The sun vanished from the sky and suddenly my world was cold. It was night, bitter, dark, the world felt like my soul. My feet dragged me to the Three Aces, a bar downtown. It was a hell hole of a place and everyone there knew my personality better than I knew it myself. It was here that I first saw it, out of the corner of my eye, a ghost amongst the black and white, the grey of my world enhanced by the surprising addition of colour. It was orange, it was odd, it seemed out of place. Yet nobody else seemed to notice. I finished my scotch and left as swiftly as I could, the girl behind the bar with the offputting hair style raised one pierced eyebrow as I mumbled an excuse. She knew I'd never turn my back on a drink.
"Hot date?" she laughed.
I flicked my thumb over my shoulder to where I had last seen Orange Face but the face was gone.
"Never mind..." I mumbled before taking my leave.
The pit pat of a downpour met me as I hit the street. More grey in a dark, dreariness. I heard a laugh, sick, twisted, the sound of clowns after a hit of ice. My feet drew me toward the sound but somehow it was always just that moment too far away. Why was the sound drawing me ever closer? I should have been running away, like I always did from love, family, life. I turned, brushed the drizzle from my face and trudged back towards home. Orange Face! It was there, coming around the corner, coming straight for me. I couldn't get away. I lashed out, desperately attempted to create some distance, some safe space between me and the ugliness. As my clenched fist shattered the glass I felt the pain of the cuts and slashes. The shop window busted open and my ears were bombarded by the nagging continual piercing squeal of alarms. I limped away, a leaper in search of a hole to hide in, a safe haven where I could lick my wounds and my soul clean, clear, pure again. The shadows of the alleyway became my friend again, a place to hide, to flee under cover. More alarming, sharp sounds filled the air. The wail of sirens. The hunt was on and I was to be their prey. What of Orange Face? Did not that brute better deserve the attentions and intentions of the authorities? Authors of their own fate and mine, but not that of the face that was orange. I fled, drops of my life following after, a trail of crumbs for Officers Hansel and partner. Looking back down the alley I gasped at the splatters of colour that I was leaving behind me. Orange. Round, ugly, a thousand faces. I released the sound of anguish that was bottled up, building steadily inside me. I was lost, confused, afraid. Every window, mirror, every reflection I saw Orange Face before me, behind me, beside me. Until I finally faced the truth I had been running from the whole time. Orange Face was me.
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