Life is sorta weird right now.
Like, I think I’m doing better than I once was, but it feels like my head’s been fifteen feet up my ass. I haven’t been able to get very much writing shit done.
Oh, whatever. I’m sure it’s just a phase. Anyways, here’s the follow-up to this. I dedicated this account to rewriting excerpts from an old journal (initially written in 1981 by my estranged uncle), so it would be nice to check out some previous parts for context. Though I suppose you don’t have to. All you need to know is that he was in a weird prison with even weirder shit going on. So, without further ado, here’s the continuation of my previous post:
If I squinted my eyes, I could see something that made my heart race.
The little silhouette of a chubby man was visible in my peripheral sight, and honestly, it startled me at first. The dangerous taste of the unknown was bitter, and it stained this man’s mystique. Who even was this guy? Oh, wait.
An uneasy feeling of hope crept up on me as I realized the man’s presence was good. He was my intel. This was it.
I approached the row he was in with quiet feet. He quickly noticed me, uncannily blue eyes looking up to meet me. It was now or never. I attempted to introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m-”
“Myles Monroe.” He had this thick Scottish accent and black glasses. The guy glared at me with a particular aspect of awareness, “6’3 or 191 centimeters tall, born on January 31st, 1965. Despite being old enough, you don’t have a driver’s license, yet you used to drive anyways. It’s worth noting that you’re very reckless on the road, especially when the song Soft and Wet comes on. Despite not being a cultist, you have a gift revolving around the manipulation of plants. You were convicted of assault with additional charges of underage drinking and the possession of cocaine. As of current, you are the second newest male prisoner. You have quite the wealthy background; though your emotionally unavailable mother and lack of a father figure have left you with an innate need for validation and a craving for any form of love, typically with someone older.”
“That last part was really unnecessary, but okay.”
“Why don’t you take a seat, Monroe?”
I did as I was told. “Well, you sure do know an uncomfortable amount of shit about me…can I at least know your name?”
He hesitated for a moment.
“Dean Manjina.”
“Oh my God.” I cupped my hand over my mouth with a snort, “your last name is Mangina?”
“It’s spelled with a J.”
Staggering silence filled my ears. Jesus. Don’t laugh. Don’t. Laugh.
I laughed.
I busted out cackling.
Dean obviously took offense to this. “Am I conversing with a fifth-grader right now?”
I tried to get my shit together. “No…no, it’s just sorta funny. Really funny, actually.”
He glared at me for a hot minute before continuing my feverish rant.
“I write in a journal, right? And I document a bunch of stuff. Well, usually I address people by their names. But…Mangina? God, what am I supposed to do with that?” I poorly imitated a man jotting something down, still giggling like a schoolgirl, “‘Mangina’s icy eyes chased me down with a stare straight from hell. At that moment, I could tell that Mangina was totally…and utterly…upset. Enraged, even.’ I can’t! Lord have mercy! I just can’t take it seriously!”
“…Are you done?”
“No, because how do doctor’s appointments go?” This time I imitated a doctor, “‘thank you for waiting, Mangina, now let’s take a look at that prostate.’ Like, do they call you by your last name all the time? Do they laugh?” I surely laughed.
I felt bad about it. This guy was taking time out of his day for me, and all I could do was make fun of his name. But at the same time, how could I not? It was so stupid! I thought about his surname for a few extra seconds.
“If you keep this up, I’m leaving.”
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. It’s not funny anymore.”
….
“Wait, no, it’s funny again!” I snorted, “we’ve all had our homoerotic shower moments, but you? Dude, I can just imagine it! Every day, guys probably come up to you all like, ‘hey Mangina, you look real fine right now. How ‘bout you bend over and show me that tight ass, hm, Mangina?’”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m really sorry.” At last, I calmed down, poorly attempting to regulate my breathing, “I think I’m done.”
“Good, ‘cause you’re on the dotted line.” Dean sighed, “well…what can I do for you today, Monroe?”
He said my name with a bitter staccato, particularly exaggerating the E. I ignored that, gathering my thoughts and forming a strand of consecutive questions in my head.
“There’s a clown that’s been terrorizing me.”
