Chapter 15
The Woman; trapped in her subconscious freak show, tried to break herself free, but there was no give in the shackles restraining her arms. As much as she squirmed, they only pulled tighter; the living organisms twisting and turning around the length of her arms and legs, holding her fast against the wooden chair; its splinters digging into her ravaged skin.
“This is only Famine,” she thought out loud.
“Only Famine? The Famine is entire, but it is not alone” said The Clown Host, dancing around The Woman.
His two gloved hands moved like a windmill, one arm swinging after the other from the height above his head to the length below his knees where his oddly shaped feet stretched out well beyond the symmetry of his gangly body.
The crowd erupted in cheer, clapping their hands accordingly; not a beat was out of place except for the sound of one man who in the trail of laughter and appreciation, held his ovation one second longer than the rest of the cast which gave one the sensation that all of this might just be real and allowed The Woman to be whisked away by the absurdity of it all.
She squeezed her eyes shut hoping to open them and see whatever devastation was more familiar and welcoming than this. She wished she could see her lover, the man she left behind on a cold steel table; alive, but very much like she was now; buried in his subconscious being beset upon by the keepers of his memories, as she by the keeper of her own.
How could she have let him just lie there? How could she have let The Behemoth turn her mind like the pages of a book or the closing of a blind? Now she too lay still and disturbed and she wasn’t sure how or if it was even possible to get out from here. What cruelty had she kept for herself disguised as not dealing with or even wanting to know the truth?
“Everything is one,” she said.
“Yes and in between there are many more ones; of infinitely smaller scale; fractals of the same patterns of disobedience that make the whole a complete works of its parts. Shall we examine the finer details?” said The Clown Host, turning to his imaginary audience that upon the buzzing of a red applause light, once again erupted in ovation.
The Woman tried to fight her way free but again, the organisms making a prisoner of her pulled tighter against her body. She lifted her eyes to the sky that was now black but lit by a million stars that at first looked like a handful of grains of sand scattered on a glass table but as she trained her eye, the tiny glitches of light shimmered brighter and swelled to the size of small moons, spinning around like a ceiling fan; faster and faster until the blur of light tipped her concentration on its edge, sending her careening into her further subconscious.
When the twisting of the light slowed and settled, her eyes focused on a burly man standing over her as she lifted her head from hands; her eyes still hazy from the piles of dust that had blown up into the air and her ears laden with splinters of rocks from the explosion.
“Now is the time to run,” said the voice standing above her.
“What happened? Who are you? Where is Marcos?”
“Run,” said the voice lifting her off her rump and pushing her out into the open where the air hanged heavy with the aroma of rebellion.
Smoke billowed high into the air, casting a thick black cloud out over the sky as fires raged across the city; its crackling deafened only by the sound of breaking glass and breaking bones.
The Woman ran at first with the force of the calamitous hands that threw her forward and then carried on by her will to die anywhere but here and anytime but now; urging herself onwards with the belief that each next step would be the last and each and every next breath would be less noxious than the one before; a reason to keep running, a reason to hold one’s breath.
As she ran, she knocked against people running in equal fright, in opposite direction; hitting chests and elbows and shoulders; being thrown off direction if at all she had any direction other than ‘run’.
Every time she hit another person they would exchange groans quickly and in the thick blanket of smoke, they would rebuild themselves and reassert their awareness of death’s impedance and run forwards again into their escape.
As she ran, she thought of her lover. He could have been right beside her and she would never know. What if he had died? What would she do then? How would she be appreciated? She willed herself forward with every bound and fought the tears that built under her clenching eyes, her hands pulling tight to her body as she blindly ran through the streets until something heavy knocked her to the ground.
“Get up, get up,” said the voice but it wasn’t Marcos.
The Woman lay in a crumpled heap, her body twisted like an old fishing line. Around her, chaos ensued but in her mind; as she lay fallen on the earth, a moment of calm washed upon her shore.
“Is death less angry, when we accept its invitation?” she thought to herself and the shouting and screaming that orchestrated the sound in her ears faded into a mild tremor like the sound of a car backfiring some kilometers off in the distance on a cold still night.
It was audible, but not enough to wake a sleeping dog and in the solitude and liberation of resignation, she sat idle; her mind opiated with a tender smile on her face, waiting for death to come.
“Lift her arms, throw her over my shoulder,” said Marcos, his voice coming into her mind like a picture of home; when you are so very far away from it.
