If I lie really still, I can hear my fingernails growing.

It took me a long time to figure out what the soft, scraping, high-pitched whine was. At first, I searched my whole place for the origin of the irritating sound. I first noticed it right after Jg died.

We had been at the corner pub as was our practice. Jg had already dived into the whiskey bottle by the time I met him, having been detained at work for incorrect apparel. It's amazing. Simply amazing. They used to just send people home when they were dressed inappropriately for work. But ever since the infamous Sanction-Suit, where an employee had been sent home for an ugly tie, got drunk on his way home and shot up a bar - killing a number of people - no one gets out unmatched. The families of the dead in conjunction with the bar owner actually sued our company for damages. AND WON. Come on, people. If they were in the bar before lunch, then they were already dead and just hadn't realized it yet. The families were obviously waiting for someone to blame for this fact. Why didn't the court see this? Why do they coddle people who want to blame other people for their own follies? I had just started working for the company but I knew the man. Stephan DeAlec had been among the dead for sometime before the incident but his family got the biggest settlement out of the deal.

Ah well.

I suppose I shouldn't know these things, but his boss was so pissed about it (he had wanted to fire the slob long before and had just been waiting for Steve to slip up, then the bastard goes and shoots himself) that he'd been in rare form the following days. Yelling at people for anything and everything so everyone on our floor knew exactly what had happened.

Now the company security keeps a closet full of conservative, tasteful if dull apparel and it is company policy not to let anyone leave until they are properly dressed. That way the company is blameless if another employee goes on a murderous rampage. The day Jg died, I almost made it out the door, but the fat security guard who couldn't see his own feet, noticed mine and the fact that I wasn't wearing socks. It took a while for that sweaty doughnut of a man to locate not just socks, but matched socks that matched my shoes, pants, shirt, jacket, tie, jacket, gloves, hat, eyes, nose teeth hair. (These security guards are trained in unarmed combat; combat with a gun; personal self-sacrifice and good fashion tips). The process was further drawn out by the paperwork and the bloody beating I gave the guard because I don't like to wear blue socks. I tried to tell him this was why I had no socks on, that being the only color I had left at home, but he didn't listen. I signed my name, smiled lamely at him and left - the image of his his bloody face pleading for mercy firmly planted only in my head.

I burned the socks, then threw them at some bum asking for change as I went into the bar.

Jg was chatting to a girl when I walked in. She was ugly, obviously uninterested in him and slightly disgusted. But he had cornered her. As soon as his attention turned to me, she made a dash for freedom and tripped over his suddenly out-stretched foot. She made a grab for me as she fell but that wouldn't have been proper. I stepped out of the way and watched her go down, her arms and breasts flailing under her skimpy shirt. I heard the crack when she hit and the juicy sound blood splattering. Why didn't the girl catch herself on the ground with her hands instead of trying to rely on the kindness of a stranger? Stupid woman. After a stunned moment, she ran from the bar and hardly anyone noticed.

As usual, the night got quite hazy after that. Where Jg is almost entirely a whiskey drinker, I go with my tequila and gin. But that's a problem isn't it? Since I can't decide which I like better, I switch drinks: one gin martini, one margarita, one gin 'n juice one shot of tequila. Jg has commented on it before, on his amazement that I ever make it home alive. See the irony here? I do remember him pointing out a quiet little man sitting at the bar staring into his drink (one of those colorful ones that'd probably have an umbrella in it in another place). Jg always goes for the smallest victims he can find.

"That man's been looking at me funny since I came in," was all he said as he started to stand. I merely shrugged, knowing this wasn't true - that this was just Jg's excuse for starting trouble, in case anyone asked me later. I'd have tried to stop him, but it hadn't worked before and wouldn't have worked this time.

There's a lot of blurriness after that. Jg was gone a long time, longer than usual given the size of the man. I never found out what happened to him. There was just all that blood and then I was home. And it was very quiet at home.

Too quiet.

That's when I first heard my fingernails growing - as I pulled the covers over my head that night. But as I said, I didn't realize what it was at once, nor for many nights after that.