“Is that so?” He looked me up and down, analyzing me right down to my soul. “Do you know this clown by the name of Bozo?”
“Yes, actually, I do.”
“So you’re another one of his pretty little victims.”
“Um, I guess? Do you know much about him?”
“Yes, I know…quite a lot about Bozo.”
“Well then, what the hell is his deal?”
Dean quirked up a brow.
“Is he even a real person?”
“Ah.” He clicked his tongue, “yes, he’s real. He’s an inmate, just like the rest of us. When they arrive here, some people manage to keep certain possessions; earrings, makeup, hair clips, maybe even little toys. Either that or they obtain these things from the commissary. He’s no different. His clown getup is his disguise, something he uses to fulfill his fantasies without being recognized regularly. Under the makeup is just some dude you’ve most likely passed by during breakfast.”
That was disturbing to think about. Any day, any moment, I could’ve just walked past the guy who had been haunting my hazy days as a cartoonish menace. And if this had happened, I didn’t even know. As chilling as it was, my fear couldn’t overshadow the questions banging around in my mind.
“It’s just that he has this quality about him that seems inhuman.” I reflected on my time with him, “it seems as though he can pick and choose who notices him and who doesn’t. Like, when we were in the showers, nobody ever looked at me, even when I screamed for help. It was as though I was invisible. And then the other inmates didn’t even recognize the rumors about him when I know it’s something everyone’s aware of! It all just seems so strange and unreal….”
“Yeah, that’s what Bozo goes for.”
“Hm?”
“His gift allows him to manipulate the human psyche.” He peered up at me, “you were involved in the watchtower incident, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“He was behind all of that. Are you aware of what the pink sludge does if you touch it?”
I gulped, nervously nodding and thinking about it—just a drop.
“Just a drop is all he needs to make to drive someone completely mad. His victims become so distraught that they desperately crave death as an escape. But have you ever stopped to consider what would happen with less than a drop?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.” I didn’t even know less than a drop was a possibility.
“Simply a distortion of reality.”
The pieces clicked together in my mind. “So he-”
“Yes. He infects people with borderline microscopic amounts of sludge to not cause too much chaos. It’s nearly effortless in the showers. This allows him to stay obscure. The way everyone around him perceives the world is in his hands when he creates this sludge.”
“So when nobody noticed him in the showers….”
“Yup, he did that with the sludge. Then he made the others forget about him, but that was temporary. Even in great amounts, the effects of the sludge don’t last very long if you can bear with them.”
“Wow, you’re good at explaining this.”
“Of course.” Dean pushed up his thick-rimmed glasses, “his victims come to me all the time asking questions.”
“So he’s hurt them too?”
The man next to me froze for a moment. “…Come again?”
“He tried to bite my finger off.” I showed him the small scar as proof. “After that, he went out of his way to terrorize me in the watchtower. And then-”
While Dean processed my words, I took a short breath. How would I phrase the following few words?
“Well, do you know about Matvey Trotsky?”
He reequipped his stoic, scholarly persona. “Of course. Everyone knows about Trotsky. He’s a big deal; only vapid idiots don’t acknowledge that.”
He hummed a soft song, tracing his finger across the armchair. “The son of sin, the son of war…the soviet with scars all along his back, and his wrists, and his thighs…what about him?”
“Bozo tried to kill him nearly a week ago.”
For the first time, a look of genuine interest eclipsed his face. “Really? Heh.” He smiled, “a conflict between the notorious four’s demon child and the clown in the showers…how did that go?”
“Not too well.” I shook my head, “I just don’t know why he targeted Trotsky in the first place.”
“The soviet is unique to the others in the notorious four since he doesn’t use his infamy as a status symbol. The others collect supporters and goons like baseball cards, but Trotsky makes a point of not doing that. He doesn’t want popularity; he just wants to hurt others. A guy like that doesn’t need goons. It fits his lifestyle…but it leaves him susceptible.”
“How so?”
“The clown is a man who lives in infamy, yet he never gets to revel in it since most don’t think he’s real. He’s just a rumor. So, how do you get out of that status?”
