She was perfect, a tangential sojourn from mediocrity.
It had been weeks since my bloody exodus from father’s oppressive parentage, and I found myself in the grip of a desperate need, a hunger: not the hunger that insures one’s meager survival, but the emptiness associated with a powerful loss. In the wake of such nourishing violence, nothing could satiate my sanguinary desires besides more, more, more… It was a phantom limb; I was on the precipice and this woman would be my salvation.
She was pawning various curios in the dilapidated markets of the Dregs. She was beauty beyond the words of the most celebrated poets and lovelier than anything I could ever dream into existence. She was impossible. A normal man could lose himself in her fiery locks, made radiant in the dappled sunlight of the mid-afternoon sun. However, for all her charms, she seemed crippled by an abject sadness. It was in her eyes, those salient pools of emerald bliss, and in the weakness of her smile, a ghost of remembered joy. I was thoroughly intimidated and afraid, but I needed her.
I approached, guarding my eagerness with all the skill of an amateur player upon his first night on the stage. I was a wreck, but I could not allow her to penetrate my nebulous guise if I were to feed freely that night. Luckily, I was halted by a fortuitous triviality, and a plan soon formulated. With a defeated hand, she withdrew a most interesting novelty from her satchel: a simple player’s mask of matte white and void of pronounced features. It was macabre in design, and it reminded me of Sinclair’s theory of Metaphorical Masks, Chapter 2 paragraphs 17 – 25. My sagacious mentor championed ideas of bloodlust and murder; central to these philosophies were personae construction and the optimization of predatory relationships. I needed that mask as much as I needed the woman, and I would have both that night.
I placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “Excuse me, ma’am. I have been perusing these reputable stands for hours seeking items of unique make. I was just about to retire, when I was struck by that curious mask you have there. Would you be willing to part with it?” I could sense her hesitation, not at the proposition but at the approach, so I shot her a reassuring smile. Ms. Fleischer of the Rock Bottom Tavern would endlessly drone on about my inspiring smile as she served up mugs of her famous bitter ale. Ostensibly, this woman was equally inspired and reciprocated as joyously as her sadness would allow.
“Of course, sir, but this mask is simple and unadorned; it cannot be worth much. To be honest, I only found it this morning outside the playhouse. It mustn’t have been that important.” Her voice rang out like a melancholy dove.
“Worth is subject to the buyer alone. I would be willing to pay as much as 10 gold pieces for that mask.” Her face transformed, a hopeful sunrise emerging from endless night. “Before you answer, we should surrender to more private quarters. There is a quiet spot just around the corner from the market we can discuss our arrangement.”
Her smile retreated quickly. “Sir, I’m married.”
“Congratulations are in order, ma’am. I assure you, I do not endeavor such dalliances; I simply wish to secure our agreement away from more vulgar suitors. However, forgive my boldness, but you are radiant. You must have been spun from the sun!” I laid bare my pouch of coin. “I am merely an eager bidder.” I was fumbling through my undeveloped charms, but she submitted.
She blushed and replied, “Of course, sir. Forgive my haste.”
In the seclusion of the foreboding access, we came to agreeable terms. “Thank you, truly! My husband and I were in dire need, and I did not wish to part with my modest wedding band. My dear, Elan. He has been troubled so.”
“It is I who is thankful, ma’am. You have made this curious collector very happy indeed.” The mask was in my grasp. I could feel the life-force of Sinclair pulsating through my hands in perfect harmony with my quickening heart beat. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hide my intentions. I adorned the mask…astounding! Every breath became a violent gust and every thought a nova of anticipation. “How do I look?”
“Dashing, I suppose. I’ll be off then, sir.” She turned, her gentle frame moving toward the sanctuary of the market. She turned…so did I.
With a simple flick of the wrist, my father’s strop razor was in hand. I surged, taking the fine mistress hard to the ground. It accepted her with harsh reprisal. I had her pinned with what I thought was a powerful hold, drew back her head with a handful of her glorious, ardent hair, and was ready to draw the blade across her pale throat. In my zealous strike, I relaxed my guard. With fight-or-flight strength, she lithely turned and caught me on the temple with a sharp blow, cracking the delicate mask of my abhorrent desires. Stunned, my thoughts swam through a thick pall and my vision was momentarily hindered. She continued to struggle, but I was able to regain my placement as the fog cleared. Then, as the first note of panic escaped her lungs, my blade finally met its mark. I pressed her face against the ground as her last shallow breaths bubbled forth. What little light was left in those vibrant eyes was soon extinguished. Her arm twitched, drawing closer to her body as if she was desperately changing the current of her essence. Then nothing.
Sweet relief. It fills me up, a cornucopia of murderous delight. This city is a stage, my playground. Its dregs…mere players in my tome of violence.