Author's Preface
Silver⦠silver... silver.
The ceiling above carried the same metallic silver sheen as the rest of the room. Gazing at it was strangely calming, like it carried a hypnotizing shine. Perhaps an hour had passed by, observing every crest and trough; such was its strange pattern. And as he did, his coughs resounded in his ears. Somehow, they carried a peaceful melody, like every sound around them, echoing for a second too long.
Unfortunately, the βpeace and highβ didnβt last long.
Grunting, he rolled onto his stomach as his own blood below brushed past his face. Holding in a whimper, he pushed himself off the cemented floor. Then, his eyes darted to the table, landing on a bundle of green paper, wrapped by a thin white plastic around its center, with the face of a curly-haired man, pointing and looking at him like he was an idiot. He chuckled, then closed his eyes as his hands trembled, itching for some action. But he knew action involved getting pummelled.
Fine...
Money was money, and Noir was humble. Sucking his chapped lips, he picked it up and plodded towards the door, tasting a kind of sickening bitterness all along.
Creak! Thud!
Outside, it was dark, but quite bright for Noir's mind. The river to his right flowed with serenity and unforgettable memories of his own. They had laughed back then, shoulders touching and all, existing in their own sweet world. It was then that he realized that perhaps hope wasn't lost, just because a stranger said so. Unfortunately, hope and misery walked hand in hand.
Hah-Fuu! Hah-Fuuuuu! Hah-FUUUUUUU!
Three times, he took a deep breath, the exhale longer each time. It didnβt work, but so what? Did time wait for anyone? Robert would have spat on his face.
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips as he remembered the beating he received. Then he looked around properly for the very first time. Behind him was a square-shaped, tiny tin room, which carried his blood sample on the floor. Ahead of him, crates and crates, metallic in nature and varied in colorβred, blue, and yellowβwere stacked around, some on top of each other, others alone.
Alone, huh?
The ones alone made Noir laughβhe could see himself in them. When he stopped laughing, that was only for a few seconds. He started again as he observed his surroundings in detail. It looked like a movie he had seen with her; somehow, most of his memories were related to her.
Quite gangster-like, eh? Dead bodies or something inside. That would be quite funny.
He continued laughing like a maniac as he tapped the power button of his phone. The car logo was sorted into his services folder on his main screen. He tapped it and stopped laughing as he walked towards the main road, unwilling to share his madness with society.
As he planned multiple solutions to his problems ahead, the ones all related to her, he realized that his delusion ran deep. He took it as extremely high levels of confidence, unmatched by any man. Well, confidence, not stupidity, of course.
Thus, in line with his beliefs, he chose the most logical option: the hospital for his head.
~As I walk before you, as I bow my head in prayer.~
The song was Eleanorian, sung by devout Catholics every Sunday; the driver probably was one as well, and Noir, who believed in none other than himself and a few other mortals, was weirdly vibing. He didnβt know why, but the music was resonating at the moment.
What wasnβt resonating was the interaction between Noir and the driver. Initially, the driver was quite talkative, glancing at him as if he were on the verge of death, and Noir, from the bottom of his sarcasm, had wondered why. But well, it seemed Noir's silence had turned the driver silent. Instead, now the driver had a new way of talkingβscanning Noir's face in the rearview mirror, like he was a monkey in the zoo. The driver surely loved him, alas, the one whose love he desiredβ
~Ave Maria⦠Gracia oh⦠Prerna~
Ignoring both of the irritants, Noir watched other cars, mostly white in color, flicker past his face. A bridge that ran over the previous river was lit with a neon blue, which colored the cars in its cinematic shade. But all of these observations were mundane in nature. Right now, he wondered how the hell he was dragged 18 kilometers away from his home, 15 kilometers from his university, without him waking up. For how long had he been knocked out for? His head still hurt from the blow, both at the back and the front, and he had taken it for her, and nowβ
~Dominus... Cretu... Benedicta tu~
"Pch..." he grumbled.
Taking a deep breath for the umpteenth time, Noir closed his eyes. The thoughts came and the thoughts went, most of which were sharply cut off. Time moved on, and so did the various songs, all strangely pleasing to his ears. In this atmosphere, before Noir knew it, he had almost dozed off. Almost...