He answered his own question with utmost confidence, “you take down one of the notorious four. But that’s hard. You have a slim chance of physically overpowering any of them. Their supporters are everywhere, and two of them basically have bodyguards. To be in those two’s presence is very rare, to begin with. But Trotsky is vulnerable in his own right. All alone, always wandering about during free time. To take him down through non-physical means is the easiest way to make yourself known.”
“So, the clown was trying to…push himself up in the prison hierarchy?”
“If he were anybody else, I would say yes.” Dean glared at me, “but I know for a fact that Bozo loves to live as a rumor. He loves to be discreet. Trotsky’s status has nothing to do with the attempted murder. The clown kills in numbers. If he tried to target one specific person…well, that means he wanted something.”
I had a vague idea of where he was going.
“Plus, he’s never physically harmed one of his stalking victims before, and you seem to be awfully close with Trotsky. Do you see the connection here?”
Before I could even respond, he spelled out the answer with vivid words.
“You must have something he wants. Trotsky was a pawn used to lure you.”
That was a little eerie to think about, and it made my blood run cold. The fact that human life was so valueless to Bozo that he had no problem using fatality as bait…just wasn’t right.
“Do you have any idea what Bozo may want?”
“Yeah, actually.” It was made evident enough with his first act of cruelty.
“And what would that be?”
“…This thing I can do. There’s a lot of names for it, really.” I listed a few as my eyes darted around the drab room, “a built-in defense mechanism, a trump card. A last resort.” My last resort.
“I see.” Dean gave a mellow nod, “well, why don’t you just let him have it?”
“I’d be letting him win, and at this point, I just can’t do that. He declared war; to use my last resort would be to surrender.”
“But he’s not going to stop torturing you until you give him what he wants.”
“I know. That’s why I’m planning to kill him.”
Dean paused upon hearing my words.
“It’s best for everybody. He’s harmed many people, he’s fucked with me and my cellmate, and he’s not gonna stop. In a messed up way, he sorta deserves it.”
“…And how do you plan to kill him?”
“Well, the original plan was strangulation, but since Trotsky’s the one doing it now, I don’t really know. I guess something super violent? He wants Bozo to suffer; I know that much.”
I twiddled with my thumbs, “but it’s not as simple as that, y’know? I need to know where I could find and take him by surprise. That’s why I came to you.”
“Well, all this talking is making me parched.” He reached under his seat, and to my surprise, he pulled out two bottles of lukewarm water. Where did he even get that from? Oh well. It didn’t matter. “Care for a drink?”
I kindly accepted his offer.
“Thanks.” I smiled, “I always thought water was the second-best drink. I mean, if you ask me, nothing beats a good Tequila Sunrise, but water’s cool.”
I took the cap off, taking a swift swig without looking. Then I laughed. “I always used to tell my little sister that.”
I reminisced. “Lucy. She eats like a full-grown man and washes everything down with apple juice. You know how kids are; they never wanna drink their water. All they do nowadays is chug their juice and eat their cereal.”
Dean nodded, obviously uninterested. I didn’t care.
“And-and I would look at her and tell her: ‘Lucy, keep doing that, and you’re gonna turn into apple juice one day.’ Then she would always say the same thing. ‘Sounds fun.’ Jeez, that child is such a trip, I swear.”
I snickered before a dose of sadness fogged my senses. Wait…did I actually miss my family? That was a new feeling. I didn’t like it. There was an acknowledgment that something about my old life was comforting and pure, and it was soul-crushing to be starved from that.
“Are you done being sad about your dysfunctional family?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I tried to lock away all thoughts about my kin in a mental chamber. I could save those for a different time. “Where were we?”
The man next to me didn’t respond, leaving me to patch the conversation back up myself.
“Oh yeah!” I scooted closer to the edge of the seat, “is there any moment in the day where the clown is alone?”
“…Yes, many moments, actually.”
“Would one of those moments happen to be free time?”
Dean somberly nodded.
“Alright, alright. That makes my job easier.”
“‘Your job?’” He scoffed, “you’re assisting in a murder!”
“Yeah, but I’m not the one doing it.”
“So what? You have no problem killing as long as someone else does it?”
“I mean, it’s still really nerve-racking, don’t get me wrong, but you’ve got to consider the pros and cons.”
