The Artist: Closer Now, and Closer Yet

It’s never going to stop. We all know that.
The night was still with the exception of God’s breath that caressed the trees, making their yellowing leaves rustle. To me, it sounded as if they were whispering secrets among each other—secrets that pass off as negligible to the rest of humanity. That night I sat on the damp park bench I call home for the night, with a can of coke in one hand; a switchblade flipped around gracefully upon burnt fingertips of my other hand. That night I drowned myself in the liquid that went down my throat with a splutter and cough, along with the ever-increasing intensity of my thoughts of this and that, mainly centering on the topics of God and existence. That night I celebrated a deed I shouldn’t have done. And by that following sunrise, I'd done it again.

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The authorities never caught up to me, and I doubt they ever will. I had always been perfect in execution, leaving no proof of myself save for what I wanted them to see. I lost myself in the precious arterial spurts of red satin that my prey gave to me, and he took control of it all. Only for a split millisecond was there struggle, and the greatest of it had played out grandly, like the colors of an orchestra, resounding perpetually against the insides of my skull. I had conscience enough to feel guilt after the deed is done, but he had washed it away with offerings of satisfaction and power that would come with more. The night dragged on and silence was broken, by the crunching of leaves under the sneakers of a man taking a night-walk.
A jolt of excitement raced through me, painting goosebumps on my skin with its adrenaline brush. My spine tingled, up and down in waves of an obscure feeling I could never put my finger on. The man didn’t seem to notice me, given my all-black garments and hair covering my face. He was a burly chap, no less than 5’10” of muscle. His face was picturesque, something you’d see on magazines and movies. I recognized the man as someone I had looked up to, until I was too lost in this deathly cycle to care. A few meters away from where I perched, he slowed down to a near-stop, occasionally shuffling forward by a few inches. He had reached for his iPod, flicking through a selection of songs then settling on something to blast into his ears via earphones. He sighed in what seemed like frustration, raking a large hand through smooth, shoulder-length brown hair. He muttered curses under his breath, unaware of my presence. He probably thinks he’s alone, my inner devil mocked, and I couldn’t help but smirk at the truth of the statement. He wasn’t alone at all. There was me, of course, but the trees were also watching. They always were, and they always will be.
After a while, just in front of where I sat, he stopped walking altogether. I quietly slipped my dear switchblade between the edge of my knee-length sock and my skin. This is your chance, the voice urged into my ear. You want to do this, it continued. The deep, silky tones of the voice lured me from common sense. He was right; I wanted to do this again. I craved the scene that always played out in the end, craved seeing my prey try to bribe me money-for-life, craved the feeling of denying him clemency, craved the blood, craved the sick game of playing God, but most of all, I simply needed the ecstasy, the victorious high that followed it. Suppressing my smirk, I set the empty can down silently and put on my best innocent face. Think sad thoughts, the voice said, painting a disguise for me to hide behind. Make him pity you. Cry if you need to. You’re lost with nowhere to go and nobody to come back to, and you need a place to stay for the night.
Almost effortlessly, a tear slid down my cheek and my bottom lip trembled. Internally, I grinned in triumph at this. I pulled my knees up to my chest and made myself look frail. Small, choked sobs escaped chapped lips as I reached up and tugged at his shirt. He jumped, exclaiming a short series of curse words. When his eyes met mine, I saw the buds of pity bleed past the shock in his hazel orbs. His jaw hung slack at the sight of me, nothing more than a short, small teenager that looked lost and underfed. I could tell he was a bit creeped out, but nonetheless his features carried concern and empathy for the complete stranger that tugged on his shirt. A complete stranger who was going to be the end of him, the voice said. I laughed internally.
“What—what the heck are you doing here in the middle of the night?” He asked, astonished. I gazed up at him, using my wide doe-eyes to their full potential.
“Ma… Ma and Pa kicked me out,” I squeaked, managing a slight sob just to add to the drama of it all. “’Said I wasn’t their daughter no more. Told me to never come back,” The lies came like breathing. Instantly the large man’s features showed incredible pity, and he crouched in front of me. I let go of his shirt, and instead hugged my knees up tighter. That’s right said the voice of my Master. Play victim. Gain his trust.
“Gosh, kid,” he stuttered in surprise. His admittedly beautiful bright hazel eyes sought mine, and I pretended to hesitate before locking gazes with him. Every cell in my body screamed at me to whip out the switchblade and summon the red liquid that carried his life, to conjure miniature growing oceans of scarlet from within his veins. Alongside all this, I managed to keep the delicate façade at work. “How old are you?” He asked, shoving an unruly strand of brown hair away from his eyes.
“Fourteen,” I whispered. So far, this was the only thing I’ve said to him that wasn’t a lie. Fourteen seemed like an innocent age—ninth grade, cliques, friends, gossip, math class, murder, and homework. Over the past years, we have claimed over thirty lives (slowly working our way up to the Ted Bundy reputation, ha-ha).
