Once Upon A Time

Part I - Chapter II - What I Did Last Spring

The flowers bloomed red with blood that spring.

I smile at the poetic essence of that sentence, and how lyrical it sounds. Sipping nonchalantly from the dainty, porcelain cup, absent from the buzz and hum of spring outside, I wait for the knock. It will come eventually, inevitably, but for now, I can rest, I can linger on the past. Reclining in my chair, I let the memories wash over me.

The memories of that previous spring.

One year ago

I pull the trigger.

Everything plays out in slow motion, and I stand, in that shocked, unbelieving stance, while the world keeps spinning in that hazy, oblivious manner, the manner that is indifferent to what happens on its surface every day. It only takes the thud of the body crashing to the ground that jolts me out of my stupor. I stare. The unidentifiable, tall person wearing all-grey, with a hood and gloves and long sleeved-clothes that cover every inch of his body, dead in my living room. And that mask. That wretched mask. I look from the gun to the body and back to the gun. The revolver with only five rounds left. Blood has begun to pool on the woolen rug, courtesy of my elderly neighbour who spends too much time knitting. I cannot bring myself to move, because I feel like if I do, I might fall apart. The shock may truly kill me. After what feels like a millennia, I shuffle slowly across the floor to the body and crouch down in slow, jerky motions, like one of an athlete with a back injury. As if I might break if I move too quickly.

As if I might wake it.

I sit with a grunt beside the stranger, catching my breath, then impulsively reach out my fingers and feel them close around the cool rim of the mask, as if I am a spectator of my own actions. The mask has two mannequin eyes, and a curved, somewhat-humanoid smile. Its skin is white, and the material is hard as a shell. My hands shake, so I breathe in to steady them, then pull. The mask falls away, revealing a face of purely nothing. A breath hitches in my throat, a guttural scream stuck in my vocal cords, and tumble backwards. The face is smooth, pale, human skin, but there are no features, and in the midst of all this craze, the only thing my racing mind can grasp is the fact of its resemblance to an egg. "An egg," I whisper, then immediately start laughing. I laugh until my sides ache, my stomach burns and hot tears stream from my eyes down the curved sides of my face, staining my shirt front. I laugh until I am howling, clutching my chest, rolling on the ground and coughing for air. Then I stop inexplicably, suddenly, and sit again, amused. "An egg," I say again, and chuckle. I pull the mask back over this human-creature's face, and roll up the body inside the carpet, across the room, until it sits at the feet of my sofa.

Feet. Like it could kick it.

I sigh with tiredness. Looking out of the window at the rays of sunshine, suddenly, the rain-rich spring air, the intoxicating scent of the flowers, the sweltering fragrance of the clouds, the heavy aroma of the bees and the birds are all too much. Now, I know that every spring from today, this smell will leave a sour tinge in my nose, unpleasant and reminiscent. I have to get away from it. So, to keep moving, I move in a routinely, robotic mannerism, tucking the gun back into my drawer, mopping up the blood that has, by now, seeped through the wool, walking upstairs and turning on the shower. I barely notice what I do in between. The habitual swing around the banister, the familiar shove of the door with my foot, the childish leap away from the water as soon as I switch it on. I step in, clothes and all, letting the soothing, cold pulse of water rain on my head. When I am cleansed, I pull off my soaked clothes and throw them into the trash, hoping to discard its sickening smell of spring. My hair drips, leaving a trail of water wherever I walk. Like drops of blood, I think. I pass a mirror and stop.

My eyes.

My eyes. My nose. My ears. My mouth. My eyebrows.

I stare at the mirror, staring so hard for so long that I feel my eyes water and burn. I open my mouth, but the mirror does not reciprocate this action. I reach up, hands shaking, and touch my face. Nothing. My face is an egg. I run my hands over my face again and again. Nothing. Nothing, nothing and nothing. I can feel myself opening my mouth, and my eyes, breathing through my nose, yet there is nothing. I am looking but not seeing. Looking at the featureless face of an egg. I am nothing. I am like the body. Oh God, the body. Remembering the cursed person-thing downstairs, I can feel a change in the spring air. Something souring. I dart towards the stairs, tripping and falling and getting back up, breathing raggedly, hair soaking my back. Somewhere in between, I hear a snap, and feel a sear of pain, and I cry out, but I keep moving. Soon, I stumble into the living room and see exactly what I was fearing to see.