“Oh? And what would those be?”
“Well, the cons are obvious. Murder is bad, I’ll have to witness it, and even though the blood won’t be on my hands, I’ll still feel guilty. Also, Bozo’s absence will be discovered pretty soon, and if people find out I planned a murder…well, I’ll be in deep shit. But the pros?”
“If Trotsky can get away with it and stay unfound, our lives would drastically improve. Trotsky would get his revenge, and the clown would stop putting me through so many horrific things. It’s not only my life that would be less stressful; his other victims would get their justice, too. A life without Bozo constantly looming over my thoughts sounds like pure paradise. Plus, Trotsky has his heart set on killing him, and if I don’t follow through and make this thing happen…well, I don’t really know. I think he’s either gonna shatter all my bones or violently fuck me in the ass? He’s been in a certain mood lately, so who’s to say? I certainly don’t wanna find out, though, wouldn’t you agree?”
Dean didn’t dignify me with a response.
“Look, man, I’m really not trying to be difficult here. You know so much. All I’m asking for is a drop of that knowledge so I can make this plan work.”
I took another sip of water.
But that’s when I noticed something.
…Something was moving in my mouth.
Wait, no, not something. Dozens and dozens of little things, squirming around and grazing the sides of my cheeks. I shifted my tongue a little.
Something definitely wasn’t right.
Within the pool of water in my mouth seemed to be various…things swimming around. They felt slimy, small, wriggling, and lightly tickling my tongue. It appeared these creatures had tiny appendages, which they used to send me in a state of absolute abhorrence. They felt like bugs.
I couldn’t take it.
Instinctively, I spat the water out, coughing as it landed on my chest with a splash. I gasped. I still felt those things on my tongue. I coughed again. Man, did I cough. I coughed till my chest ached. I coughed till it felt like the barbarous world was suffocating me. I wheezed, panting and ensuring nothing was left lingering on my tongue. I examined my water bottle with a groan. I held it up in the dim light, squinting my eyes to see the liquid against the forbiddingly mute shade of the theatre room.
…Sea-Monkeys.
There were Sea-Monkeys in my goddamn drink.
My body iced as I stared at them.
They festered in the water like cysts with ungodly amounts of…legs? Is that what you called them? Oh, who cares? They were creepy! Some of the larger ones burned into my brain with their beady little eyes and translucent egg sacks. With their bleak meaty hue and appallingly wispy limbs, the only word that came into my mind while looking at them was disgusting. But this was just the tip of the fucked up iceberg, because an unnerving realization came to fruition.
Those things were already inside of me. When I took a drink without looking? It was too brisk to notice, but I had swallowed at least a dozen Sea-Monkeys. I had to. The bottle was my telltale sign. I just hadn’t looked at the water before drinking. I was too careless, and now there were little creatures all up in my guts. I felt like throwing up.
With trembling lips, I called out for Dean. My most recent revelation made my head light. There was such a gross quality to it all. I mean, I had digested Sea-Monkeys without even knowing. How was I supposed to be stoic about it? I pointed at the water with bulging eyes. “What…what’s with this bo-”
He punched me right in the face.
My sentence transmuted into a myriad of groans and cries of pain. The shock of agony overwhelmed me, flooding my senses with confusion. He went for a second punch. Honestly, it felt like my brain burned to a crisp for a second. There was practically a mini-explosion on my face, forcing my eyes to water as I tried to regain awareness. I stumbled out of my seat, pondering everything as I cusped my nose.
“What the FUCK?”
“Took you long enough to notice the Artemia.”
He put them there. Of course, he was the one who handed me the water bottle. I had fallen into a trap. He stood up, posture oozing with utter confidence. With a smirk, he raced to get another punch in.
I dodged, barely avoiding his white-knuckled fist. Then, I countered, giving the bastard a taste of his own medicine before delivering a blow to his gut.
He went flying, clutching onto a random seat and panting.
“Shit!” He winced, wiping his bloody nose with one hand and clenching his stomach with the other. The air around us felt straining. “For someone so passive, you sure do know how to throw a punch. Makes me wonder about those people you assaulted.”
