Mordecai
You sit on the inked up stool that has been your post for the past eight hours, working minuscule strings of all imaginable colors through your callused fingers and into the loom that sits in front of you. You pause to take another smoke from your freshly rolled cigarette. At the moment, you're working on your latest order: a sheet adorning a flaming red Tasmanian tiger. You're getting paid the fortune of five dollars for the fabric, so you're putting your best effort into it, although you haven't got the slightest idea as to what the hell a Tasmanian tiger is. Doesn't matter to you. You're getting some big bucks. Maybe even enough money to buy some new shoes from the booth Airina runs down the isle.
You hear a faint ringing in your ears and groan, knowing all too well what's coming. The sirena has been singing a lot lately. Someone must have recently taken the serum. You shake your head in disappointment. The ringing in your ears fades a bit and the song shines through, Erie and smooth:
"When you're engulfed in flames
Will you realize these aren't games?
These are peoples lives
Being cut short by your lies
Watch your kingdom fall
The sacrifice was: all
This is your greatest fear
Being helpless, yet so near
Will you give up now?
To your new future, bow
You've lost the war, kid
This is the price you should not have bid."
You sigh, thankful that the signing was brief. Usually they last twice as long. You look up at your clock. Closing time.
Carefully, you untangle the string from your bony fingers and lay them out on your work bench. They'll stay there until dawn, tomorrow. You'd rather get up early than work all night. You've got things to do, people to see.
You slink out of your shop and smoothly glide down the main entrance, comfortingly chaotic, as usual. You smile to yourself. You sure did get lucky, landing yourself a stable job in this place.
Ringing fills your ears. You stop in your tracks and listen to the captivating sirena:
"Humble string weaver
Have you got a fever?
Or are you just remembering
What you did with that cleaver?
What a meek coward
Running from a downward
Spiral of your sanity
Should I just sing louder?
You don't deserve this
Life that you have kissed
It's time to turn yourself
In for your cowardice
Bury your face in your hands
And don't reappear
Stay where your body lands
You don't belong here
Too late
Too late
You forgot to close the gate"
A shiver runs down your back and your skin turns to goose flesh. A few curious people shoot you some suspicious glances, so you flash a bright smile, nodding your head in a polite greeting. They look confused, but otherwise convinced.
You see that girl with the red hair down the path in front of some bulky looking guy. He doesn't look so good. Like he's just seen a ghost.
Or heard one.
You shuffle over to them, curious and excited at the prospect of someone other than you sharing your obscure burden.
You saunter over to the pair, taking another drag from your cigarette. The boy clutches at his head as if he thinks that if he lets it go, it will explode. The first song always do the most physical damage. Nothing compared to what they're like after they've been around for a few years.
You stand by the girl, shaking your head pityingly at the boy.
"So you got stuck with them too, huh?" You ask, although it's more of an observation than a question. You let out a low whistle, signaling your disbelief. The boy nods his head as if he doesn't know what else to do.
"Here's a tip," you say, leaning on your right leg, comfortably, "don't try to talk to it. It only makes the sirena mad. Trust me, you don't want that."
It takes him a minute to respond. "What are sirena?" He asks in a strained voice. You almost feel bad for the kid. Almost.
"The voices in your head, man! You think it doesn't have a name?" You try to regain your air of nonchalance by sucking in the smoke floating around your head. You think it works pretty well.
The kid looks confused. "Right." He says.
You nod at him, bored with the conversation. "I'll be seeing you, man." You say, taking another smoke and walking away.
You've got to get a word in with this kid. He doesn't look like the type of guy that can handle what the sirena can dish out. Who knows, he might go crazy. You subtly shake your head once and turn down an alley clouded with different colors of smoke.
You lean your back up against the stained brick wall and cross your legs, loosely. One hand holds a freshly rolled cigarette to your mouth and the other clutches a leaking bottle of bright red spray paint; your signature color.
Although you are surrounded by at least thirty people, the only voice that can be heard is coming from a small, skinny little girl rolling raps off her tongue about dreams a few feet away. You close your eyes and nod your head to the rhythm of her words.
Then a need overcomes you as it has almost everyday of what you can remember of your entire life. The words that the sirena send pulsing through your brain ricochet in your head and find themselves in your fingertips.
You stand and walk over to an unoccupied stretch of wall between two complete strangers with paint staining their fingers. You raise your own can and close your eyes, letting your finger press down on the top of the can and your arm guide itself through the air. When you open your eyes again, a single word stares back at you: OVER PERSUADE.
The singing starts before you can even think to prepare for it:
"You're a ticking time bomb
No effort to remain calm
Everyone is in your way
Like they can't see you're headstrong
Scream through your teeth
So eager to release
But you've got to hold it in
Just for now, at least
You're an expert at this, dear
At poising just the right jeer
To take someone down
By filtering their nuclear (explosion)
Open your lips
And a flaming insult slips
Through your teeth before
You can even think to resist
You're impartial to it now
But soon you will be drow(sy)
And regret will torture you
Until sweat drips from your brow
But sure, go ahead
Don't even think about the dread
You will feel when you're through
When you spew your words of lead"
When you can focus again, you realize that your eyes are still closed. You're reluctant to open them, afraid of what you may find, so you distract yourself by analyzing the lyrics that just took over your mind.
This, like so many other recent songs, doesn't seem to be relevant to the past, so it must be some way of foreshadowing your life. Already, you feel the lingering feeling of rage in your chest and in your cheeks.
You suck in a breath. You open your eyes.
The wall before you is covered in red paint, words displaying themselves on the wall, demanding everyone's attention. The biggest ones catch your eyes first: dread, fire, rage, teeth, bomb, and scream. You look down at your left hand, the one that is holding the can of paint, to see that is dripping with the same red that decorates the building.
You glance at the people standing around you, who appear to have already been staring. You sigh and walk out of the alley. You don't fail to notice that the little girl is silent.
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