BLANK PATRIARC

BLANK PATRIARC
Those words keep resounding in my ears, switching voices. One moment, it’s mom’s voice. The next, it’s Shawna’s, then Iyanu’s, then aunt Mellow’s.

Speaking of the witch, Iyanu, I spot her standing in the crowd. That person in the joker mask must be her. She loves anything that has to do with joker, and has worn that mask for the umpteenth time.

I push myself through the crowd to approach her. “Why did you do it?” I ask the moment I reach her. Only Iyanu would stoop so low to do a thing like this. It’s how she has been since high school—sabotaging anything good for me whenever she’s around. For once, I thought she had changed.

“For obvious reasons, baby girl, I wouldn’t want you lying to this lot now, would I?” she purrs behind her mask. “They need to know who you really are. Plus, it’s my birthday gift to you. If no one buys your work, I will—if you will sell it at the meager price it’s worth.”

Within me, I struggle to breath as the place grows stuffier, suffocating me to the point I dash out for fresh air.

I continue running until I reach a garage, where I slump on the ground, leaning against a pillar and drawing my knees to my chest. Then I tug my mask down before heaving a sigh of frustration.

“Your work is amazing,” a male voice comes behind me, and I quickly turn around to find a huge figure standing in the shadows. “I suggest you wear your mask,” he adds, prompting me to do as he says in haste while scrambling to my feet.

The man emerges from the shadows. There’s isn’t much light in the garage, but there’s certainly enough for me to see him.

He’s still wearing the same burgundy shirt from earlier, as well as the same full-faced mask that only exposes his eyes.

The mask is a metal with carved intricate designs. It’s meant to draw attention to it, but what I’m mostly drawn to the stranger’s eyes.

Despite the dimness of the garage, I can see them. They are the brightest green I’d ever set my eyes on, and are unlike his strands that are intimidated by the shadows, now seeming to black even though they were brown when I saw the man earlier.

My first unwavering thought is to look at the man’s hands. They are dipped in his pockets.

Could there be a hidden weapon in those pockets?

If what the movies say is true, then it means that professional serial killers approach their targets slowly and cautiously, earning their trust before striking at the least expected time.

I think they enjoy the look of shock on their victim’s face when they realize that their acquaintance was a serial killer.

Fuck. What if this man is one of those people like I suspected, and I’ve fallen into his trap?

With that thought, I only now discover that my heart had been beating since I first heard his voice.

Right now, it’s beating faster, louder.

“I saw beyond those words,” the man says while coming closer. Instinctively, I move backward. “I saw the message in your painting. Freedom. Relief. Triumph. I can tell the evolution of your thoughts through your brush strokes; the gently slide of ink along your art’s borders, as well as your brief pauses. You wished for someone to find the key to your cages. You wanted them to unlock it and break the chains around your wrists and ankles. However, you later switched. Your strokes got thicker, faster, more hectic. You ditched your previous purpose and went for a new meaning. A world that did not require someone to save you. You were determined to save yourself, and you did. But what I don’t understand is what type of captivity you are in. Is it a bondage of the mind, or is someone holding you back from being who you really are?”

I stare at the man for a while before crouching down. For some unknown reasons, his words make me to relax in his presence. Although my heart still beats fast, I start speaking without thinking twice.

“My dad’s wife; she has this image—like a saintly character. She’s celebrated, looked up to, relied on… She’s a role model, and she’s all any human wants to become; a decent, wealthy mother with a loving husband. Her life is so fucking balanced.” I heave a deep sigh. “Then there’s my mom whose image is like a fungi. The people who knew my name assumed I would be like her when they first meet me. Then, later, they expected me to become my dad’s wife. Also, in their words, ‘the daughter of x should act better’. X is my dad, by the way.”

“If X represents Zeath Lupin, you don’t have to hide it.”

I huff as I look up at the man. “So you do know. I guess your impression about me isn’t right, after all.”

Crouching down next to me, his voice falls beneath his usual tone as he meets gazes with me. “I know of someone who was caged too. Caged by her past. Caged by unforeseen circumstances. Caged by people’s words and expectations. Even caged by her own family.”

“And?”

“And she broke free.” The man looks ahead of him. “I tried to be the person who unchains her. I tried to be there as her shield. But I later found out she didn’t need me. She was and has always been okay on her own.”

“Were you two in-love?”

The stranger shakes his head. “She didn’t love me.”

He didn’t answer the question the way I wanted. For him to respond from the woman’s perspective alone, it means he loved her. “So your love story ended there?”

As he smiles, his eyes that once seemed faraway diverts back to me. “What I’m trying to say is: as much as people want you to be who they want, you can choose who you become on your own. Do not lose yourself in an attempt to fulfill other people’s expectations because it never ends there. If I expect you to be a doctor, another person wants to see you as a lawyer, and another prefers you as a housewife. If you try to be all that, you end up straying from your own self. And then you fall into a state of confusion and frustration.”

“Like I am now?”

“Worst.”

“Hm.” I nod, sighing again and embracing the silence that creeps in-between us for a while. Then I chuckle. “You know, it’s funny how I thought you were a serial killer.”

The stranger smiles. “What if I am and I’m only pretending to gain your trust?”

“I thought so too.” I shrug. “But after what you just said, I’m 100% convinced you’re no serial killer, as those with the profession would not expose their guise.”

“Really?”

As the man keeps looking at me, those green eyes of his stand still, forcing mine to halt as well.

No blinking.

Less breathing.

No noise.

We simply stare at each other as I wonder how gorgeous a person can be by just seeing their eyes.

Sadly, he soon blinks away, breaking the eye contact. Only then do I wake up from my trance as my eyes quickly flicker to the number tag pinned on his breast pocket.

“Number nineteen, are you an artist or a buyer?” I ask. I’ve been curious about that ever since I saw him at the reception.

“An artist,” he simply responds.

“Wow!” I giggle. “What’s your pseudonym? Oh, you can only tell me if you want to.”

“I go by my name, Blank,” the man nonchalantly utters while rising up.

I freeze.

The name I heard now, is it the one I’m familiar with, the one I attended this whole event for?

“B… Blank… Patriarc?” I stutter, my voice carrying my a tone of both shock and restrained joy.

When the man nods, I can’t help leaping to my feet. However, as if avoiding more questions, he quickly waves and turns away to leave.

I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t move or talk. My brain stopped working, and my heart wouldn’t stop beating.

Since I know he’s not a serial killer, isn’t it supposed to stop beating so fast now. Why is it still going at a faster pace as if running a race to catch the disappearing man.