FicWad

AN: The awkward moment when you're writing a dark story and 'Dick In A Box' comes up on your shuffle...
I had to stop writing and wait for my brain to start functioning again. Just...
-Ben

I was floating in darkness, simply drifting in nothing. My body swayed and bobbed in the shadows, and before I could begin to wonder where I was, I realized something:

I was dead.

It was like remembering your name whenever someone called it; obvious and meaningless at that moment. It was just something that you were, something you would keep in the back of your mind along with what colour your eyes were and the location of your moles.

I was dead. Deceased. Not kicking. A stiff. A corpse. Rotting away. Taking a dirt nap. Pushing daisies. Gone.

I waited for the feeling of loss, the feeling of regretting something or wishing to finish what still remained in my past life. I had heard stories of spirits that couldn't pass on because they had things left to do, and I wondered if I would be doomed to linger among the living, too.

The feeling didn't come. I just floated, being pulled along by invisible hands whose fingers were cold yet strong. 

Time slipped away from me, day and night disappearing altogether in the space I was in. For all I knew, a hundred years could've passed since my life was ripped out from my eye. Maybe my killer was dead. Maybe he'd killed himself out of guilt, or maybe the police had finally caught up with him.

It didn't even matter anymore. I was dead. That meant I didn't matter anymore.

Eventually, I noticed something: the shadows I'd been floating in were slowly coming together to form shapes. It was as if there was a magnet pulling the mist toward it, holding them in place. I stared for a while, fascinated, before I noticed something else.

They were tombstones.

My head whipped around as I tried to take everything in. Rows upon rows of tombstones surrounded me, each one bearing a name, but no dates. Trees sprouted from the earth, climbing up as the shadows piled and clawing at the sky with bare branches. It was like being trapped in a horror movie, but the smell of rotting leaves and stale earth told me that it was real.

And when the shadows finally stopped swirling, he appeared.

He had too be in his late teens or early twenties. There was something young about him, despite the deep shadows under his eyes and his pale skin. His body was long and thin, as if he were a Tim Burton character brought to live. His eyes, so dark that they were almost black, were almost hidden by the top hat that settled on his raven hair.

This man- boy- whatever he was, was dressed in what I immediately identified as a ringmaster's costume. It looked to be made of black silk, fitting his lanky body like a glove. Silver clasps went up his chest, almost like the ones you'd see on a marching band's uniform. His hat was adorned with red jewels and white chains that spilled over the brim, creating shining arcs that mingled with his hair. Once I managed to tear my eyes away from his skeleton grin, I noticed that his boots were knee-high and made of thick leather.

He spoke as if we'd just met at a party, and he was the host. Casual, demanding attention. His voice was light and somewhat rough, so I guessed he was a smoker.

"You must be Frank. Welcome to my show!" He bowed, removing his hat with a sweep of one of his long arms and tucking it into his armpit. I stared, utterly lost. Was this whole thing some sick joke? A dream?

"Wait... So I'm not dead?"

The Ringmaster's grin grew wider, stretching across his pale face like a fresh wound. "Of course you're dead, Frank," he chuckled, rising up to his full height. He towered over me, a figure worthy of Tim Burton. "That's why you're here." He threw his arm out, gesturing to the graveyard with a spidery hand. "This is a resting place for the dead, but not all of us are really sleeping."

He shot me a wink before raising his voice to a roar that made my ears ring. "WELCOME TO THE GREATEST SHOW UNEARTHED!"

The ground split, dirt shifting in the wake of a massive scar in the earth's crust. Clods of dirt flew, spraying the stonier topsoil with different shades of brown that were soon consumed by shadows. The wind rose to a blood-curdling scream, whipping around me in icy fingers that scratched at my skin. The graveyard absolutely reeked of upturned earth, the smell of something damp and ancient being tossed about in the darkness. My screams were stolen from my throat and swallowed by the merciless air, lost forever in the violent storm that had seemingly come from the Ringmaster's hand.

The willowy man stood behind me, and even though I couldn't see him, I could almost feel that maniac grin stretching wider.