I wanted to kick his ass for that comment, yet I found it in me to refrain. He was baiting me. It wasn’t worth it. Just focus on doing what you need to. I held my fists to my face without a word.
“Eh, it doesn’t matter.”
And with that, I was reminded of the common trait amongst all prisoners.
The gifts.
I discovered just how much of a broad term that is. It can be something as passive as expansive knowledge, as menacing as inhuman strength, or as garish as the ability to wield lightning bolts or make maddening sludge. This guy seemed to be more in that garish genre.
The water inside both our bottles suddenly seeped out mid-air, defying gravity and seemingly multiplying in volume. It all centered around Dean’s core as he made some strange hand gestures. The Sea-Monkeys suddenly shriveled up, dying and disappearing into nothingness. I paused, unaware of what I was supposed to do except watch.
This proved to be my downfall.
Quicker than a flash, I found the water around my wrists and ankles. Dean shoved me to the ground with a painful foot, where the water suddenly froze to firm, thick ice.
Shit. SHIT.
I couldn’t move my limbs. He put me in glacial restraints, and nearly any power I had was lost at that moment.
Nearly.
I wheezed for air, but it felt impossible to obtain. I felt smothered, lying on the floor and starved of even a hint of hope.
Dean turned to face the exit. “This is good. If I put in some effort, you should die here within a few days.”
“Why are you doing this?!”
He stopped in his tracks, turning around and haunting me with a stern scowl.
“Oh, just think!” His foot rammed right into my rib cage. I was powerless to stop it. All I could do was simmer in pain. He kicked me again. “For once in your sad, stupid life, use your head and think!”
My body burned, and my head throbbed as a new dose of anguish eclipsed my senses. I gasped, “did Dolly put you up to this? Does she hate me that much?”
“That little lass has nothing to do with this!” His words echoed through the empty room with sheer brutality, “you’re trying to kill my best business partner!”
Oh.
Oh fuck.
He chuckled, “come on, you think I know all that information about you just…because?” Another wave of sharp pain greeted my sides. “No! I’m not like Dollina! I have to work for my information!”
I coughed, “Bozo…told you everything, didn’t he?”
“There we go! Right on the money!” He grimaced, “he’s been one of my most valuable assets ever since I got here, but after he discovered you, I’ve been getting less and less out of him!” He planted a grimy shoe on my face, creating a strange crackle noise in my neck. I felt the gunk on his sole rub against my cheek. It was degrading. It hurt. It hurt like all hell!
“Damnit! Can’t you see? You’ve been distracting my best source of info, and now you’re planning to kill him? I won’t allow that!”
He bent over, yanking my hair with a firm grasp. I thrashed around under his touch. It was futile. “It all dies here. You, your stupid plan, my distance from Bozo…it dies right here.”
My heart raced with worry. No. No! I didn’t want to die! I might not have much to live for, but even a guy like me has the will to survive. It might not always be keen, but my lust for life was sharp at that moment. I had a reason to keep going. I had a goal, a way to make things better, and even if it required some labor, I needed my plan to succeed. I didn’t want to be forced into the painful arms of death. I had survived so much. I couldn’t go through all that, only for some asshole to starve me to death with icy restraints on my wrists. Things were rolling; I couldn’t let them stop with my sudden fatality.
“This is the end of the road, Myles. Try all you want, but the ice is too thick. I’ll keep it frozen solid, too. You’re not escaping this. Have fun in the underworld.”
No.
It wasn’t over.
I knew what I needed to do. There were plenty of times when I considered it. There were days when the concept rested in the back of my mind, but that was the moment I knew I honestly had no other option. It wasn’t like my struggle with Bozo; there wasn’t going to be a lucky slip to save me, but more importantly, I knew that Dean didn’t want what I would give him. It was perfect. By all means, it was my last-ditch effort, my saving grace, my only remaining hope. I needed to do it.
…I did that tongue pop thing.
Sounds stupid, right? But that’s how it’s activated. My trump card. This feeling that Bozo desires so much. My last resort.
Insanity inducement.
That’s right. All it takes is a tongue pop. That’s all it takes to send someone spiraling down an unbearable path of overwhelming mania.
