𝑺𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒔

Remembrance

I didn't mean to kill her!

Rage.

It wasn't my fault that the bitch didn't give me my money back!

Fear.

She deserved what was inevitably coming to her. The whore!

Envy.

Why did he have to make a deal with those strange men?

Sorrow.

Yokshi crouched over his tomb in his usual position, his arms and chin resting over the arch, his glassy eyes staring at the dishevelled people who passed by with looks of disgust etched on their faces, and freezing out their negative emotions before they reached him. 

His eyes drifted leisurely over the tombs, taking in the shattered visage of another corpse as it was lowered in the ground.

Dark clouds gathered overhead, and the sky cracked open as rain poured into the ground.

Why had he come here again?

Just minutes ago, he had sat on a cracked ledge near the old dam, surrounded by tombs of people who had died more peaceful deaths. He had remembered the people that passed away with peace long ago, feeling their calming emotions, and feeding off their happiness like a parasite. 

As a ghost, it was the only thing that kept him from fading.

He had cradled an abandoned cup between his hands before the bustle of people across the road caught his attention. Curious, he had made he way there, pushing his way through the crowds and ignoring the exclaims of protest as they felt something - rather rudely - force them out of the way.

But it was fine.

They couldn't see him after all.

After forcing himself to the front of the gathering crowd, he paused and simply sighed. It was merely another ceremony in which they lowered another corpse into the ground. He should have guessed, as the village people always did this to attract the crowds. 

It was always a calculated process, and with all the serial killings, there was bound to be another child caught in the crossfire. The first step was that some grieving man or woman would find resemblance to a lost child or lover and then-

"It's my Marty!" screamed a woman clad in red fishnet tights and a bright green cloak, her cobalt blue afro swaying in the wind as she scrambled towards the lowering coffin.

Right on cue.

Yokshi turned away. Events like this always made him sick. He should have stayed far away with his battered old cup.

The woman's face was blotchy - presumably from crying - and her dark skin was littered in dark bruises. The feeling of nausea was steadily increasing for Yokshi as he stared at her - for her skin had shifted to a moving sea of black words, writhing words that wriggled in and out of her and painted the air around her a dark unforgiving vermillion, and all the while the woman was reaching towards the casket in an effort to stop its journey.

It was always like this.

A corpse was found.

A person from the crowd would scream out a family member's name.

The family member would be driven to get their child back, no matter the cost.

Rinse and repeat.

Yet, where were the people Yokshi called family when it was his time to be lowered into the ground? He couldn't help but wonder what became of them with slight bitterness.

Then there was the occurring problem with the skin.

Man or woman, beast or insect, when it was near their time to die, their skin stretched and words sprang forth, encasing them in a personal tomb and tainting the air a certain colour. Yokshi seen a few colours, but the one colour that nauseated him the most was indigo, and vermilion being a close contender after.

Considering all this, in Yokshi's opinion, his situation wasn't too bad. 

Yes, he was dead. 

Yes, he couldn't remember anything about himself aside from his name, and yes he was slowly fading from existence. But he tried his best to be optimistic.

Aside from the waves of nausea that made his stomach roil, and the fact that he was the only one that seemed to see the situation with the skin, all was good.

In fact, it made him feel a little special.

Wait. What the hell is she doing?

Yokshi frowned suddenly at the woman as she lurched forward, her bright cloak ripped away in the wind and her eyes flashing. He had seen that look before, reflected in his own eyes when he accidentally saw a glimpse of his reflection.

It was what still held everyone now: A cage of brewing madness. 

The woman was ignoring the unrest she was causing; she was ignoring the shouts and yells of warning as the casket was lowered further. Yokshi's eyes followed her movements, the realisation of what she was going to do dawning on him.

She was going to jump.

As if they sensed her thoughts, a wave of arms grabbed at the woman's feet, determination to pull her down oozing from the spectators.

But you should never hold back a woman from her child.

The woman in question let out a piercing shriek, whipping around to glare at the arms that encircled her feet. A low guttural sound emanated from her throat as she tore at the hands holding her back, and, after managing to shred the skin of one hand, the rest let go almost simultaneously.

She spun around back to her child, and in doing so, met the eyes of Yokshi.

She stilled for a moment.

Time seemed to slow as the woman hung in the air on the ledge, suspended in slow motion as she swivelled around to stare one last time at the crowd. 

Then she leapt for her child.

A ballerina leaping far from the cage.