THE RISE OF THE UNDEAD

THE RISE OF THE UNDEAD
FLASHBACK TO ART CONCATION.

Iyanu broke a rule—exposing another person’s identity.

It’s not like some people did not already know who was who. It’s just that one of the themes of the convention was the masquerade, and it was compulsory that the actual or real life was exempted.

Blank Patriarc is a name people know in the world of art, but there hasn’t been any trace of his real life outside art. So he participated with that name.

I used the name ‘Nectar’ without ‘Diza’ or ‘Lupin’ to maintain the masking. Shawna has ‘Latishawn’ as her pseudonym. Iyanu goes with ‘The Artist YanYan’. It’s how everyone masked their real life identity in the event. But the girl went ahead to proclaim who I really was, leading to her immediate expulsion from the event.

She was walked out by the security, and the purchase of her art canceled.

There was also a rule of not fighting, and I broke it with her. If Shawna had not spoken up for me, leading to positive votes from some of the participants, I would have been expelled as well.

Because of the fight, I would be depressed right now if I hadn’t met Blank. He’s my ray of sunshine at my gloomiest times. Even Shawna tried to be the supportive friend but was shocked that I had forgotten my anger right after Iyanu’s expulsion.

Now, I’m obsessed with my dance tag. Seeing Blank’s name on it, written in his handwriting—a writing anyone only ever saw on the signatures on his artworks—is a huge privilege and comfort to me.

The thought of dancing with Blank stole my sleep. All night, I giggled, kicked my feet, sank my face in the sheet, and imagined several ways to proclaim my feelings to him.

I doubt he would accept those feelings. He would see them as a twenty-one year old girl’s fantasy. I mean, to him, I could be just a kid. I only hope he has a more regenerative way of thinking.

Shawna’s timid knocks soon comes on the door. It’s her signature way to knock once on the door.

When I answer it, she immediately sashays in with a bottle of wine and two champagne glasses.

“Care for a drink?” she queries while already setting the stuff on the desk. I don’t think it matters whether I want to drink or not. She’s just asking for the sake of it.

“If I say no, will you leave?”

“I won’t. You need to knock yourself to sleep.”

“I have this important dance tomorrow, so I wouldn’t want to spoil it by being hungover.”

“I know. Blank Patriarc and all. But do recall that you have this thing where you grow cranky without sleep. Would you want to show your crush that side of you?”

Right, that side of me is terrible. It would scare Blank.

But my greatest mistake of this trip was agreeing to that drink with Shawna. Because, like I feared, my brain was mashed.

I woke up 3pm and couldn’t remember that I had an event to prepare for until Shawna woke up later by 5pm and groaned something about a masquerade ball while leaving the room.

That’s when it dawned on me.

“I have a dance!” I shrieked.

Now it’s 6:30, and I have no flipping idea how to style my hair or what kind of composure I should have while presenting myself to Blank.

Anyhow, I slap together a fit and hurry to the reception hall. The program today is different. There’s the dances before the reveal. I think the show runners know how chaotic it would be after Blank reveals his art, so they purposefully put the dance first.

“A masquerade ball,” I breathe out while looking at the dancing crowd and adjusting my tilting mask. I picked the latter from a mask store in Country P. Its dark purple shade matches my gown, the corners crafted with thick curves and a rope to tie at the back.

It was supposed to elevate my confidence. But now it isn’t helping matters as I stand in the crowded space, completely ignored.

The music reaches my ears, but not in a pleasant way. It’s as if my eardrums would explode as the corners of my eyes start to sting.

However, all these effects reduces to nothing the moment I feel a smooth hand on each of my ears, covering the latter from all the noise and chaos.

I turn around to see a masked man—clad in a dark red tuxedo, wearing a black half-faced mask, and smiling with those green eyes of his.

“Keep your attention on me,” he whispers while bringing his hands down from my ears.

The next thing I know, he tangles his fingers with mine while his other hand snakes around my waist and pulls me close.

My heart skips a beat, and I find I’m out of breath again as the man sways about softly with me in his arm.

I feel like I’m flying. Actually, I am flying. The music singles out, and all I can hear is Blank breathing, his heart beating steadily in contrast to my chaotic ones. His soft gaze traps my sight on him, and the subtle brushing on our torsos from time to time strikes a tingling feelings that stirs below my belly.

After the dance, Blank kisses the back of my hand while bowing a little. Then he disappears into the crowd.

I try to find him for some minutes but soon give up, letting myself dwell in the scene of our dance.

The rest of the stuff that happened in the event skipped my memory. I only wake up from my dream when I hear the name ‘Blank Patriarc’ boom from the MC’s microphone.

In a few seconds, he’ll reveal his artwork. Seconds of anticipation. Of butterflies in the belly. Of giggling thoughts.

I’m not the only one anxious about meeting the Blank Patriarc himself. There are many of us whose eyes of admiration stuck on the stage.

Then when he stepped onto the stage, several rounds of applause followed. I’ve met him before already, but there’s still a fresh feeling through me from seeing him stand on that stage as Blank Patriarc.

His canvas is a lot bigger than that of the rest of us. Usually he drew landscapes and some symbolic arts. Never has he painted a human. Worse, a breathing, living, actual, existing human.

As he uncovers his piece, the crowd cheer, while my jaw drops. Even as their cheers morph into low rumbles of questions, I still remain gobsmacked.

The woman on Blank’s canvas haunted me at one point in my life. She still does.

From the very moment I was born until now, her very image shone like a star around me. It darkened my complexion, my grace, my fate, my destiny… everything that could have made me stand out.

She alone remains as the center of everything good.

It’s no other person than the world’s savior and martyr—the woman who dissolved the decades old association that was meant to destroy the world—Mellow Lupin.

There was a time when I was overly obsessed with aunt Mellow. I went through some processes of becoming her. And one of these processes had to do with associating myself with the kind of person she associated with.

Due to that, I scrutinized every single person the internet published as her friends; Oasis, Christopher, Yesli Toorsman, uncle Zachili, even Dad.

I grew too familiar with the character of Christopher Su Pointe even though he was dead. Sadly, I couldn’t find anyone similar to him, until I met Blank.

I should have known that the reason the man’s facials looked familiar was due to the fact that I spent hours staring at the pictures of the very good looking Christopher to the point I taunted myself for crushing on a dead person.

Even the way Blank spoke, aside the accent, was similar to that of Christopher.

Now it all exposes itself. Christopher was never dead. And the other name Blank said I would know on his art reveal was Christopher Su Pointe.