Welcome to the freakshow

Ch.13

In the past nothing seemed memorable. Life had just gone still for him,turning into mush with splashes of red. Then a song lured him out of the safe bubble and down into something more confusing than slope intercept. Who were the true good guys? Was there any good guys at all? Was this all just opposing sides fighting for the same goal?

The journal,the very epicenter of this large chaotic storm. The wind pulled at with little success. The lighting tried to grab it, missing it by miles. Only the rain was succeeding in getting to it, even then it was far off. The thunder cries for peace,or entire destruction of the conflicting forces,so that the clouds could once again turn white.He held a hand against the sky,questions causing volcanic eruptions,to only be turned to rock by the lack of knowledge.

Odd how personification helps a comparison become perfect. Such a simple yet complex thing that helps everything fall into place.

Did he want to know the final act of this story? Would it be worth it? His mind produce too many questions for someone's liking,it made him too human. A sign that something was going down. Maybe it kicked started at the very beginning of it all,when they first began messing with Maxwell. Perhaps it may never be answered,but the resolution should be more satisfying than the exposition.

"Observer,I wish to speak with you," a voice spoke.

Something curls inside Observer whenever that sexless,expressionless,and ubiquitous voice spoke to him. It wormed it's way through his gut and around his brain and heart. Planting seeds of an absolutely sickening feeling.

He nodded,a small flicker of light surrounded him,and then they were in an unknown location. The walls towered over the Keeper, long,dark red curtains decorated the walls along with rusted shields and glistening swords. In the middle of the room was a volcanic ash colored wooden table that stretch across the room,seated around it were empty chairs,except the chair at the end of the table. The Keeper sat in that one sipping on what smelt faintly of orchids,Keemun most likely,with a plate of biscuits.

Observer sat at the opposite end of the table,keeping his eyes on the pale figure nonchalantly picking up a biscuit with purple and blue spots of various sizes and shades. The shadow looked away the moment he saw the white skin stretching. He winced hearing tearing and popping,followed by a plate clanging. It was agonizing,wanting to look up but knowing the sight that could be before him.

"It's safe to look if you're curious," the Keeper announced.

Dark hair fell over his glasses as he raised his head. A feeling he couldn't describe came forth upon catching sight of the empty plate,not even a crumb was left.

"I apologize, it was indecent of me to consume all the biscuits. Do you want me to fetch you something? " the slender being inquired artlessly.

Observer shook his head furiously.

" Are you certain?" another shake of the head, "If you're certain. Now I'm certain you're aware your my most trusted follower out of the Collective?"

Of course I am. You think we're perfect,I hope you don't look through the curtains,because I've seen things nobody else has seen.

He nods. His mind is his only safe haven. From what he heard was the Keeper couldn't get into their minds if they synchronized with their host's subconscious. Hopefully he heard right.

"Good," he smiles in his own way,"I have a mission for you. Are you ready?"

Observer nodded. What choice does he have?

* * * * * * * *

There's something cruel with the world,he thinks dragging the knife across pale delicate skin.

He kicks the body to the side for Deadhead to handle later. Absolutely horrid. All of this was for some knife for a stupid ritual. There were three people dead at his hands,if not the many he forgets. The glasses shatters,setting off a silent alarm,he knows it. The knife is a simple design,plain old blade with some Latin scripture in the metal. The handle is smooth,leather,and heavy, otherwise it was a suitable weapon. As the shadow steps over the body blocking the door he can't help but wonder who was going to end up underneath the blade.

He can't continue, because he hears gurgling from the room behind him. He groans heading back to room. The woman is crawling over to the house phone. A valiant effort if the cords weren't cut. She screams when he slams a foot onto her back, spitting out blood all over the new carpet. The shadow pulls her head back by her fair hair. He's about to cut her throat again when he stops.

Why is he doing this?

Why is he doing the Keeper's dirty work for him?

What does he have to gain from this?

Shut up. You owe your life to him.

Does he really?

He believes he owes his life to Maxwell. For making it interesting. For changing the pace. For helping him. For changing him.

He shakes his head,dragging the knife across her throat again. When she drops she rolls over and looks him in the eye. Something breaks in him seeing the terror,the acknowledgement, the defiance. The shadow breaks the eye contact when he realizes she's been dead well over a minute. He looks back to the feet in the doorway before he leaves.

The door slams behind him as he walks down the street. The stars stare down on him now,all invitations to the heavens retracted. Before there was no problem,now every fiber of his being is scolding him for committing such an action. He wants to remain placid,but wants to cry. He wants to have his own private pity party. He'd laugh and cry.

He's not going home tonight. Nor is he going to Maxwell's. He needs tranquillity and solace. He needs to punch something. He needs to scream.

He needed to be alone tonight.

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Can anyone tell I was listening to Melaine Martinez while writing this?

Probably.

Any who,how'd you like it?