“Can you see anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Through here. Come on.”
“It’s ok, don’t die on me. We’re gonna get through this.”
She could hear his voice, but she felt numb to his words. She just sank into her submittal as her lover pinned her hands over his shoulders and carried her firmly on his back as they dodged and weaved their way through a blanket of nothingness and it was amazing how a little bit could mean so much when you had nothing at all.
All she wanted to do was to be able to look into his eyes without seeing that darkness that suffocated her soul. She wanted to hold his hand without feeling a cold shiver ripple through her fingers and dance upon her spine. She wanted to kiss him without tasting poison on his lips. She wanted to hate him, but love had her trapped and as she draped over his back; his calloused hands clasped around her wrists, the regret and shame that had been the well of her inspiration had now vanquished, replaced by a simple clamant want to survive.
She lay against his back, her mind awash with endorphin as the pain in her legs became a dull throbbing with her mid floating above all of their problems; her body carried on her lover’s expectation and direction and she, not giving a fuck.
“Can you move your feet. Try to wiggle your toes” said Marcos holding up her face with both hands looking worryingly into her eyes as her body lay limp on the ground.
The air was clearer and the shouting had died to a dull roar. She could hear it in her ears, but it didn’t sound close or troubling. Instead, she laid still, just enjoying the moment; her body writhing in pain but her mind free of the emotional restraint of her love for that man and the hurt that it had brought her.
“We’ll stay here for now. I know somewhere we can go, where you will both be safe. There is a building not far from here.”
“We can’t go back out there. She can’t walk.”
“Give it some time.”
“What hit her? Was it a rock?”
“It was a body. She was lucky, it was young and malnourished so not much weight. It could have been much worse.”
“I can’t lose her. She’s all I have.”
The Woman listened as the men talked and slowly the pain returned to her body. She felt it first in the base of her spine; sharp jolts of electricity pulsing through to the front of her brain causing her fingers to twitch and aches to grow in every muscle.
She groaned lightly as she shifted the weight in her body, trying to lift herself from her prone state having spent the greatest part of too much time in staring at the same murky water stain on the ceiling where they hid from the effect
of rebellion and uprising. She wasn’t really sure what she was frightened of anymore; returning to the fret of life, or the weight of her heart.
“Are you ok?” asked Marcos leaning over her.
“I’m fine. Feels like a fucking truck ran over me” she said.
“12 year old boy. Hit you like the morning sun” said the voice that she didn’t know but recognized from somewhere.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“We’re safe for now. We’ll rest here until you gather your strength then I’ll help you get somewhere higher, away from this, at least until it passes” said the voice.
“Who are you?” she asked untrustingly.
“He is a friend,” said Marcos.
“How do you know him Marcos?” she asked.
“Listen, you shouldn’t worry yourself. You’re going to be ok. Your husband is a very smart man; a fine thinker” said the voice now coming from a burly face hidden behind a large scruffy beard.
The man was enormous. His size alone could block out the sun. The Woman looked to Marcos for assurance. In his eyes, she found the familiarity in some ways she hoped to see, that same warm blanket of grievance that snuggled about her soul engraving itself in the bitter reflection of her voice as she continued to condemn through passive participation.
“Who the fuck is he Marcos?” she yelled.
“It’s ok. Trust me. He’s going to help us” said Marcos consolingly.
“How? The network is dead. There’s no light, there’s no power, there’s no fucking Industry. The Industry is fucking dead Marcos. It’s not coming back. This… This madness, this is our fucking honeymoon Marcos. It’s only gonna get worse from here, now what the fuck is he going to do?” she screamed.
“I have a place. It’s high, away from the rebellion. You can stay there. It’s guarded so you will be protected” said the voice.
“Marcos, you trust him? Really?” said The Woman.
“What choice do we have?” said Marcos.
“Where is this place?” she asked the man.
“In the centre of The City. You’ll have to go alone. I will help you as far as I can. You’ll be fine as long as you keep light. It is safer for you downtown” said the man.
“Why are you helping us? Do you know what’s happening?” she asked.
“You’re right. Everything is off. The network is down, the grid is down, everything is zero. As far as I can tell it’s not coming back” he said.
“What about the police? They’re supposed to protect us. They uphold the law. Where the fuck are they?” she screamed.
“Everything is reliant on the servers and with no electricity, there is no command. So there are no Moderators, not anymore. This is what happens when the lights go out. This violence will pass. This first wave at least. You just have to get yourself somewhere high. Think of it like a tidal wave. Get yourself out of its flow, eventually it will settle. These people are frightened and angry and while they are in this state, they are incredibly dangerous” said the man.
