It's all about the letter

Chapter 7

"Try not to be someone's pain in the arse this evening, mate," Sigurd said, and clapped his back on the man's shoulder.

"By uh way..." It was still really hard to speak for him, words simply did not want to connect in his mind. "My name is John, John Christie."

Sigurd nodded approvingly, and shook John's hands. They both stared at each other with an awkward silence before John claimed the need of setting off.

"Sure, mate. I hope your evening is going to be as fun as mine," Sjurd said, and formed a kind of smile, which gave John some chills; he would still think it was because of cold, but the smile reflected in his mind much later after he had trudged away from that alley.

In a lapse of time, John's silhouette was swallowed by ruthless darkness behind a corner of Jackson Rd street.

The man behind, as John had disappeared from his vision, raised up one of his hands, in which sparkled a small object. As streetlights flickered, it was possible to make out that the object was a small letter, which had belonged to a gone man.

"My evening is going to be entertaining, John. But I do believe yours will be much more," Sjurd rumbled, his low and dark voice reverberated viciously around the walls of the buildings. He took a pitch-black top hat and slipped it on his head before he, also, dissolved in the darkness.

***

He strolled along the street as long as he could remember himself. His legs did not walk, but almost literally floated in the air – at least, it seemed to him so – as he passed by a few liquor stores, and clothing shops.

Something had changed since the moment they departed with the man. There was a feeling like an alien had actually taken the reins of his body, and simultaneously his blurry mind, and acted vigorously in a way as it wanted.

It came to a situation that even his own thoughts were almost impalpable, as almost each thought slipped away before he could catch the idea and think it through. All the words in his head were separate, coming in waves, and leaving behind only washed away sand after them.

An intersection of Jackson Rd and Sydney Street was a dozen of meters away from him, as the green traffic light flashed and all the cars started to rush as if they were on a race track.

All passersby that had overtaken his staggering body, and went by, stopped near the curb of the road and waited patiently for the green light to go off.

There were hundreds of them that evening. They clattered and chattered; laughed and cried; smoked and zoned out in those brand-new versions of new Air Pods Pro that had come out a few weeks ago only.

To him, though, there was no one except of a big pulsing red spot in the distance impossible for him to comprehend, but he just simply treaded towards it as a vampire for the sake of blood.

Most of the people turned around, as he dragged by them. They gave uneasy looks to each other, whispering and gossiping about his clothes, soaked in blood. His face was also bloody, as the wound after he had toppled over a curb and hit his head, could not heal its wide, deep gash.

They called the ambulance, for sure; some people even came up to him to ask whether everything was right, but his detached from the world mind refused their existence.

In his mind, though; he trotted on the single line of pavement, wrapped up in complete darkness around him, and the only light source was the shining red spot ahead. He was parched. Dying for a drink, but looking for something very different from any soda he could buy in any shop.

Clap. Something went off at his side. His gliding body even managed to jump out of fright for a second.

He took a glance around, and his weary, sunken eyes bumped into a clown, who floated around with long strings of black and red balloons attached to his back. The clown with its enormously wide grin had the face of him, the one who had murdered his mother and father in cold blood for the sake of their wealth.

He laughed. Its sinister laughter, which had haunted him since his teenagerhood, was enough to boil hatred, fear, and thirst for his blood in one pot.

There was something in his hands. Something valuable, something intimate. The letter! He had stolen the only letter that was left from his mother, which had been sent to him by the uncle who had hung onto it according to his sister's will.

Even though it seemed like his legs were made of cotton wool, he rushed to the clown with its full speed. The clown did not even twitch his eye.

Just a few meters away from the clown, he bumped into a sturdy glass that split the world in half. He was on the other side, grinning with its teeth full of blood.

Rage filled his mind.

He lowered his head, and saw a huge, heavy piece of a rock clenched between his, covered in blood, hands. Without realizing, he raised the huge rock and run it into a picture window that separated him and the clown.

There were many shadows behind the glass as well, but none of them had a clear shape. They moved in drastic motions as if running away. The window, unfortunately, did not give in and still hid the clown behind it.

Only one goal was to achieve. He must die at any cost.

Smash

Whack

The glass shattered and his body was soaked in, despite broken bits of glasses that were scattered all over the floor. The clown's face changed: a huge grin was replaced by panic. He had the knuckles of his fist in the mouth, chewing on them hysterically.

The clown immediately changed its shape into his sister. She was beautiful, alive. The panic from the face did not go, though; but why would she be afraid of him?

There was a voice in his head again; this time more vivid and dictatorial—HE HAD YOUR SISTER. RAPED HER. TORTURED HER. YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD BECAUSE OF HIM. HE IS THE KILLER, THE MONSTER! INHUMAN BEING! HE MUST DIE!

"You must die," he aped, crawling towards the legs of his fake sister. The voice did not pause even for a second until the girl's ankles were in his grip.

She screamed, probably out of pain—YOU WON'T FOOL US;

"You won't fool me!"

A broken piece of glass sparkled in his right hand. He squeezed it tightly, but no pain followed, unlike red liquid from the wound.

The girl fell, and in a second, he was already on her.

A blow. Another strike. Around ten more followed straight off the ice until the body, which was more like a mushy jell, stopped twitching.

Someone pulled him by the shoulder, and flipped him over his back. The face of the same clown, even though, somehow, in a black costume, faced him from above. He put the boot into his stomach, neck, and head; but, this version of the clown met the same fate.

Everyone around him wore the mask of the clown. They were all him; and he had to die! He took the kitchen knife from the dead clown's body.

He screamed. Roared. Swung the knife without exceptions, and—

it was the end for many of them, includinghimself.