Yellow Dose of Obsession
V. The Man Who Never Survived the.
Clap, clap, clap.
The judge was clapping.
“Any more words, kid?” he asked.
I looked at my surroundings. I was in the middle of a brown room that resembled a stadium—an indoor one. The judge, dressed in plain black robes, was seated on top of a high platform. And there was an audience. They were people, dressed in black, watching my trial. And a good look at them would reveal that they were faceless, that their face only consisted of white masses of skin.
“I had one more, your honor,” I said, shivering due to the cold breeze.
“Silence!” The judge screamed. “I only want you talk when you are asked to talk. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your—”
“I said silence! Call the next witness!”
The people filling the stadium now started to mutter in low voices. They sounded like they were chanting something. I didn’t know what to do; they seemed to be excited over something. And then the witness came. It was Diane. This time, she was wearing a black coat and a pair of black boots, with her hair tied up in a bun. She stopped a few inches right in front of me.
“Do you have something to say, mere witness?” The judge asked. It was to my utmost horror when the judge revealed his face. It was my father.
“Yes, your honor. What this young man needs is a dose of obsession.” Diane said with determination.
“What kind?” My father asked.
And Diane nodded. “Yellow.”
Again, from her pocket, Diane pulled out a revolver and pointed it towards my forehead. Another loud bang, more pain, more red liquid. Another fall towards the ground, only this time, with a loud thud.
I was still breathing when I fell to the ground. And, during those last few seconds I was alive, I thought to myself: I need to stop you. Diane. I need to stop you once and for all.
The judge was clapping.
“Any more words, kid?” he asked.
I looked at my surroundings. I was in the middle of a brown room that resembled a stadium—an indoor one. The judge, dressed in plain black robes, was seated on top of a high platform. And there was an audience. They were people, dressed in black, watching my trial. And a good look at them would reveal that they were faceless, that their face only consisted of white masses of skin.
“I had one more, your honor,” I said, shivering due to the cold breeze.
“Silence!” The judge screamed. “I only want you talk when you are asked to talk. Do you understand?”
“Yes, your—”
“I said silence! Call the next witness!”
The people filling the stadium now started to mutter in low voices. They sounded like they were chanting something. I didn’t know what to do; they seemed to be excited over something. And then the witness came. It was Diane. This time, she was wearing a black coat and a pair of black boots, with her hair tied up in a bun. She stopped a few inches right in front of me.
“Do you have something to say, mere witness?” The judge asked. It was to my utmost horror when the judge revealed his face. It was my father.
“Yes, your honor. What this young man needs is a dose of obsession.” Diane said with determination.
“What kind?” My father asked.
And Diane nodded. “Yellow.”
Again, from her pocket, Diane pulled out a revolver and pointed it towards my forehead. Another loud bang, more pain, more red liquid. Another fall towards the ground, only this time, with a loud thud.
I was still breathing when I fell to the ground. And, during those last few seconds I was alive, I thought to myself: I need to stop you. Diane. I need to stop you once and for all.