“How did this happen?” asked Marcos accepting the man as informed.
“I guess someone just flicked the wrong switch,” the man said.
“They’ll fix it,” she said.
“Who are they?” said the man.
“The Industry. They’ll fix it. They have to” she said fractiously.
“You said it yourself. They are no more, only us. We have to fix it” the man said.
“They’re working on it right now,” said The Woman.
“It’s been months. There’s nothing. There will be nothing if we wait” said the man.
“I don’t believe you. Marcos, I don’t believe him. Marcos, I want to go, I’m ok, I can walk. Marcos can we leave please?” she said, pulling on her lover’s arm staring at him like a scared kitten, giving him the will to make the decision but willing him into it with her want to be far from this man.
“Where is this place?” Marcos asked the man.
“Do you know the old cathedral?” said the man.
“Near the Infant Plant?” said Marcos.
“That’s it. You’re looking for Industry Towers. It’s on the..”
“I know where it is. Industry Towers, are you sure?” he asked.
“You’ll be met by a one-armed man,” said the man.
“And then what?” asked Marcos.
“You will say to him; ‘brand new day’; nothing else, just those three words. He will know that I sent you. You will go to the highest floor and make your bed there, for the meantime.”
“How soon until we see you again?” asked Marcos.
“The facility will be ready soon. I will find you.”
“Marcos, what facility? What’s going on Marcos?” The Woman asked.
“I’ll explain. Thank you” he said shaking the man’s hand firmly.
“Keep her safe,” said the man.
And then the two were off; out of the dulled self-assurance of their cramped confines and into the breeze of rebellion; their hearts pounding once again, their blood pumping and their feet dancing to the tune of ataxia; moving without specific rhythm and counter directive but of more assurance to them; especially The Woman, than sitting still.
The Woman held tight to Marcos’ body as they entered the black smoke again which had now lifted somewhat and lightened as most of the fires dimmed and a grey mist swept through the city bringing with it a light rain and cold chill. As they moved along the walkway their eyes burned from the charred earth drifting about the dry air.
“I can’t see anything Marcos, where are we going?” she said.
“Near the building that man mentioned, there’s an old underground rail. It’s been abandoned for years, occupied only by dogs and rats. It runs off of this wall. We can hold there until the air clears. Just keep close to me” Marcos said.
“Who was he? Why did he help us?” she asked.
“Just a man, that’s all,” he said.
“What aren’t you telling me?” she asked.
“Everything you don’t need to know,” he said.
She wanted to be mad at him but what was the use? She could then walk blindly into a pitch black fog, mad and petrified. What a pitiful combination. She had no right to question him, she lost that a long time ago and so she submitted to the man whose rule had little charity and even less time for playing reasonable.
As they walked, her body ached horrendously but she kept herself going on the scent of her own dependence sweating from her pores as she clung to her lover’s arm like a child to its favourite toy.
The walk was long and tricky. The streets were wild with rampage and rebellion. Through the thick blanket no sight could be seen except for the extent of abandon and the cursing of hope which could be felt in every step as beneath them, the earth shuddered from hundreds of thousands of feet stampeding this way and that, all shrieking harrowingly into the air.
Like a cancerous clot, the waves of rioting people spread through the veins of The City until they pushed against one another, their fists clenched and swinging, their voices hoarse; without a loyalty and without a sense of team; kicking and scratching at anything that breathed and setting fire to anything that did not.
“Here, watch your head,” said Marcos as he held back a board blocking an entrance and helped The Woman squeeze through; pushing her more than helping her.
The Woman tripped as she entered the station, scratching her hands against the floor and grazing the skin. The air was warm and damp. It was heavy on the lungs, but it was easier to breathe than the air they had left outside. She moved blankly through the main foyer trying not to imagine what beasts might be watching in the dark all about her.
When Marcos pushed his way off the streets and let the board fall back against the entry, the foyer fell into complete darkness as the trail of fires lighting the air and the streets outside vanished into repression.
“Do you hear that?” The Woman said panicking.
In the distance wa
s born a sound akin to a small animal suffering profusely. It wasn’t loud, but its echo seemed to swim in the air and it crept into The Woman’s conscious riot, causing her concerns to swell convincingly.
“It’s a child,” said Marcos.
