artful’s past followed the magician around like a persistent pet.

he didn’t want to remember it. he didn’t want to recall, reminisce, retell or—god forbid—relive his past. it was horrible, really; a blur of monochrome colours & splashes of blood mistakenly spilled, coating his own hands & costing him his promising future. one massive fast-forward of mistakes, opportunities carried out in all the wrong ways, & modes of redemption artful had been too late to take. artful hated the decisions he’d made back then. & apparently, he hadn’t learnt his lesson—because, he was still killing. daily. killing poor civilians, watching their faces twist in anguish & turmoil whilst deep under those pounds of makeup & foundation artful coated on every early morning to coat up his sinful past, artful was one of them. yet, he was far beyond redemption by now. there was no use in apologising.

“mr. artful..? i’m [___], & this is my sister… we’re big fans of yours… we even saved up all our spare change, loose money we found in the orphanage—yes, we’re from there, don’t be surprised so!—just so we could see your show…may be our first & only one we’ll ever see, but we loved it all the same… here’s a picture of you we worked on before coming..not much, yes, sure you receive much more quality produce from the better fans…but we love your show anyhow & want to express our awe…”

that poor girl. that poor girl & her sister. they were orphans, had saved up all their cash just to see him. that girl had been so sweet, so incredibly doting upon her younger sibling. artful remembered that night & the following as clear as day. he’d given the two siblings a special ticket, one that would grant them access to the front-row seats in his next show, which took place the next day. artful was planning to put on an extra special performance for the two girls, as he always honoured his new fans, especially if they were young; it gave them something to appreciate him for. well, that show had gone wrong. horribly wrong. the whole audience had been decimated. the few survivors described the event as “traumatising” & “seared unto the mind to enable a seamless cycle of trauma & torment”. artful’s stadium had ended up lathered in blood by the closing of that night, the crimson liquid dripping off of the leather seats. yet, worst of all… the poor girl, the older sibling, had received the worst death. she’d ended up with a metal rod from somewhere on stage lodged in her throat. allegedly, the girl’s younger sister, no older than seven, had to keep her sister alive by futile attempts at cpr & failed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation manoeuvres. the older sibling had passed on shortly after being admitted to hospital, harbouring rust & lead poisoning as well as asphyxiation. the younger girl had survived with heavy trauma to the head, lest the emotional distress.

“i hate the very mention of his name now,” the news quoted the younger girl declare at the scene. “brings those deaths to heart… i shall never be rid of them.”

artful awoke with a start. his entire body was coated with nerve-induced sweat, like a second layer of skin. he sat up in bed, panting, clutching his chest as if he’d just ran a marathon. great. another nightmare… he glanced at the digital clockwork sat on his bedside table, the time 4:38 flickering across its cracked interface. he turned his gaze back onto the bedsheets, sighing pitifully to himself.

suddenly— CREAK. artful nearly jumped out of his skin, head flinging to the back to face wherever that noise was coming from. his heart hammered in his chest—what if it was a civilian? the ghost of that sister? come for vengeance, both had surely? what if— artful’s worries stilled in his mind as he laid gaze upon the figure producing the noise. ..pursuer, having spotted artful wake up past midnight due to another one of his nightly troubles. artful sighed once again, though this time almost fondly. he managed to muster a weak smile. he didn’t quite want the other killer worrying for him.

“hey, pursuer..”