Sinister

The artist

"Wise men speak when they have something to say, fools speak because they have to say something" —Aristotle

I sat in the theatre watching a tragedy unfold. A song full of sorrow was being sung by someone who was not the star. I looked down at my pamphlet, confused on why it read tragedy instead of comedy. As the woman continued singing, I couldn't help but be reminded of the magic flute queen of the night aria by Mozart. Yes, she was hitting those unreasonably high notes quite well but once again she wasn't supposed to be singing. Not yet. "Well this is a fucking disaster" I muttered. The curtains were drawn, bringing the play to an end.

I woke up to screaming—not just any type of scream but one filled with utter despair. I sighed, glancing over at my alarm clock which read twelve forty-five pm. Why did this have to happen during my nap time?
I was exhausted from talking to James all night about something... I think it was a trip to New York to meet his family. How ironic given the current situation. "AHHHH" the screaming continued. Unfortunately for me, it was way too loud to pretend not to hear. This is my cue to burst out of my room asking, 'what's wrong!'.

I got out of bed without the urgency of someone who cares but of someone who is driven by their own selfishness. I ran out of my room, frantically looking around for the wailing woman, only to find her being carried down the steps by James. A laugh was caught in the base of my throat, begging to be set free. I bit my lip, debating whether or not to speak up. I doubt they'd even noticed me standing here. Maybe I could just slip back into the comforts of my room and return to dreamland.

I took a step back, causing the floorboard to creak. Shit. James turned around. "What's going on?" I asked, feigning concern. "Uh well, I don't want to worry you but she's been complaining of stomach pains so I'm taking her to the doctor —". "SHUT UP JAMES WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO EXPLAIN TO HER I'M IN TOO MUCH GODDAMN PAIN!". I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to prevent a smile from forming on my lips. I'm glad she's suffering. "Should I come too?". "No no, I'm sure everything will be fine. I'll call you if something comes up". Little did he know.

Once they had gone, paranoia was left to fill their absence. What if this doesn't work? More importantly what if I got caught? No, that's not possible. I acted as though forensics would inspect every crevice, molecule, and atom in the kitchen. I got rid of all evidence and made sure everything was spotless. When the question arises about what she ate in the last twenty-four hours, I don't think something as trivial as a cup of tea would cross her mind but there's no harm in taking precautions.

Now what? There's no way I was going to stay at home twiddling my thumbs, I had to do something. Maybe I should call Roman. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Speak of the devil. I took out my phone from my back pocket, disappointed to see a message from Adonis. "I wanted to say sorry for the way I spoke to you yesterday I never should've left you alone with him and I'm really sorry....please don't be mad at me". I stared at the screen, waiting for anger to resurface but I felt nothing.

"Ok," I typed in all caps, then hit sent. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. Bzz. My heart skipped a beat when I saw Roman's name on the caller ID.
I slid right, "hello?". "I told you to call me, why didn't you?". "Because I figured you would be busy doing whatever you do when you're not with me" I responded dryly. He sighed, "Can you stop being so clingy, it's annoying". Annoying? Clingy? I had to laugh. "OF COURSE I'M GOING TO FEEL A CERTAIN WAY IF WE SPEND EVERY DAY TOGETHER THEN YOU RANDOMLY WANT TIME APART!".

"Are you done?".

"You're an asshole".

He hung up.

I walked back into my room and slammed the door shut behind me. It was my fault for ignoring the constant "I don't need you's" that he drilled into my head. I hated being so dependent on him, but how could I not when he does everything for me? Shit, what a predicament. I glanced over at my drawer that held an assortment of knives, switchblades, and other objects used solely to inflict pain. I wasn't depressed or anything, but the urge to reintroduce a sharp edge to the keloid skin on my wrist grew stronger with each passing second.