Immediately The Woman felt a heavy culpability sinking her focus, pulling from the depths of her inner shame. There was that word again; one that she had fought to never speak.
“Why here; in the quiet of my thoughts,” she thought to herself.
Marcos had in his pocket an old flint. It made little light of their blindness, but each spark was enough to count the next step and to be sure that the space of one’s shadow remained reserved only for it and not the unkind stalking of monsters and ghouls and goblins and ghosts.
As he struck the flint, the foyer flashed orange and white and their eyes met with only an instant of recognition of shapes and their placement and the wondering of their being was something their minds constructed. The scratching of the sliding metal sent an abhorrent shiver through her spine and made her feel like she had spiders crawling over her body and in the crevice of her ears.
“It is, it’s a child,” said Marcos, crouching low and holding the newborn in his arms; moving his head left and right and scanning the infinite dark, looking with his ears for the sound of a trap being sprung.
“What do we do with it? Shall we kill it? You do it, I can’t” said The Woman.
“It’s not a stray cat. It’s a child. We can’t just kill it” said Marcos.
“Then what do we do? It won’t stop crying. Make it stop Marcos. Please make it stop” she pleaded.
Marcos stood up with The Woman still close to him, but only out of fear. There was no love in any breath that fell upon his skin from her beating heart. The Woman told herself that the infant’s screams would call hungry dogs to their scent; that unless they did something, their peace would be in pieces and war would come to them. Its voice was so loud and annoying. How could anything as eminent as a human come from something so decrepit and abrading?
Marcos held the crying infant close to his chest and swung his body back and forth, but it did nothing. It was as if the rocking awoke the infant to the closer proximity of its rescue, making it scream louder and higher; more urgent and more annoying.
The Woman pinned her hands to her ears trying to snuff out the noise, but it was no use. Her mind ached as if someone was stabbing hundreds of pins into her eyes and the heaviness in her stomach became heavier.
“Hold it,” said Marcos, pushing the infant into her breast.
“No Marcos, get it away from me” she screamed, pushing the infant back, almost causing it to fall from her lover’s grip.
“You can make it stop,” he said.
“I can’t help it. Nobody can help it. Marcos, don’t do this to me” she pleaded.
“It’s the least you can do, now take this child” he demanded forcing the infant into her belly.
“No,” she said, pushing his arms back again, now wanting the infant to fall on its head and stop its incessant living.
Marcos took the infant to his mouth, turning it in his hands so that its ear brushed against his chapped lips. He pulled the infant close and hushed loud and prolonged into its ear.
“What are you doing?” asked The Woman.
“Shut up” he responded.
He continued to hush loud and forcefully into the infant’s ear; the sound similar to a gale wind smashing against a tin shed. He hushed in prolonged breaths until finally something in the infant triggered, something primal in its brain switched on and its eyes widened, its pupils dilated and its volume switched off.
The infant entered a state of pure quiet and silence then again returned to the darkness and The Woman’s thoughts felt less intricate.
“What now? We can’t keep it. We should put it down. It will give us away” she said.
Marcos placed the infant on the floor; moving some pieces of plastic and wood by its side it so it wouldn’t be rattled by its own movement. It lay there staring up at them with its opiated eyes looking through their catatonia; searching for some remnant of salvation. It didn’t look anywhere except for in The Woman’s eyes and it pressed with blinding hope through the coldness of her flesh and beat against the tin door of the empty room where her soul should have been kept.
Its eyes never lost their strength, peeling back every layer of negated traverse that she had built between the small scared hungry infant and herself as she focused not on the small thing before her, applying some forgotten rule of nature, but on keeping herself firm against a barricade she had built somewhere in the nether of her subconscious, and the gentle passing of wanted love by this child was calling whatever monster she had kept prisoner in the depths of her memorial neglect, out into the ill-favored affectation of her conscious mind to piss in the desert of her emotions.
The Woman collared her eyes shut, extending every molecule and every frail anorexic string to be the full weight of her eyes holding shut; for the tiny slither of flesh and its weak muscle to be heavied by gravity; to seal shut and only open when this foul dependent appurtenance was no longer trying to undo her cynical prevarication.
The infant remained quiet and still, lying on its back in the dark; its eyes tuned to The Woman who clutched angrily and dismissively with her nails into her lover’s wrist, silently resonating her discontent.
“What does it want?” she asked, refusing to look the thing in the eye.
“To live I assume” Marcos responded.
