The Artist: Silence Is Tumultuous

"Sir, are you absolutely positive that this is the person you saw?" the officer questioned, a grave look carved on his square face. He held the piece of paper up, an uncannily similar sketch of her filling up most of the space. My stomach churned at the sight of her. Sniffling, I nodded.

I can't fucking believe this.

The officer grunted an "alright," before tidying up his papers and walking off. I ignored his sidelong glance, fiddling with just about everything I could see. Fuck, I screamed mentally. We lost another person, another friend-- another brother. Matt never did anything to deserve this, and neither did his wife. They were angels.

I take that back.

they are angels.

I don't know why she'd do such things. for fame, maybe? for power? She's just a kid. just a kid. Why did matt have to be such a fucking softie? I sighed in frustration, furiously wiping tears from my face.
Damn it, Matthew.

first it was Jimmy, now you're gonna leave us too?

I finally stopped trying to wipe the tears off--'cause they'd only come again. I pulled my knees up my chest and hugged them, not giving half a shit that I would've looked childish as fuck. I wailed--quite hysterically too-- fingernails clawing into my jeans. why, why, why, why, why?!

Jimmy's loss was hard enough. I don't know how we're all supposed to cope with this. Rocking back and forth on the uncomfortable wooden chair, a million thoughts crossed my mind. Every single moment that I had with Matt in and out of Avenged Sevenfold. goddamn, was he a great guy. On stage and public he'd have this stupid macho persona, always being alpha-male and shit, for the fans; for the camera. If only they knew. He could be the girliest, softest, most touchy-feely-cuddly-sappy nyctophobe ever. Yeah, fucking nyctophobe. He was scared of the dark. I let myself look up again, only for my eyes to meet the picture of that girl again. that fucking girl

"Motherfucker!" I screamed, grabbing the piece of paper and flinging it to nowhere in particular. Again I swiped madly at my face, at the fucking rivers of tears flying out of my eyes. I sobbed into denim.
Time ticked slowly, crawling in its own realm of singular plurality. It was like a knife, and all I could feel was its blade of memories slashing through my heart.

The air I tried to breathe died in my lungs, turning toxic and strangling me with denial and realization. Matt and Val were gone.

they were gone for good...

foREVer

silence crept up on me, like a wretched viper whose silent stalking will bring it to strike out at me with its venom. Yes, silence and time were two very good friends. But they weren't friends of mine. I sobbed into my jeans again, calling out to Matt with my mind. I wanted him back, goddammit. His wife too. I was never too fond of her for some reason, albeit if I was being objective, she was beautiful inside and out.

The sun had only begun to rise.

I was convinced that years had passed, decades even, when my sobs quieted down to mere jagged breaths. What was I to tell the others? That I had witnessed Matt's murder and had done nothing about it? Surely they would blame me for his death!

And all of a sudden, the place erupted with noise. People paced here and there, some gathered at one desk and talked into communication devices, some grabbed boxes of doughnuts. They all wore the same gleeful smile on their faces, the same silly grin, the same laugh... damn them. damn them all to hell.
"We got her!" One man with crows' feet on the corner of his eyes shouted in no general direction at all. Another man, probably new since he seemed so young, jogged up to me. He put a hand on my shoulder.

"Sir, our officers have got a hold of Christabelle Poe," He said, a solemn look on his face. He seemed to be saying condolences with his eyes, but I wasn't sure. I sniffled, looking up at him and letting my feet down.
"You... t-they-- caught h-her? They caught the Artist?" I stammered. That fast? That quick, and it's over? is it all over?

"Yes! yes, they caught her," The man said, clearly trying to supress his glee. "Now we just have to wait for their return."

And so we did. One man said they found her at a park, spotted when an officer's father had gone out jogging. They had caught her immediately, and she seemed to have given zero resistance. That shocked me. I'd expected her to run and then fight, possibly drawing some blood here and there and be dragged to the station harshly, growling and hissing like some wild animal. But she gave no resistance. at all.
Time ticked slowly again, something wasn't right. I could see her all-too-precocious smirk in my mind, the one she had while she was tying Matt down to the floor of the studio. She looked so young... and she was. No more than fourteen, said the officers. They'd done an identity check on her using the description I gave them... She had nothing but doom and gloom for her past. It was said that she was last seen on a rainy seattle sunday, in church with her family, who were later on found dead in their home with Christabelle nowhere to be seen. It was suspected that she was either killed somewhere else or taken away. I sighed. she was fucked up big time.

We waited for nearly an hour before the police got worried. They tried communicating with the car, to no avail. Again and again, they had called.

"Unit three, come in, I repeat, come in," They had said, over and over and over again until my head hurt.

"Hey Ryan, fucking pick up!" One of them finally yelled into the receiver. This time, there was an answer. A rasping, heavy breath came from the other line. The whole place fell silent, as my heart started to hammer violently against my sternum. It was quiet as death.

"Hello, dogs in uniform," That was her. The Artist. so much hatred radiated from that young voice, so much loathing and resentment that it made me cry again. Some men started yelling out orders to their comrades, to go to wherever that thrice-accursed girl was. until a soft laugh came from the little device, and they fell silent again. Everyone in the room froze. "And let's not forget you, rat," I went sick to the very marrow of my bone. "Apparently, even rats have good eyes."

"What are you doing?!" I screeched, seeing that they weren't moving at all. Not even blinking. "FUCKING GO AFTER HER!"

but nobody moved. Every single soul was fixated on the little communication thing as if they had enchanted her. Maybe that's what she did to Matt. And then she spoke the words that stabbed my heart and pushed it down to hell and beyond.

"You... you have no idea what you have just done," a pause, as if she were contemplating her words. "Stole up on me in the darkness, then called these dogs to nip at my heels. Well," I felt an evil grin bleed through her words. "I had a good time introducing their throats to my knife." now she laughed--it was a pleasant, innocent laugh sans the darkness and the hateful rasp. "My name and face is out, thanks to you, you know. But no matter, because I can swear to you right now, on the blood of these dogs, on the blood of your brother, and on the filthy blood of his whore wife--" a pause. I could see her lopsided grin, her sunken abyssal eyes, her pandemonium of black curls falling over her ghostly skin, her small frame straddling Matt's stomach. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from hurling. "Vengeance will be mine."