Demian

Big Fishes' Carnival at The Lake - Demian

“Hey, Hey, Demian, Why do you stick with me?”

His pointy, white-dyed hair prevents me from looking at his eyes as he answered, “I didn’t stick with you, you did.” He didn’t flinch nor slow down as he spouted his answer, and he didn’t bothered to look at me after that – he knows I would be smiling. I always am. “Of course you didn’t,” I responded, and that was the end of one conversation, among many that I had tried to have with him. “Although, I admit that you are an interesting person,” he continued. “Can I take that as a compliment?” I asked as he sped up his pace, a question to which he sighed.

“Hey, Hey, Demian, Do you believe in another world?”

I met this person just a moment ago, in a cafe where I was just having a cup of whatever and sat there, bored of the world. It was fate, really: he was just sitting on a table just opposite of mine, alone and aloof, when his eyes met mine. Next thing I knew was him dragging me somewhere. I don’t know where, I don’t care, but he was interesting so I paid no mind. “Another world?” he answered with a question of his own, “don’t you mean parallel universe?”

“Yes, yes, the ones in which possibilities here are truths. I wonder if we’re lovers somewhere among those worlds,” I joked, to which he clicked his tongue. “What of belief? Me believing does not affect anything here, nor does not believing.”

“You’re not so romantic, are you?”

“Although, coincidentally,” he continued, “we’re going to meet a person who knows whether other worlds exists.”

Oh, what a coincidence! As I spin around the brisk walking Demian, I looked up the sky and its brightness told me that today would be the end of boring days. Flowers bloom everywhere; their colors intertwine to make a rainbow that decorated our path to the unknown. How beautiful! All because of him, he who then also looked up on the sky and cringed.

“We better hurry, slump under the rain is not a very nice place.”

Oops. Was I found out?

When it finally poured down, we were already reaching our stop: a white hospital. It was your usually hospital with a special floor that is reserved for the dying – and apparently dying was what Demian wanted. He knocked on a door, a door among other doors that seemed rotten and lifeless, if not for the brilliant white shimmering from the walls. When three knocks still remained unanswered, Demian choose to shut his mouth and viola – the door opened. “That wasn’t a very sturdy door,” he exclaimed as he rubbed his shoulder. All this was taken as a surprise by a man of weak constitution.

“What are you doing!?” Oh, wasn’t that a charming and appropriate response to Demian.

 “Knocking on your door,” Demian answered, “ a little harder this time ‘cause you don’t seem to hear the previous ones.”

“I believe that’s what we call knocking the door out of the way,” he replied, trying to sound smart. “And you are?”

“A service provider,” he declared as he glared at me for a moment, signaling that I better shut my mouth if I wanted to live. Then, Demian took two chairs and put one on each side of the bed, where the man lies. Demian then continued, “requested by the man who preferred to be addressed as Gregory Stark.”

“Ah, that would be me. Although I-“

“Randy, are you alright!?” suddenly a strange woman stormed into the room, saw the broken door and gasped. “It’s okay, Aisle,” the man in bed explained. “These people just have bad manners. Why don’t you go back to your room, and explain everything later? Please?” he sighed, looking a bit disappointed. The girl walked back out, her face still reflects the confusion she had about this small room with a her friend Randy, a red-eyed man and a girl with a mask.

The man cleared his throat and continued, “I was about to say that Gregory Stark is not my name, as I wouldn’t be careless enough to leave my real name on such website.”

“But we know your name now,” I giggled, “ because of that girl.”

“Randy, huh? What a funny coincidence,” Demian exclaimed as he took an apple on the table with his right hand and threw it upwards. It fell down exactly on his left hand, and then he took a bite, after which he announced, “I just killed a man with the same name just the other day,” to which the man make another surprised face, just with more fear. “Well, technically he killed himself, but I was kind of involved.”

“You see, when the website said that we take requests, Mr Stark,” Demian explained, “we are talking about more, underground, requests. Robbery, murder, bailing someone out of jail?” He listed, with a glare directed at me upon saying the last one. “We wouldn’t be here if not for your, otherworldly, memories, yes?” he explained, to which the man in bed finally dropped his shoulder and seemingly decided to just put up with all the shocking stuff.

“Oh, just listening is fine,” Mr Stark answered, as he took another of those apples and bit one himself. “I want someone to know the story before I die.”

Then he started with his life story. Particularly highlighted about a person named Rebecca and Cynthia. It would have been just a normal triangle love story if it didn’t have the part about the other worlds. This man claimed to have memories of him from other worlds: other names, other jobs, other fate. It’s ridiculous; he was claiming that somehow he got the memories and somehow he knew that Rebecca was travelling between worlds. The day after he confirmed all this, he found Rebecca beside a strange machine, while the girl didn’t remember what happened for the last week. I would’ve taken him for a fool and a madman. “The reason that she got my name wrong, I think, was because I’m Randy Stark,” he ended.

“And where’s these Rebecca and Cynthia?” Demian asked.

“I’ll probably see them soon. In a month, the doctor said.”

And then there was cold goodbyes. Demian told him to keep the money, as he might need to repair the door.

“Hey, Hey, Demian, what was that all about?” I asked when we finally exited the hospital.

 “Oh, nothing much to do with you,” he replied as he pulled out cigarette, “you’re just some kind of fly-by.”

“No, I think it has a lot to do with me.”

“I thought so, too, until I saw through your lies.”

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Hey, Hey, Demian, what do you think of a story that lies?”

 “Don’t call me that.”

“Why?”

“Because I saw through your mask, Demian.”

As expected of the ‘demon’, he saw through my mask. It’s true, I am a liar. Now and then I put a mask around everyone, deceiving each and every one of them (well, almost everyone). I didn’t know how long had it been a habit of mine, but eventually I wore so many masks that I didn’t know which one was Demian. Was Demian a cheerful, playful girl that she had been playing for a while? Or was she more mysterious, more menacing? Just a bookworm girl that lives in her fantasy? I don’t know. The Masked Lady Demian could be anyone.

“Now that I have seen through you, I see that you are not like me – you’re just a liar. Go back to your cell,” he finally dropped his cigarette and stepped on it, then walked away.

If he did saw through my mask, I wonder what he saw behind it. I wish he could tell me what he saw.

Told you he was interesting.