I don’t know what else to call it. Psychosis doesn’t really seem like the right word. I also don’t know why I have this…curse. I know it’s a gift; why else would I have previously concluded the visitor had two gifts if I wasn’t the same? If I weren’t, two would seem utterly unreasonable. In a way, it still was.
Plant manipulation and madness are entirely separate. They oppose each other so much it’s sort of funny. For the most part, I can forget about being able to bend plants at my will. It’s weird, but I never had to give it too much thought. It was just a fun little thing to kill time. But the overbearing burden of being able to ruin someone’s life in such a minuscule way has always influenced my self-image. I’d possibly even go as far to say that it was the underlying reason I turned to drugs in the first place. The playful, spring-like simpleness of modifying plants contrasts the stark sin of insanity inducement in such an ironically agonizing way. There’s nothing resembling a correlation. So why was this dreaded ability gifted to me?
I don’t think I’ll ever know. But I’ve spent all my life harboring a deep disdain for this unwanted gift. This power constantly looms over me; knowing I can destroy whoever I feel like…by doing a ridiculous tongue pop.
Some cultists may see this and blush green with envy. I know Trotsky would love to have this ability in his arsenal. Power seems to be heavily valued here, if the creation of the “notorious four” didn’t make that as clear as day. Arguably, the grim gift I have is one of the stronger ones out there. Sure, Trotsky’s monstrous strength is scary, and lightning-meisters are flashy and badass, but at the end of the day, it’s all futile if the mind is broken.
And how does that happen?
Well, I first noticed the ice wobble and melt into pathetic puddles on the floor. Then I focused my attention on Dean.
He let go of me immediately, suddenly standing up with a posture as still as a soldier. He looked akin to a deer when it heard a twig snap. But the trembling started. With watery eyes bloating from their sockets, he shook and looked off to the distance. I don’t know what he saw. I don’t know what anybody affected by this ability sees, but I know that their minds get sent to a disturbing place far from reality. Again, psychosis isn’t the right word; his brain was practically shattered—deluded by torturous horrors the darkest depths of a splintering mind could harbor.
He started whimpering and erratically shaking his head, as though that would make it stop. But that’s the thing. I don’t think it ever stops. Others who hear the tongue pop are imprisoned in dreadful delirium until they die. That was such a cruel fate. Dean would be reduced to…that for the rest of his days. He looked so pitiful, standing there, crying, mortified at whatever savage tricks his mind played on him.
Yet, despite looking so depressingly defenseless…
I got up and slugged him.
Again and again, I punched him until his face was a bloody, bruised mess. He fell to the floor. I’m pretty sure a tooth or two clambered to the floor as well. His glasses fell off during the process, so I promptly stomped on them.
I pointed my middle finger to the heavens before dragging it right in front of his eyes. “Hey fuckface, how many fingers am I holdin’ up?”
I don’t even know why I did it. Dean didn’t resemble a threat anymore; if anything, he was now my victim. But it was like that didn’t even register in my mind. I was overcome with a sense of boiling hatred, and for a split second, I relished in Dean’s fearful figure.
But then he cowered.
Spewing an incohesive jumble of noises, he crawled away from me, putting two quivering hands over his frightened, mangled face.
Oh my God, what was I doing?
It wasn’t self-defense anymore. I was just hurting this guy. I had stripped him of his sanity, of his dignity, and I had destroyed his future. He would never return to the man he once was. The real Dean Manjina was gone forever. And it was my fault.
Not again.
An overwhelming sense of guilt flooded my mind alongside a river of confusion. What was I supposed to do now? Should I tell someone? No, that would be incriminating. I didn’t need the consequences to hinder my plan. Should I at least apologize? No, he wouldn’t even understand me. I ruined him. But it wasn’t all my fault, right? I mean, he was trying to kill me! I had no other option! It was either his life or mine! This was the masquerade all over again. That fact made my legs wobble. Is this what it’s like to kill a man? But wait, I didn’t actually kill him, I just made him an erratic shell of who he was.
…So then, what was I supposed to do with his husk?
I walked away.