For reasons unknown to him, his eyes shot open wide, with the rearview in front and the driver staring at him with a gaze that Noir wasn't sure what to make of. His lips opened, meeting the driver's gaze, but then he forced them shut along with his eyes. This time he felt not a wink of sleep.
Finally after half an hour or so, he heard, βDude, we are here.β
And so, the dude got up.
As Noir smelled the distinct, clean air of the hospital lobby, someone screamed as if they had been jumpscared. Noir flinched as well, as the voice had come from right beside his left ear. When he looked in the direction of the sound, he saw nothing. Then he turned below and saw a random old woman who had collapsed on her behind, pointing at him.
She exclaimed, βGuards! Guards!β
Well, the guards were missing. Noir had not seen a whisper of them; perhaps they were all on a toilet break.
Most likely⦠or perhaps dead?
Noir shook his head, dismissing his deranged thoughts like those of a mentally ill patient. He extended his hand to the fallen lady with a clear intention to all. But the woman seemed to have different thoughts.
Were his injuries that bad? Or did he have the face of a criminal? Well, the hospital must have seen many such nutcasesβmost of the staff looked calm. Ignoring the gazes and the cries around, Noir ambled towards the receptionist, who raised her eyebrows when she observed his forehead. It was then that Noir realized that perhaps the driver was a strange one; he had a similar look to these veterans in his eyes.
That guy must have driven a lot.
Leaning forward on the desk, Noir observed the receptionist's tag, pinned to the outer green-colored fabric near her chest.
He said quite politely, βMiss Jenifer, umm... I need to fix my face.β
Soon, the sterile liquid burned through his skin after the doctor had asked him about his escapade. Perhaps, as he had kept his mouth shut, the doctor was a bit rough. The grip on the cotton had not a sign of delicacy, but then again, the doctor looked like a man who was focused on his job. A minute or two passed by, and the stickiness he had felt all over his face disappeared.
As soon as the doctor went to write the prescription, Noir got up from the bed and walked towards a mirror. In it, he saw the reflection of his ownβtired blue eyes, medium-length black hair with a middle part, and facial features he had always thought to be quite below average. Now that this below-average face of his had a scar right in the middle of his forehead, it surely looked like a disaster.
He wondered, how did she even like this face?
With a bitter, self-deprecating smile, which he himself observed in the mirror, he chuckled and walked towards the doctor.
The drive back home was ordinary. Making good use of the green notes, he had paid another driver, who left immediately with a content smile. The air was faintly colder now, and the sky a shade darker. The ground had maroon-colored tiles that carried a luxurious polish. [Sunshine Estia] , a township for the richest among the richest, with multiple amenities, ranging from the best quality of table tennis boards to a golf course, which Noir had never entered. Well, he did put the jogging track to good use.
Right now, Noir stared at the 28-floored building in front of him that covered most of his vision, whose rent had been paid through a scholarship that required him to constantly rank first. Such was the prestige of [Frydor University] that guaranteed the lives of a select few.
Home. Somehow, he didnβt want to go home. Frowning as another memory with her appeared, he reckoned that perhaps being high today wasn't too bad of an idea.
That bastard would surely have some stock.
βOh, dearβ¦β he heard suddenly, bringing him out of his thoughts.
To his left was a woman with clean white hair tied into a bun who scanned his face, her eyes carrying a trace of horror.
βLook at youβ¦," she mumbled. βWhat happened, Dear?β
Noir, with a light smile, said, βHa-haβ¦aha, typical university life, you know. I was talking to someone; therefore, I didnβt notice that theβ¦ steps were wetβ¦ and you knowβ¦β
He pointed at the wound.
Observing it with a bitter expression, the woman said, βAhh, you must be careful..." Then with a gentle smile, she added, "You donβt want to lose that pretty face, do you?β
Noir frowned for a millisecond, too quick for the woman to perhaps notice. With the same plastered smile as before, he turned towards a 7-year-old boy running towards him.
βBig brother Noir, let's playβ¦ let's play,β said the boy, hugging his jeans.
He then pointed at a younger-looking girl behind him, near a playing area.
