Two Makes One

Cold steel glinted as it pressed up against his throat. His heart was beating fast, and yet he was not thinking of death. He was thinking of what he had just seen. How little he had known of the world. He could smell roses, he could feel the Reaper standing nearby. He wondered what would happen next. More importantly, he wondered how it had come to this. Not for him, but for the world. He was facing a wall, he could count all the stones and the holes in it, but he did not know if he had the time. With each ticking second, it seemed to be passing out. He could hear the steady drip of water, could feel the hum of electricity underneath as he saw by the dim glow of manufactured light. He wondered how it had all come to this. Why no one had seen it. But then, he hadn’t. And he had been on the trail. It was just so ludicrous. He had not seen it, until the game was almost done.

The steel was cold, getting warmer by the second, gleaming angrier, hungrier.

The Detective had entered the forest, his back trembling as it had felt the gaze of the heavy shadows flitting all around, from one tree to the next, dancing under and around the small pockets of light that still pierced through the trees. He could smell rot, he could feel burning, could hear a soft crying from all around. It felt as if the forest were crying. He could feel tears burning in his eyes, feel as if the ground were slipping away from him. He knew he was right next to the trees, but each one felt as if he were looking at it through binoculars. Every instinct within him screamed at him to turn around. Yet, his feet kept walking forwards. His thoughts were blank, dulled, slowed. His senses were hyperaware. He could hear the scuttling of something heavier than a shadow, than the shadows all around him, dry leaves crunching underneath its paws as it ran around the forest floor. He passed into a clearing and he saw it. In the center. A squirrel, dirty and matted fur, running around in circles, changing directions, making patterns, it’s paws wet and shimmering. It passed under a patch of light, and he realized with horror that they were matted with a crimson liquid. It scurried towards him, and he saw the mania in its eyes. It was if it could not stop. It could not see him. It was seeing him, pleading with its eyes, as it danced around, face staying impossibly still, impossibly turned towards him, even when it was facing the opposite direction otherwise.

“Tragic isn’t it.” a rich, cultured voice had called out from the shadows. A man had been leaning against the trees. The Detective stood paralyzed in shock, in silence as the man had walked towards him. Slow, composed, eyes betraying nothing, face a mask of stoicism. Does he not feel the terror in this place? Am i hallucinating? He thought incredulously. “Yes I do, and no you are not.” The man reached him.