Realities

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Mystery and Crime  |  House: Booksie Classic

After watching his beloved die, James Blackmore snaps. Several years later we find him locked up and dangerous.

Shut up, I know it's very similar to Silence of The Lambs or whatever.

He was on the edge of his seat.  He was absolutely enthralled by the majesty before him, by the girl with the stage lights glinting harshly off her stark white tulle.  He didn’t dare break eye contact the entire performance, and he was positive the other audience members though he was insane… but he didn’t care.  Who would’ve known ballet could be so fascinating?

He went back every night during that week, despite his roommate's protests. “Seriously man! It’s officially creepy! You don’t think she’s gonna notice you creepin’ on her from the front row?!” His roommate, Brandon called from the kitchen.  He finished the knot on his tie, and glanced back at his friend, “Since when do I listen to you?” Brandon looked hurt for a moment but shrugged his shoulders and chuckled, “I don’t know man.  I really don’t.  Have fun, ya freak.”

He walked out to his beat up Honda Civic and bent to check his hair in the side mirror. The mirrors were covered in filth from the recent rainstorm and the asphalt was covered with mud, but he shrugged it off, he’d just have to be extra careful.

Tonight was the last night of the performance, tickets were nearly sold out, and he’d bought a bouquet of six long-stemmed roses (six was her lucky number) for his prima ballerina.

He held the roses carefully at his side as he bought a ticket, and tucked them behind his back as he walked down the hallway to her dressing room. “Rosie?” he whispered as he knocked softly on the black door with the golden star. “Who is it?” she called back. “It’s Leo, I have something for you.” he replied. “Okay come in.”

He entered the dusty dressing room, the walls were lined with clothing racks and in the far left corner sat an enormous vanity covered in assorted cosmetics.  She was sitting at the vanity brushing on makeup and spraying her hair. “I have something for you, Rosie.” He held out the six roses. “Oh, they’re lovely, but I would’ve preferred white roses... they'd've matched my costume.” He panicked. “Ah, but my love, red suits you so much better.” She took the roses from him and set them on the vanity, “You’re right, I do like red better.” He was safe. “I’d better go Rosie, the show starts in ten minutes.” “Well alright then, I guess I’ll see you after the show.” She resolved.

The ballet was as spectacular as usual.  The final death scene had just begun, where the swan is getting torn apart.  This scene had always brought tears to his eyes, and he braced himself for the impact to come.  The music crescendoed and she fell, it was the same as always.  He was brushing away a few stray tears when he noticed something, red soaking through the delicate white fabric of her costume.  Oh, there was so much blood.

Three whole counts had passed and she was still collapsed onstage. All the other dancers were already backstage taking off their shoes and fetching drinks and here she was, dead.

He called over to the man in front of him, “Hey! Is she okay?!” The man just shrugged and smiled, “I don’t know kid, but she’s a brilliant actor!” “No, I think she’s really hurt!!” he protested. “Look buddy, it’s just a show, she’ll be fine.” But he wasn’t listening. “Someone help! Someone please help her!” He shouted at the top of this lungs as he dashed down the stairs towards the stage. “Hey! Someone catch him!” The light crew manager shouted through the speakers. He glanced up at the stage, she was still there. She was ghostly pale, her dark hair was tangled and knotted,and dark dashes of crimson were splattered upon the feathers of her swan costume.

“Come on kid.” Large, rough hands seized his arms and cuffed them behind his back, and the audience began cheering. They were cheering as his beloved lay dead upon the stage.

That day something snapped inside him. He grew angry and vicious and vengeful. Next thing he knew he’d been charged with the murder of six.

“So yeah that’s why he’s here.” Bree finished explaining to the new guard.  “Interesting, interesting.” the guard mused, “And is he still-?” “Violent? Extremely.” “But it’s been exactly twenty-three years since it happened. Shouldn’t he have recovered?” Bree sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose,“Mr. Vincent, is it?” he nodded, “Mr. Vincent, no one here fully recovers from whatever disturbed them. We have tried helping all of these people.  Some responded really well, and are now living nice normal lives in the city, and others, like Mr. Blackmore, for example have not. That is why I need you to stand watch at the top of the corridor to make sure none of these... freaks escape. Do I make myself clear?” “Yes Ma’am.”