βLook, Seona wants to play as well, brother.β
As if in sync, the girl waved her hands at Noir the moment his neck turned to his left. She sat smiling in the playground, ever so jolly, causing Noir to chuckle. Waving his hands back at her, Noir lightly shook his head.
Then, looking back at the boy, into his expectant gaze, he said, βSorry, Romael. I am slightly busy, youββ
βPleaseβ¦ pleaseβ¦ brother... pleaseβ¦β the boy insisted, jumping up and down.
βYou!β the woman exclaimed, pinching the boy's cheek. βGo away, donβt trouble him. Your favorite brother is tired.β
βHilda, it is okayβ¦β said Noir, his voice gentle.
Then, ruffling the boy's fluffy short curly hair, he added, βNext time! A hundred percent!β
The boy pouted for a second, trying to convince Noir with cuteness, but today it didn't work. Giving up, he then bobbed his head cutely, saying, "Bye..."
Then he ran towards his younger sibling without waiting for a reply, only for him to stop a few steps later. He looked back, waving his hands at Noir, and then he ran the rest of the distance, fully investing himself in building a sandcastle with the other girl.
βMy grandkids are such a hassle... just like their father...β said Hilda, her tone turning dreamy towards the end.
Indeed, memoriesβ¦
βYouβre doing well with them... after everything. They seem rather cheerful.β He observed the kids absentmindedly, his thoughts traveling back to a past of his own. βI wonder how they can smile so innocently?β
βOh? Why wouldnβt they? Those rascals donβt have a single problem in this world other than complaints about how their food tastes. I fed them burgers yesterday, and today they asked me for pizza. That too for breakfast, can you believe it?" She scoffed. "Pampered rascals."
Pampered, huh?
Noir chucked, as his voice trailed off while saying, βIndeed...β
βEverything okay, dear?β
Noir turned to his right, looking at Hilda's brown eyes.
βPerfect...β He smiled. βA bit too perfect.β
βDearββ
βHilda, I need to sleep. I really need to.β
Without giving her a say, he walked away towards his rented home, waving his right hand above his head once. The building grew closer, a foot every second. Moments later, Noir's smile disappeared as he placed his thumb on the fingerprint scanner.
As the automated door opened, displaying the opulent lobby more clearly, he heard, βWe are always there for you.β
Noir felt worse, for he felt nothing.
Tap-tap! Tap!
Noir's footsteps tapped the staircase, each step heavier than the last, with an emptiness settling deep inside his heart. A day without her, and this is how he was. Perhaps he truly needed a smoke after all he said to Kevin.
Is this how people turned into addicts? Lazy bums like that bastard lazing around?
A game, too, didnβt seem too bad at the moment, with curses and shouts. Maybe he could call everybody a retard on the voice chat.
Kevin, that bastard would surely enjoy that... with his eyes open, furthermore...
He chuckled lightly. Perhaps everything wasnβt too bad. And before he knew it, he now suddenly stood on the familiar 2nd floor. Ahead of him was a waist-length wall, on which were placed two directing arrows, both pointing in opposite directions from the other. Not paying it any attention, Noir took the left and stepped towards flat number [F-203] , and as he did, he suddenly remembered the movie tickets that had gone to waste.
Might as well return it back to him.
The key that was hidden in his pant pocket slipped into his hands, which, a second later, perfectly fit inside the keyhole. Without much thought, he twisted it and pushed the door open.
Thenβ
Noir froze. As the entrance slowly revealed itself, he was no longer acting on his subconscious.
Strange⦠Am I just in a weird mood?
Dark. The inside of his apartment, at least the narrow corridor in front, was a bit too darkβalmost as if the house were empty.
βGuysβ¦?β he called, waiting for a response. His own echoes answered.
Are they out? But...
Despite the possibility, an uncertainty took over him as he stepped in. A single step, and every single hair stood at its ends. The room was dark, but not nearly pitch dark; there was some light provided from outside, creating a blackish-grayish tone. There was nothing abnormal; it was the same as every day: the same white walls and the same marble floor, untouched by anything but some dust that gathered throughout the day. Indeed, there would have been nothing wrong, nothing at all, but only if humans lacked the sense of... smell. By good fortune or bad, by design of nature, humans could smell, and Noir was one.
