adjoining bathroom. Beside the toilet was a bucket he used to relieve himself in, the toilet was filled with quick set cement, as were the drains on both the shower and the sink. He stood up on the toilet seat and pulled open the vent cover in the ceiling. From within he pulled, almost reverantly, a leather bound journal.
Walking back into the main room he sat down at the desk. He stopped and gazed at the bible that lay open on the desk. He dimly recalled reading it... When? How long ago was it? An hour? a day? a week? He could no longer remember. For that matter he couldn't remember when he last slept, was it when Isabelle died? Time had no meaning to him, not here.
He looked down at the bible and almost reluctantly, began reading:

Revelation 3:1 To the angel of the church in Sardis write:
These are the words of him who holds the seven spirits of God and the seven stars, I know your deeds, you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead.
3:2 Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God.

Phillip pushed the bible away from him. It slid across the desk and fell on the soiled carpet, where the pages lay face down. Phillip opened his journal onto the desk and began to write.
He was very close and he knew it, the secret wasn't out there like the others thought, it was in here. If he could just keep everything straight he would be able to see it, so he did it the way he had his entire life, he wrote it all down. He needed to write it all down, so he couldn't forget. He had to remember it all, all his friends were dead now, and he couldn't let their deaths be in vain.
Time was running out, Phillip knew it, every sense he had confirmed it. He scribbled down on the papers in quick, rapid scribbles.

Suddenly he stopped.

There was a scratch at the door, thin and almost inaudible. Phillip's pen dropped to the ground. He stared over at the door, a look of horror on his face.
"No." he heard himself say.
The scratch was heard again, long and drawn out. louder.
"No" he said again, it was almost a question, a statement of resignation.
Phillip slid his hand along the surface of the desk until it found the drawer he was looking for, he slowly slid it open. The scratching started again, more persistant.
He withdrew his Ceska pistol from the drawer and considered it for a moment, then thumbed the safety off.

There was a stacatto metallic sound and one of the deadbolts slid open, and then another.

Phillip closed his eyes, he was so, so close. But maybe there was no escape after all. Another bolt slid open.
Or maybe he had it wrong? Perhaps there was escape after all.

Phillip considered his pistol again before placing the muzzle in his mouth. As the last lock slid open he pulled the trigger.