Please Help Support CTTA By
Checking Out Our Sponsers Products
Mr. Hayes surmises that even immortals should look before they
leap… Clarity By Aaron
hayes A whisper lurks, three shadows insane, yet of
all these faces only two shall remain. So many moons had I
witnessed since my awakening to the existence of those who prey, howl and feed
at the edges of the web. So many
eclipses had I admired since, having tasted the strangely Beautiful, I turned
my back on the seductions of Cruelty, abandoned her and escaped, naked, into
shadows content to forgo folding darkness around a diseased heart. I had thought it was over, but alas, tonight,
travelling home from work aboard a train, I found myself in the presence of one
who had abandoned his post at the asylum gates - one intent on drawing me into
a world where madness lives out its existence as darkness visible. It was strange
to look at all the smiling faces: the elderly lady with the Prada handbag on
her lap, emotions sated; the girl laughing as she spoke to something unseen;
the twenty-something man trying desperately to convince the world, through a
pose, that he was their alpha male; not one aware of the anomaly among
them. It blended, assimilated, but I
saw it. Sitting directly opposite, it
watched me - it knew I knew - then just as it tried to escape, the cover of a
tunnel embraced us, leaving it no place to hide. Though it was largely
concealed behind an archaic black and white cloak, I could still make out the
contours of its face: the masculine jaw-line, stunningly well-formed though
lacking the androgynous beauty of Aedalus; eyes partially beclouded by
insanity, pained yet elusive in colour; lips like suicide, a slit of the wrist,
and from the wound, upon exhale, a fine mist would escape, blending a tiny
crevice of black and white into grey. I
thought to myself, ‘Here is a beast of its own making, paying no heed to the
web, bowing its head to none. I see it, acknowledge it. It exists. Remorseless, relentless,
aesthetically perfect.’ I looked around
the carriage, wondering if others had seen it, and was struck by the degree of
composure surrounding me. Society, it appeared, had given them a false
sense of protection, allowing them to reside safe under its protective wings,
unaware of the Thing gnawing away at fragile feathers. They refused to
fear what It feared and what feared It, refused to see that to one outside the
web, to take their lives would be merely that - to take their lives. An
act. A simple act. An act that simply … was. The
seductive warmth of the unperceived flame burns near. Through the window I
could see the misty lights of the station in the near distance, faint movements
of life preparing to board and escape the crisp chill of night. I decided to try to get the thing’s
attention before we stopped. “What do you
want from me?” It said
nothing, and just sat, looking at me, occasionally smiling while the bravest of
insects timidly approached. “Who are
you? What are you?” I asked as
the train slowly approached the platform. He made a wave
of his hand to dismiss my questioning, which revealed an index finger decorated
with two beautiful marble rings - if marble they be - each bearing a curious
insignia: the one at the base bore a cross; the other, higher up near
the tip, a perfect cube. Then, just as
I was about to ask about the insignias, a commotion broke out in the
neighbouring carriage as passengers began to board. The figure before me stood up; I followed as he slowly approached
the door, and there, in the middle of the carriage, surrounded by passive
onlookers too afraid to intervene, were two young men savagely beating a frail
old man. The pleasure in their eyes revealed a thirst sated. A need.
Something primal. I could see
the fear in the old man’s eyes, the storm in theirs. There was nothing he could do, nothing the onlookers would
do. Silent, calm,
expressionless in spite of the commotion, the cloaked figure stood
watching. And then it spoke: “I think a part
of you, something forgotten, forbidden, yet still a part of you, understands
that it is the inaction of the meek which allows people like this to
exist. Besides, you need it, so why
deny it? Why deny the very thing which gives you life? Like a flame in the pit of your stomach - a
flame fueled by the blood of ancestors whose deaths preceded the births of
Gods.” He paused for a moment; his eyes
searching mine as though looking for signs of agreement or understanding. “What is it you fear? Take a look
around you. How can you deny the existence of throats which not only
deserve, but beg for the edge of a razor?
Let go. Let it go.” Although I had
thought I would never again sink to the depths in which Reapers thrive, what I
heard then and there, amidst the faint howls of unfamiliar forms of life, was
not a voice, not a whisper, nor the lost thoughts of a broken mind, but the
beckoning of a forsaken shadow, an awakening of the animal within. It
seized me, embraced me, whispered its secret unto me: “You kill, therefore I
am.” The last
grain of sand is called, but to whom does the hour glass belong? As though I were a
spectator above witnessing a scene unfold below, I watched myself reach for the
fire extinguisher before turning toward the two men. The old man’s eyes, like two dying embers given a final breath,
lit up weakly as I approached. Pity
turned to rage, rage into action; I swung the extinguisher down upon the head
of the one with his back to me and was momentarily struck at the fragility of
the human skull. Before his friend
could react, I struck him also, raining down blow after blow upon the bloodied
mess; savouring each and every scream, relishing every single blow, I took
fright, for but a second, at the reflection of failed gods in the window. Seduced by the Black Widow herself, enslaved
by the web within, I surrendered to her wholly; through delicate fangs she
injected me, paralyzed me, drank me, took possession of all that was I - the
very fabric of all that defined me. The
last grain of sand has been called, but to whom did the hour glass
belong? Once it was
over, all present fell silent. And I
sat, under the flickering light of the carriage, while the animal within licked
its bloodied paws. I stood up, cast a long look of satisfaction upon the
bodies which lay before me, then turned to the Beast as he extended his
hand. I took it without hesitation, and in an instant found myself
falling through something, which, as yet, I am still unable to
explain.
Upon arrival, scared yet alive with the taste of blood, I asked where we were.
He simply lay a finger on his lips, and from those pale divides there escaped a smile,
a tainted smile, a blackened, wistful, almost blasphemous smile, as he pointed, with his
other finger, toward a sun I had thought already set. As my eyes began to make out the faint
outlines of what appeared to be a public restroom, my ears touched upon the faint cries of a
muffled voice. The figure beside me motioned for
me to open the door to the left cubicle so I reached forth and gave it a push.
And there! There! Right in front of my very eyes was the frail old man
from the train …raping Innocence itself! Just as I was about to confront my
mysterious guide, the old man took fright at the sound of two younger voices in
the distance. They were yelling out a name: “Rachel!” The old man, as best
as his age would allow, ran past me as though I were nothing more than the faded remains
of a lost memory. The girl screamed, a chase ensued, and with two men in pursuit,
the chase led down the stairs of the nearest subway, through and over the ticket gates,
and on to the waiting train. And as we stood watching from the platform, enveloped
in the evening mist, I looked on in horror - absolute horror - as a figure in grey,
extinguisher in hands, approached two young men who had merely sought justice in
accordance with a primeval instinct.