The Sick Rose, Page 2

  Before I execute someone, I make sure that both of us (my victim and I) wear masks. For all I know, appearances are important. When I killed Harry, I played Zeus, while he was King Sisyphus. I decided to alter the story, of course. I love to add a bit of personal touch to the performances.

  Sometimes I even make the story, a little funny: a few years ago, I killed a person whom I forced to act like Nietzsche, while I dressed up like Jesus. After killing that person, I laughed for hours. Such Ironies are my private guilty pleasures!

  Think about a role-play session in which my victim and I act immaculately well. There is no audience. There are no recordings. There is no script. The stage is set. We act. We play. We imitate life. We mock it with our little gestures and jests. We laugh. We cry. We bleed.

  There are three acts: in act one, we dance around the tree of knowledge; in act two we lust for life; and in act three I kill the only other actor—and witness—of the performance. I kill her short lived brilliance. I kill her fleeting pleasures. I kill her fading pulse.

  Everything in life is transient. Ephemeral; So am I. However my being is a superset of all the roles that I’d ever played; no wonder the church always opposed acting; No wonder it makes me feel like a god.

  Chapter Eight: I am Peter

  The truth of the matter is that I am amoral. I would have left Rose, anyway. I do not stick around with a particular woman for more than a year. I live a passionate life, and I know that women like me for my charms and passion. They all fall for the same tricks: give them the right amount of attention: neither a word less, nor a look more; make them comfortable; and show them that you are a god of passion.

  Last night I made mad, mad love with two women I managed to seduce. Is that a sin? Well, I never believed much in God, anyway: I do not really care how the universe started, and how would it end up. All I know is that I am alive and I do not need any justifications for that. I do not care for theological reflections.

  I only pursue—what what I believe to be— a good life; I have never visited heaven or hell, then why should I waste my life chasing the imaginary?

  As for the good society, I must declare my rebellion secretly. Why should I please the society and not my own self? I have my own sense of morality: whatever I like, I do; whatever I dislike, I avoid.

  Chapter Nine: I am Rose

  This madness is rampant: I have been receiving the same William Blake poem each day, for the past two weeks. I could report the incidence to the police, but I do not want to discourage the person behind this little farce. I think that person is up to a very interesting game; a game that I would like to play. Initially I thought that this is one of Peter’s little jokes, but now I am certain that Peter has nothing to do with it.

  Peter has gone out of the scene. He has not written a single e-mail for three weeks now. One of my friends told me that he has been picking up women regularly from local bars; sometimes, even three, at a time.

  Peter’s behavior surprises me a little, but it doesn’t make me angry. I can’t blame him. I still believe that he is a good person. Rather, he is an honest person. I would even say that he is an innocent person.

  When we were in a relationship, he made it quite obvious that he was looking for pleasure and company rather than love. ‘Love’, he always claimed ‘is serendipity’. I am also quite sure that he will present himself whenever I require him—if not as a lover, then as a friend.

  For now, I have to solve the mystery of the letters; I must admit that the whole affair has intrigued me greatly and I wait for the letter each day, hoping that there will be more to it, than a poem.

  I wonder how long I would be able to retain my interest in this letter, if I keep receiving it each day, with the same content, for the rest of my life. Strangely, I like the idea. It even makes me happy.

  Chapter Ten: I am a serial killer

  I have been sending letters to Miss Rose, quite frequently; I stalked her for months. I know all the essential details about her; I know how her life is crumbling in tiny, meaningless fragments. It is a pity that such a fine-looking, young woman must go through the horrors of an early demise. I think I could save her: if not from death, I could rescue her from the torments of life.

  I wouldn’t console her. I wouldn’t infest her with hope. I would only present her a simple solution.

  I have written a perfect role for her. I spent days carving the dialogues, sharpening them with eloquence and poetic grace. I have also started to create the masks. I want the whole act to be grand and opulent. As a writer and actor, this could very well turn out to be the greatest work of my life.

  I must communicate with Miss Rose, as early as possible. She is an art aficionado. I am certain that she will consider my proposal, seriously.

  Chapter Eleven: I am Rose

  I always liked dark and bizarre ideas, but this one is absolutely insane. Today the letter contained a bit more than poetry: it carried a proposal.

  It is a good proposal. I like the details. There are no argumentations. There are no judgments. The writer of the letter has simply offered a service: ‘I shall make sure that your death is painless and instant.’

  It further says, ‘If you accept my proposal, please see me at the New Eden Park tomorrow, at 11 a.m. sharp.

