I don't know how long I've been here, yet I've just noticed where I am. It's familiar, although I feel like I'm noticing details for the first time. I can't see the ceiling, the room is darkened and that's too far up. Dim lights surround. House-lights? A theatre? Maybe. Oh. There's a stage in front of me, so yes. Can't get a good look round. So many people surrounding me at exactly my height. Can't stand, mustn't draw attention. They all look the same. Brothers? Robots? Monks, I think. Brown, featureless robes. Shaved heads. Beaming smiles. They love it here. Do I love it here? I shouldn't be here, I'm not like them. They don't seem to notice I'm not like them. How long have I been here? Can I leave? How long do I have to stay before I can leave?
The buzz, the hubbub, the ride, it doesn't seem like this is just beginning, but I can't remember what happened before this. The show is starting again. Yes, again. I know that, even though I don't know what the show is. Red velvet curtains part dramatically, a spotlight glares down and a figure takes the stage. The crowd around me go wild.
Huge red bow tie, white gloves, conductor's baton even though I can't see an orchestra. A frayed, straw boater hat atop a huge, misshapen head as the figure lopes, crab-like, across the boards. The accompanying smile and piercing eyes surveying the room, taking in the entire audience and yet feeling as if they single out every one of them. Is... is it a he? Yes, the high-pitched, cracking voice sounds like a he. Just. Without pause or introduction, he begins.
In a sly mockery of vaudevillian delivery, a musical question to the audience. And an answer, returned unthinkingly after only a beat, by everyone gathered here. Heads thrown back in perfect unison. I don't know what they said, it was too loud. I've seen this before, been here before, but I can't remember. On the stage, hands wave frantically then clasp together in an ecstatic plea as another question is asked. It's clearly one which requires the same answer, boomed around me deafeningly once more. Although I can't see anyone turning their head, I can feel eyes on me because I didn't respond. Not from the stage. From the seats around me, above me, behind me. They know.
The third line of the song isn't even a question, but the pause at its end elicits the same response, as does the manic re-statement of the first line as the fourth. Is this a ritual? Some obscene parody of Eucharist as the figurehead above me demands recital and fetishises... what is that he dances on, some discarded, accumulated foodstuff? Are we to eventually eat and become one with this force he exalts from the theatrical altar?
Not yet. The host demands the incantation begins again. The congregation complies. The same question. The same answer. The same eyes on me because I don't answer. My ears ring and my vision blurs and I don't know why I'm here or how I get out and the... man? No. The whatever-that-is on the stage gleefully poses his second riddle, the answer to which is already known by all but me. And they know. The floor is shaking now and a cracking sound splinters above. Suddenly the roof seems to collapse but only onto the stage. The entertainer is engulfed in... I don't know what that is, not plasterwork, not stone. Light, flaky brown rubble of some sort? It must be light because his hand juts up through the newly arrived pile. This won't stop him, won't stop the show. The thing's massive head heaves triumphantly through the morass as it bellows its final prompt. The throng around me are at fever pitch. A response expected.
And I know.
Of course I know. I know I belong here. I don't remember, but I remember I belong here. These people, these brothers, they are me. They are not me-me, but I have been them and they have been me and this happens from time to time. My head is shaved, the cassock hangs from my shoulders just as it does thousands of times around me. We are here. How could I forget this?
I am home. And I throw back my head for one final, first clarion call. Of course I know what to yell. How could I have forgotten? This is why I am here. This is why we are here. For the affirmation. For the show. Always the show. And so we scream:
"TOPIC."
DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.
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