FORBIDDEN ATTRACTION

FORBIDDEN ATTRACTION
Going back into the hall, I try to look for the man in a burgundy shirt, my very own Blank Patriarc. But he’s nowhere.

Has he retired to bed, or is he purposefully hiding from me?

When some of the people starts pointing at me and giggling, I knew it’s time I return to my room.

I’ve been marked by my costume and number tag. So, if I remain here, I would only be a ridicule and a topic of humorous discussion for the night.

By tomorrow, they should have forgotten all about what happened.

After preparing for bed, I dive right under my bed sheet and call dad.

“Guess who I met at the convention tonight, daddy?” I giggle the moment he picks the call.

‘Who, Nectar? I’m busy.’

“Blank. Remember Blank Patriarc, my long obsession? I met him today.”

‘Oh, he is a person.’

“Of course, dad!” I feign annoyance.

‘But anybody can claim to be anyone in a room of masked people,’ he defends himself, yet my claws don’t retract.

“Not here, dad. Deceit is not tolerated in this event. If you still have your doubts, I’ll keep it in mind that he’s Blank until the last day when Blank reveals his art. That will be my proof that I’ve met him.”

‘Until then, my love. Did you sell your artwork?’

Telling dad exactly what happened isn’t a wise choice. Once I tell him why I didn’t get to introduce my artwork, talk more of setting a price, he would storm this place and evidently make a scene.

“I didn’t sell it, dad, but the convention isn’t over yet,” I lie subtly.

‘I will send someone to buy it from you.’

“Come on, dad, no need for that. I’m trying to take care of things myself here.”

My phone dings, and I bring it down from my ear to see the slide down notification: ‘Mellow Lupin launches the Christopher twenty-first Century Foundation, a place for orphans, the homeless, and the elderly in honor of Christopher Su Pointe.’

‘Hon, let us talk later, I have work to do,’ dad says.

“Okay. Bye.”

He cuts the call immediately, while I keep staring at the notification on my screen.

For the past ten years, aunt Mellow has been doing stuff like this to commemorate her late daughter and Christopher. And for as long as I can remember, I have always wished the fame of these things would stick to her family alone.

Yet, it usually extends to mine.

Since she’s the strong female figure who exposed the world’s biggest scandal, people compare her to mom. Somehow, the comparison reach me as well.

These large family of ours has been on the internet for as long as I can recall. It’s as if we live on the web.

I have been the least popular among us all, but my problem is that whenever news agencies publish anything about me, it’s either negative or positive with a touch of negativism. Mom’s past with dad only makes everything worse.

>>>>>>>>>>

The next day came with its own enthusiasm. Like yesterday, I left my door open once more, hoping to catch Blank come out of his room or go into it. But it seems he either stuck inside the room or never slept in it.

That drains my enthusiasm quickly.

As night approaches, I start preparing for today’s event.

It’s a cake party, where we all have to wear ridiculous make-ups that are meant to yet again hide our real facial quality completely.

Today is also when we get to pick dance partners for tomorrow. Each participant will wear a tag—aside the number tag—that has a space to fill a name.

Anyone without a dance partner cannot attend the ball tomorrow night. Too bad.

My target for a dance partner is Blank. Since our number tags change every night, it means he’s not number nineteen or the man in a burgundy shirt, which is also sad. However, if I’m lucky, he may have on a make-up that exposes his green eyes.

There would be tens of people with green eyes in this convention, true. But the difference between their own and Blank’s is that his is spectacular.

The color of his eyes are not among the tens, or the hundreds, or the thousands, or the millions. His is unique and special. And it’s what makes him stand out all the more.

My make-up is represents Grinch—even though it’s not Christmas—while my attire is a shimmering black sleeveless gown with zigzag hems, which I top it with a woolen green shawl draped on my shoulders and a pair of green glittering wedge shoes to match.

I don’t have much jewelries on simply because aunt Mellow and I have this thing in common where jewelries make us feel uncomfortable. Mine is especially because I sweat a lot.

Out in the reception hall, there’s a rich crowd, all dressed in their own fashion and wearing their own figurative make-up. Some have on animal makeups like cats, some have on symbolic makeups, and others have on paranormal makeups like vampires, werewolves, dragons, elves, and all that.

The first part of the nights are usually the introduction of artworks. And right now, I’m watching as Iyanu uncovers her art.

Even I agree that it’s going perfectly. The fluidity of her speech is outstanding, and the way she conveys every symbol of her painting drives the crowd to an applaud.

When she finished, she flashed an ear to ear grin to the crowd that keeps cheering her on. And her art gets sold immediately.

Because she’s voted as the top performing artist of the night, she gets to cut the huge cake.

That’s when I decide the hall is no longer built for me. Because if I stand here any longer and watch or hear as praises are showered at the girl, I would keep feeling more and more less of myself.

It’s better I leave the hall, and I do so without taking my cake.

“Your key card and number tag, ma’am,” the security at the exit tells me.

I hand the stuff to them before strolling across the road to the empty bus station.

Sitting down on a bench with my back facing the convention building, I draw in a sharp breath while looking up and hoping the cold air would wash away my self-demeaning thoughts.

“You escaped?” a familiar voice cuts through air behind me.

The breeze carries the voice between my ears, making it sound like it came through an earphone. Then my heart starts to beat fast for… no particular reason?

I shift to turn around, and I find a figure approaching. Except, it’s not any figure, it’s Blank. I can tell from his walking pattern that drives butterflies in my stomach. And I can tell from his body shape.

“Blank?” I echo, standing up.

“You do remember me.” he mutters as he reaches the bench and leans on its backrest, while I just mope at him. “And you ditched your cake,” he adds.

I try to speak, but my lips won’t move. Even my heart throbs faster, so fast that I start to lose my breath.

Yesterday, when I saw him trying to open his room door, my heart was also beating fast. Then, I thought he was a serial killer, thereby I also thought my heart was beating because I feared him, even though I wasn’t scared.

I only now realize it wasn’t truly fear. It was attraction. I have been a fan of Blank for a long time, but around the latter years I probably started growing attracted to the idea of him.

Meeting him in person now, that attraction spiked, leaving me in such an awkward situation.

However, isn’t it weird that I’m growing such feelings? I mean, the man is supposed to be in his late forties.

Dad just turned fifty, which means I’m crushing on a man who is older than my mom and around my dad’s age.