  I could call the police. This person might be a mass murderer; but if he were so, why would he ask for my consent? This is very interesting. I think I will meet this person.

  What do I have to lose, anyways?

  Chapter Twelve: I am a serial killer

  I met Miss Rose today; she is indeed a very charming lady. Meeting her in person was important because I wanted to closely examine her facial features. The results please me: I think she would fit perfectly in the role I crafted for her.

  I also informed her about my choice of attire. As far as masks are concerned, I would prepare her a glittering, golden, Columbine mask while I would wear a white Medico Della Peste.

  I advised her to wear black lipstick for the occasion; she has very sensuous, protuberant lips, and a black shade would accentuate them aptly. I also informed her that I prefer 3 act plays. She had no objections.

  I would like the background music a bit dark and seductive; for the final, and most important act therefore, I proposed Gorecki’s ‘Symphony No. 3’. I am really looking forward to our final rendezvous.

  Chapter Thirteen: I am Rose

  I have accepted his proposal. He will be here soon. I have bought a ‘Chteau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion’ to celebrate the occasions.

  I feel oddly happy. My life would be over soon. I do not have any regrets. Earlier, in the morning I went out to visit all my favorite places; it is strange that at the threshold of death, places are more important than people. There is no one I wanted to visit, really.

  I thought about visiting Peter, but then decided against it. There was no point in doing so; I no longer feel passionate about him. I no longer feel passionate about anything; but I must admit that I’m excited about the play. I was provided the dialogues yesterday, and I have been rehearsing them with renewed zeal.

  I could have been a good actress, even a good writer. In my youth, I had a bit of talent for acting. I was never a wild-goose chaser though. I took a safe path to life: a decent career that provided me security and consistency.

  Now that the elements of security do not matter to me any longer, I feel an urge to be an artist.

  Hence, it is only apt that I end up my life on a stage.

  Chapter Fourteen: I am Peter

  I saw a very strange and vivid dream last night: I was inside a theatre, and there were only two performers on the stage: there was a person wearing a bizarre mask, standing with Rose. He wore khaki pants, and was topless.

  Rose wore a golden mask, and a white diaphanous dress, that gave her a look of an ancient Egyptian queen. Presently, the man whispered something in her ears. Then they both squatted down with their backs to each other. It seemed as if they were meditating a
t the beginning of a ritual, demanding blessings from an estranged, pagan god.

  After a while, the music started playing and the play begun. Rose walked to the centre stage, while a slow, assured gait. The man followed her, steadily.

  Then, Rose raised both her arms up to the heavens; her neck followed her arms’ movement. The man started hopping around her like an ape. Moments later, Rose restored her neck and arms to the normal position. An apple magically appeared in her left hand. She craned her neck to the man and summoned him to stand.

  The man stood immediately and kissed her hands reverently. Rose looked at him lovingly, and presented him the apple. The man looked at the apple incredulously. Rose smiled at him, and gave him a slight nod.

  Then something extraordinary happened: the lights went out and silence pervaded the theatre. When the lights returned, I saw that Rose’s dress was torn and the man with the mask, looked miserable. He hopped around like an ape for a while, but then stood up like a human being, looking around the stage, helplessly. Then he looked at Rose with rage, and started gnawing at her, ferociously.

  Rose turned around and started weeping. The man stopped gnawing at her and started whimpering. The air filled with their sorrowful cries.

  After a while, the man started to walk towards Rose. She stopped crying and both of them looked at each other excitedly. On finding his gaze on her bare body, she flinched. The man took her hand in a tight grasp. She gave a little gasp. Then they started to waltz.

  They waltzed for a long time, feeling each other’s presence, passionately.

  Then the lights went out again.

  When the lights returned, Rose’s appearance had changed. She had removed her mask, and she looked terrible. She had aged tremendously in a blink of eye: her neck was wrinkled and her face was bloated. She had also developed a little limp. After a while, the man disappeared and Rose sat down at the centre of the stage, with her hair opened. There she sat for a long while, brooding and waving off imaginary demons. It seemed like the act went on for decades.

  After a considerably long time, the man returned to Rose. She looked at him fervently. The man came forward and embraced her; it was then that it occurred to me that the man had a long sharp dagger in his left hand.

  It was clear that he was about to kill her. I had to do something, so I shouted!

  Rose …

  It was too late, by then. The man had pushed the dagger all the way into her back, and she bled profusely. The man dropped her to the floor and removed his mask.

  He was crying. I think he realized his guilt now.

  He turned over his face towards me, and to my horror, he had my face.

  Or perhaps, it was me.