I didn’t know if there was anything else I could do without jeopardizing my future plans. If I told someone or tried to help, I felt it would only worsen things. In my panicked mind, it was better to just leave Dean be. It wasn’t like he was catatonic; he could still walk. I saw it all perfectly; eventually, he would stumble out of the theatre, and a guard would encounter him before confidently concluding that he had gone insane. Then, he would most likely notify the warden, who would pull a few strings and have him transported to a ward, just as he had presumably done with that Montana kid. Given the circumstances, that didn’t sound entirely terrible. It was going to be fine.
Dean played with fire, got burnt, and would be assisted with the unwavering wound for the rest of his life. There was no taking back what had already been done. All I could do was try to drown my culpability and walk away.
…I really am a shit person, aren’t I?
Well, shit or not, it doesn’t change what I did. Ignoring Dean’s cries, I returned to my cell with silent feet, sore ribs, and an aching nose.
Three times. That’s how many times I’ve done this. The first was a complete accident. I was in elementary, walking along the road, when I discovered a stray cat. It was a cute little thing with creamy white fur that resided amongst a sea of black. Its white paws looked like little mittens, and I wanted to pet it. So I began doing various things that were supposed to attract cats; the “pspsps” noise, a few tongue clicks, and when that failed, I awkwardly did one of those tongue pops.
But that drove the poor thing crazy. Literally. It started foaming at the mouth, making various feral noises before skittering away with a frantic sense of urgency. Ever since, it was known by other kids as the “rabies cat” before abruptly meeting its demise one autumn day. Even at a young age, I knew it was all my fault. Something about that noise, specifically from my mouth, was malicious. It had the power to cascade others into torturous irrationality.
The day my fellow second-graders talked about the cat’s fate, I went home and cried for hours. It was such an adorable cat. Such an innocent creature, tainted by something I had done. I was heartbroken by it.
…Though that’s in the past. I mean, that’s what I have to tell myself every time I think about it. It’s the only way I can cope with what transpired—telling myself that what’s done has been done; there’s no undoing it, I just have to look towards the future and try to be better.
But the future looked so unbearably bleak after I left the theatre room. I realized that what I learned amounted to very little. If I tried to execute anything resembling my plan, it would fail miserably. I needed more information.
Where was I supposed to get that?
I thought about it all, and it seemed I was stuck in a sorrowful corner. I thought about every knowledgeable person in this damned place; the warden, Dolly, Dean. The warden probably didn’t even know the clown was real. Dolly proved clueless when trying to kill Bozo, and Dean…well, do I really need to say anything? All the opportunities I could think of were hopeless, gone, and burned to the ground.
…Then I remembered one other person.
I was flipping through this journal, not only trying to take my mind off of what I had just done, but also trying to recall anybody else who might’ve been able to assist me in my plan. That’s when it occurred to me.
Teo Bian was the first to reveal his info-maniac side. The visitor very much liked to know things; it was one of his reasons for lurking around and reading my journal. For a second, I pondered just how much he knew about Bozo. Then I decided it was meaningless. I couldn’t wonder or consider my options. The visitor was my last hope, the only one who could possibly give me a fragment of his knowledge. I needed to attract him back to me.
I’m eating my words here. “I don’t want him to visit me ever again.” I need him to visit me again! But that would be difficult. He made it clear that he wouldn’t see me for quite a while after I had interrogated him. Even if he did begin to lurk around my cell once more, it’s not like I would know. I was asleep while he was active. The possibility of ever reencountering Teo Bian seemed out of my reach. But then I remembered a direct quote from him.
“Although, writing in that little journal will bring me back sooner.”
Well, that wasn’t much of a help. I’ve filled a third of the damn book since our last encounter, yet there was absolutely no sign of his return. That’s when his following sentence reverberated through my head.
“You should write about what happened at your little masquerade. I would love to hear about those dancers.”
…Is that really what it’s gonna take to see the visitor again?
Alright. Fine. If refusing to talk about what transpired has kept Teo Bian away, I’ll stop avoiding it. I mean, I’ve already been reflecting on how shitty I can be. It might feel good to finally elaborate on such a haunting incident. If it means I can finally put Bozo’s bullshit to an end, I’ll do it. At this point, I’m desperate and don’t have another choice.
So, I guess it’s time. Let’s talk about the masquerade.