It was a faint metallic tang.
As various simulations ran in his head, Noir gulped his saliva, and he focused like never before. The emptiness he had felt all along slightly subsided, overwhelmed by the dread of what was to come. As his mind and body worked at their best, the torchlight from his phone illuminated the path ahead.
Nothing. All clean. The same as always.
But the dread inside didnβt calm; it rose along with the dastardly smell. His breath resounded in his ears with every step he took. They were silent and synchronized, along with his upper body, which barely moved. To his left he could see a TV perched on the wall. Whereas the right wall widened into a hall. Growing ever closer to the end, the torch turned towards the slightly observable left corner of the hall, revealing the edge of a brown sofa and the end of a wall a bit to its right.
Step! Ste-
His steps paused, and a word escaped his lips: βHuh?β
Crimson. A fading crimson as tiny as a dot stood on the wall. Fading as it was, he doubted his vision, and so he took a step ahead, hoping to prove it wrong. But... as time would have it, his eyesight was not one to be questioned.
Above the sofa, as it revealed more of itself, the walls were a fresh crimson. Whether dry or wet, it dragged towards the unrevealed end like an abstract painting with a large brushstroke. As he gazed at it wide-eyed, Noir's heart begged him not to move ahead, to run towards the exit, and to call the police, for it knew the horror ahead but not the unknown. But a single question echoed: What if his friends were injured and needed help at the periphery of the afterlife? This question, which couldn't be answered at the moment, cast away every morsel of doubt. It cast away every morsel of hesitation.
And thus, he moved, more silently than ever, inching his way forward. When the end of the wall stood about a meter ahead, his body stuck close to it. As his right forearm felt the cold touch of the wall, he took three silent steps forward. Then, gripping his phone tightly between his thumb and his index, he extended his arms with a snap over the end of the wall.
There was no sound. No footsteps, nothing. But for the unknown, this could be a daily show, and so Noir took a decision. He dived forward, his phone barely coming out of his pocket to provide some light. He jumped a step ahead again as he turned backwards, making sure that the torch would naturally point where he desired. In the dim lighting he saw none. His line of sight shifted towards the left. The blood looked darker; he could see its outlines still. And below it... he shouldn't have looked.
A figure lay there on the sofa, sitting in what looked to be a comfortable pose. Unnaturally comfortable. Whispering words he couldn't hear, his right hand slipped out the phone. As he raised it, despite the woes of his heart, the living room brightened, displaying a table, a sofa, and his friend, Rory. The sofa didn't look brown anymore, and neither did Rory or the table. They all were defiled by a certain shade of red.
The phone slipped. Noir fell to the floor. His body trembled as he tried to calm his breath. But calmness wouldnβt change the results. Or perhaps... that wasn't Rory. Grabbing his phone, he raised it, revealing the scene in all its brutality. Now, with a few stains in red, Noir watched the light reveal his friend's lazy figure. He was lying there casually and uncaring, with his palm facing the ceiling. For some reason, his red polo had darker red at random spots, almost as if it had been spray-painted. What was he thinking about when deciding such a weird design? Perhaps he had just been sleepyβa bit too sleepy, just like now.
Again, he doubted his vision. Crawling forward, as the marble below hit his knees, he stared at the scarred figure ahead, getting a closer look that only grew closer. But how could the sticky liquid below allow such a simple deed? The phone that he held in his left hand rushed ahead, extending his arm along with it.
Thud-!
His chin hit the floor. His phone glided towards the other corner. The torch still illuminated the room, presenting him the slit throat of his jolly friend from a view from down below. A jagged cut ran straight across his apple, the fountain for the painting around. And when he looked above, just a bit, he witnessed a nightmare. The nightmare contained hollow sockets, with the eyelids carved out.
βRoryβ¦?β he said.
Just then, something below one of his palms squished. It was soft and grimy, like jelly mixed with noodles, and it stuck to his hands like glue. What could it be? Noir wasnβt curious at all; he couldn't afford to be. Instead, he just waited patiently for his friend's answer, observing every inch of him, searing every cut into memory.
A minute passed by, then two, but Rory didnβt answer. He never would.
It was then that it settled in: The artist had taken a permanent break.