“Oh my God,” The man’s jaw hung agape again. I saw a flash of nostalgia suffuse over his eyes; he was reminiscing his own fourteenth year as a living human. Internally, I leaped in delight at the knowledge that he somehow related me to himself. It made my job easier when the preys relate themselves to me. He tugged his iPod earphones out of his ear and shoved them in his pocket before pinching the bridge of his nose. After a few moments, he rested a large hand on the damp stretch of bench wood beside me, as if to steady himself. “You got a name, kid?”
“Valary,” I lied, again after a moment of mock hesitation to make it seem like I was contemplating whether or not this man was trustworthy. The man chuckled despite the situation, a soft smile gracing his pierced lip. I had hit a button, and I wasn’t sure if it was good or bad. “My name is Valary Baker”
“Funny,” He muttered, the smile still plastered on his face. “You’ve got my wife’s first name and my best friend’s last.”
“I… uh… good to know…?” I stuttered, my persona not knowing what to say and do. In truth, I had planned up to how I was to carry out the job. The fact that he had a wife and possibly a family didn’t even bother me. Not in the slightest. Good job, Christabelle, the Master praised. My insides jolted with delight and excitement at the sound of compliment and my real name in the same sentence. Play innocent.
“My name’s Matthew,” The man offered his hand. Timidly, I took it. He had a firm, strong shake that was just enough to be reassuring instead of overpowering. This is good, ain't it darling? the Master mused, his smooth voice echoing inside my head. He trusts you. He trusts us. “Matthew Sanders. You may have heard of me…?” He suggested, motioning to my hoodie. I stared at him in utter and honest confusion for a while, before realizing what he meant. I was wearing a band hoodie. He was—and is, I guess. I don't even know anymore—the vocalist of that band, Avenged Sevenfold. Seizing a slim opportunity, I forced another tear out alongside a couple of sobs. I retracted my arm and hugged my chest again, knowing perfectly well that he’d ask what’s wrong.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, panicked. I was tempted to laugh hysterically in his face, but it’d spoil the night. Valary sobbed again.
“You… you and your band got me kicked out,” my persona sniveled. By this point, I was hooting uproariously within the confines of my mind as Valary continued her melodramatic act. I was taking Sanders on an almighty guilt trip, and by the end of it, he’d be a dog on a leash. I saw his eyes widen in surprise, as the capital G took over him.
“Wh—what?” He stammered. “I—I’m so sorry… how?”
“Ma… She said it was the devil’s music. She and Pa hated me l-listening to you,” Valary whimpered. “They don’t want their daughter listenin’ to the devil’s music. I—I said I’d stop, I did… I promised to stop, but they didn’t care… they beat me up! They did, I—I couldn’t do anything… they said they don’t have a daughter… they don’t have a daughter,” Val’s voice softened in regret while I could hardly control the grin that threatened to take over our face. The Master held me back and kept me from ruining the perfect act.
“Oh God,” Sanders raked a hand through his hair and sighed in frustration. He spewed out an apology, each of his syllables dyed with the guilt and blame I had deliberately placed upon him. “Do you have anywhere to go?”
“N-no,” Valary stuttered slightly, a barely audible (well, just loud enough for Sanders to hear) sob again escaping her lips. This undoubtedly gained more pity points from Sanders and it was clear that I was on the winning side.
“This is serious stuff, Valary,” He spoke. I was delighted that he was on a first name basis, which probably meant he knew—or thought he knew—I wouldn’t do any harm. Sanders reached inside his pocket for something. “Do you want to go to the police?”
“No!” Valary pleaded as she gripped Sanders’ hand weakly. Another tear slid down our cheek and Sanders’ expression showed fear, concern, empathy, and guilt. “P-please… don’t take me there.”
“But…” Sanders tried to reason. Soon after, he shook his head as if correcting himself. “Alright, I won’t contact the police. Can you think again, though? Have you got any friends, any cousins who would let you stay?”
Val seemed to be lost in contemplation as I laughed internally again. This dude was so easy. I decided to conduct the Master’s sick rituals right in his house as usual—possibly with his family around to add the challenge. The Master agreed with me. Val pouted, wiping her eyes as a whimper slid past her. She shook her head. Sanders sighed and looked down, and when he looked back up at Val—along with me—his eyes showed an answer.
“You can stay with me for now,” Sanders offered, his voice nearly a coo as his bright hazel eyes glimmered. “I’ll call my wife; I’m sure she won’t mind,” he continued, a reassuring smile on his face as he spoke the words that would end him. Val eyed him warily, before wiping her eyes and nodding slowly.
“I—if it won’t bother you too much… then thank you. thank you so much,” She whispered. Sanders smiled and uttered another “great,” before picking up his phone and dialing his wife.