“What do we do with it? I mean what would The Industry do?” she asked.
“I have no idea” he responded.
“Well what does your book say?” she asked.
“It mentioned nothing about this,” he said.
“We’ll just leave it here. It’s quiet now. It won’t affect us. Look its happy, see? It’s ok now” she said, pointing blindly to the infant which attained a blank unaffected expression.
Neither Marcos nor The Woman was experienced in the existence of infants. Both had been one; this was accepted as a probable truth, but neither had assimilated any part of their identity to this point of their existence where this being had still to develop into a human; something that took many years of crafting, fostering and forming by Industry experts. These devolved creatures; these unindustrialized infants were incapable of feelings.
Without identity, how could one possible have emotion?
“OK let’s leave it. Stay close to me. We’ll wait down on the platform.”
“Why not here?” she asked.
“Isn’t that obvious?” he said tilting his head to the infant on the floor.
“Two minutes ago you said we can’t kill it and now you can’t be near it? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for getting as far away from this thing as possible. You wanna make me feel bad, I’ll cast a stone at you too” she said.
“It reminds me of a pet rat I killed once”
“Really, you compare an infant to a rat? Tell me how one of these can show you affection” she said, pointing to the infant which still kept its eyes trained to The Woman.
“I don’t know. Well, this rat, it had a horrible lump on the side of its head, it was disgusting. I looked up on the net and it said it had a tumor and well, operating would cost thousands and I bought the thing for six bucks and nothing appreciates that well so I had to kill it” he said.
“But why? Why didn’t you just throw it over the railings?” she asked.
“Industry. My Investor, you remember him, the one I had to kill. Well, he worked in Ambience so I had to assume that disposing of it would contravene his preference so I acted accordingly and I drowned it. Quite horrible actually. It just kept popping up and hitting the bottom of my hand. I could feel it just hitting and throbbing at my palm. It took so long for it to give up and die. That has to be a horrible way to go” he said.
“And because of that you don’t want to put this thing out of its suffering?” she said.
“Amongst other things”
“Like what?”
“You accept that The Industry made mistakes yeah? Well I don’t feel any desire to help this child for the sake of its own suffering or what I guess I perceive as being suffering but, I am driven by opposites and now especially after I lost my faith my north has become The Industry; more importantly, what would The Industry not want me to do? My every instinct wills me to kill it or use it as bait, but I know that’s not me, that’s my learning, it’s my branding. It’s not my voice in my head, it’s The Industry’s” he said.
“What if this is all a test? What if they are still there, watching and this is a test? They may not be there now but what if they come back?” she said.
“They’re not coming back. They are us” he said.
“You really think so?” she asked like a child.
“We should think about what to do with this infant.”
“We want to be humane, right? Well, maybe we should break its neck? It would die immediately. There would be no suffering. I mean, why prolong the inevitable?” she said.
“Because the inevitable is not the immediate.”
“So?”
“So when do you want me to ring your neck? If it’s the inevitable that proposes our solutions then…” he said.
“I don’t know Marcos. You do what you want to do. You already have your mind made up, why do you even bother asking me my opinion?”
“We are responsible to each other. Every decision we make now affects the two of us. There is no Industry, there are no Investors. Up is down, left is right and wrong is where I am willing to start to get my footing. Question yourself. Erase yourself. Your identity doesn’t matter now. You’re, blank just like this thing on the floor. All you need to think about is staying alive. Zero and fucking one”
“Then who the fuck am I?” she screamed.
“I have no idea” replied Marcos.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“Pick up the infant. You’ll carry it at your breast” he said.
The Woman, in unwilling assent, picked up the infant from the floor and held it like a soiled garment; far from her body with a disgusted shiver running from her fingertips to the base of her spine as if its breath were some horrible warm fluid running onto her skin and causing her dysfunction.
Marcos took the lead, inconsiderate as always to her discomfort, being quick to set unrealistic standards but never being one to have to attain them. He didn’t offer the slightest assistance and offered no thanks whatsoever for assuming the labour of his lead.
“What now?” she asked as they stood on the edge of the platform, not far from where they had found the abandoned infant.
“We can wait here or we can try our luck through the tunnels. The tracks head east. If we walk for a couple of blocks and find a manhole we should be able to pop up somewhere near the cathedral” he said.
“And you know this how exactly?” she said skeptically.
“One of us has to make the decisions here and with your experience…”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she screamed.