“Now Vincent, I need you to stand watch at Corridor B. They tell me you’re the best watchmen in all of Sandalova County, so don’t let me down.” “Yes Ma’am.”

He marched down the hallway to Corridor B, hand gripped tightly on his nightstick. He needed this job, he’d lost so many before, and maybe this was his chance to make it to bigger and greater things.  

At the gate he flashed his ID at the current guard on duty. “Ah, are you the new guy?” the guard asked. “Yup, my name’s Miguel Vincent, and you are?” “Joseph, but if I like ya, you can call me Joey.” “Well Joseph, it was nice meeting you.” “Please, call me Joey.” Joey said with a brilliant flash of his smile, and Miguel beamed. “Good luck, big guy!” Joey called over his shoulder as he strolled down the hallway.

Miguel turned to face the silent corridor, a shiver sliding up his spine. The air was mostly still except for a soft tapping coming from the lower left side.  Tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap-tap tap...

He tightened his grip on his handgun, his hands slightly shaking as he advanced down the corridor to investigate.  “Mr. Miguel Vincent.” a voice purred.

He paused, and shut his eyes tightly. The raw chill of adrenaline shut down any logical thoughts he was having at the time, so of course what came next was far from logical.  

He opened his eyes and turned to face a seven digit number and a name.  

2361705 Blackmore, James Willis

“Mr. Blackmore,” he said as cordially as he could. “Is there a problem?” He smiled as politely as he could, forgetting that his fist was tightly gripped around a pistol.  

James Blackmore was a tall man with white almost translucent skin, and violet pools beneath his eyes.  He looked frail, and sick, his collar bones protruding awkwardly, cheekbones sunken and hollow.  Miguel relaxed, this man could not harm him.

“Yes, Miguel, there is.” His voice was deep and smooth, like that of a classically trained singer, or a voice actor. “The clock over there, you see it?” Miguel glanced at the clock. “That infernal thing, won’t stop tick, tick, ticking. It is driving me mad.” “Should I ask to have it removed?” Miguel was desperately trying to keep the conversation light. “No, that won’t do any good.” James mused. “Not with your fist clenched around your firearm like that. No, that won’t do. It leads me to believe that you don’t trust me Miguel. You don’t do you?” Miguel swallowed. “I’ve been instructed not to.”

“I wonder why they tell you such lies, Miguel. I’m your friend, I won’t harm you, just look at me, I’m dying in here.” James’ icy pale eyes met Miguel’s soft dark ones.  

James reached through the bars, his icy fingers brushed against Miguel’s jaw, and without warning all rational thought vanished.  He was a blank slate, ready to be programmed.

“Miguel,” James made sure he kept physical contact with the guard. “Could you tell me what time it is?” Miguel turned his head to glance at the clock, his throat dangerously exposed.  “11:18 am.” Came Miguel’s reply.  “Excellent…” James purred.  Everything was operating precisely the way he had imagined it.

In a flash, James slipped a plastic butter knife out of his pocket and jammed it into Miguel’s exposed flesh.  Warm blood sprayed from the artery, to his delight.  He licked some of the salty gore from his lips and drove the knife in deeper.  All the while Miguel was sputtering and gasping for air.

The guard’s knees buckled and he collapsed against the bars, his face frozen in a perpetual state of shock.  He slipped the keys from the guard’s belt and let his victim fall to the floor.  

He then unlocked the heavy steel door, and stepped over the corpse.  Since he was the only resident of Corridor B, there would be no witnesses.  The butter knife slid out of Miguel’s throat with a satisfying slurp.  He then licked off the crimson nectar, savoring its metallic smoothness.  Nothing came close to fresh human blood.  

In the past he’d experimented with other animals.  Pig, cow, lamb, but nothing quite satisfied his appetite like human.  It was a shame he’d have to leave Miguel there on the floor, he would’ve made a lovely stew.  

But he was wasting time, he’d have to move fast if he wanted to escape.  

 

 

 

 


Submitted: January 19, 2015

© Copyright 2021 Peter Silvers. All rights reserved.

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