Just as she did a rush of footsteps came down the steps from the foyer to the platform; a group of maybe ten people. They were arguing amongst one another; some pushing and fighting while others debated as to whether ‘they’ would be at the end of the tunnels; probably underground because that’s where The Industry would be if there was ever a crisis or a catastrophe.
The group; directed by The Woman’s scream, made their way to the platform and encircled Marcos and The Woman; who was now holding the infant incriminatingly, feeling as if she had just been caught in the middle of a shameless act of indulgence; one contrary to an accepted moral standard. And the Industrialists; the hedonists of righteousness in an age of moral plunder, looked upon The Woman in vile contempt, not caring to imagine what disturbance these two foul humans were engaged in, under the path of ruin with this tiny repugnant thing between them.
“What are you doing with that creature?” said a woman in the group.
The others cackled and heckled, throwing their fists in the air carrying long sticks of fire that crackled as they fed on the still air of the platform. The Woman looked to Marcos; fear freezing her blood and her instincts wishing her to throw this infant; this vile creature, over the tracks and feed it to the dogs. Marcos pulled her closer keeping the infant blocked from their greedy clutches.
“Give us the creature and we’ll kill you quickly,” said another woman in the group.
“And if you don’t…” said the man beside Marcos, finishing his sentence with a gesture that spoke of their will to make sexual meat of him and The Woman.
The only thing The Woman could think was, “this stupid fucking infant. It’s all its fault.”
She wanted to give it away. She knew the cruelty of men and more so, the cruelty of women having lived her life as a torturous spectator of the effect of truth, reason and obligation. She knew what depravity humans were capable of; in the name of divinity.
More footsteps sounded and rushed towards them. They were lighter; children and many of them. The group turned in defense and as they did Marcos struck at the man and woman in front of him carrying torches; both falling to the floor in the confusion.
Marcos grabbed The Woman by the arm and pulled her through the pack as a horde of children scampered along the walls like rabid monkeys; armed with small agile stabbing instruments, showering the Industrialists in concentrated venom; their will and dissension completely overpowering the hungry and weakened adults as, far from the carnage, The Woman fled through the dark, gripped by her lover and driven by her will to exist.
Her lover’s pull heavied as they raced up the stairs and kicked out the board blocking their exit. Marcos raced through first and pushed his arms back through.
“Give me the infant” he screamed.
“I threw it away,” she said.
The last word fell like a stone in water. It sank into her conscious mind and for the first time, she felt a wrongness in something that had come of her so inherently; something that her learning would have had her believe as being right. But as silence settled upon her own words and in the second before she was wrenched out into the night, she felt her lover’s heart once more cast itself in an iron shell and she realized then what he had meant.
The weight of her every decision was worn by him and this awakening made her feel strange, though she couldn’t explain it even if she tried; so she didn’t.
When she woke inside her conscious theatre; still bound in the chair, she could see The Clown Host jumping about in front of her.
“What is real?” she thought.
“If I am not real, then will me away,” said The Clown Host.
The Woman pulled at her restraints, but they pulled tighter on her. Though her immediate bind was plaguing and disturbing, she was emotionally drawn more to the dreams and delusions of which she had been slipping in and out of and every time she awoke to reality, her conscious mind felt like it was drowning in the thick muddy waters of guilt and regret; two words she didn’t have in her cognition.
“What are you? What is this sick game? Where am I?” she said, spitting the last words; her breath of no companion to her lungs.
“You are home,” said The Clown Host as behind it, in the foulness of the dark, a switch flicked like the cracking of thunder and light flooded in all around her.
Her eyes stung at first and everything appeared white. Then slowly she saw definition. Around her; at every side, were faces. At first they were a blur but as her focus returned, she could see that every face was her own. They all applauded her insanity and cheered for more fright while their host; a small colourful clown danced about her in joyful glee.
“What do you want me?”
“What you are hiding. We all want to know the truth” said The Clown Host and the whole crowd started cheering and stomping their feet on the bannisters.
T
he applause sign was buzzing and the producer; a fat little man with The Woman’s head was throwing his arms in the air like a crazed conductor, egging everyone to strengthen their appeal and accelerate her tribulation.
“There is no hidden truth. Tell me what you want to know. I’ll tell you everything. I promise” she said.
“I think we need to go deeper,” said The Clown Host, waving to the crowd who were now on their feet clapping hysterically.
“There is no truth” she cried to herself as her consciousness rolled over itself and she tripped into a blackout, awakening to another memory.