True FunnySubmitted by DaBeast at 2014-09-10 00:48:10 EDT
Rating: 2.0 on 5 ratings (7 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
She looks up at him from the couch where she's got her feet tucked beneath her thighs, studies his face for a long silence. "The funniest people," she speaks and her voice is a raspy soprano with a tinge of Southern, "are the ones with the biggest demons."
"You're saying you have large demons?"
Her features blank and it makes her silver eyes huge and bright behind their dark lashes. "I'm saying that True Funny," and the Capitals are somehow obvious in her speech, "is a mask and the wearer is surrounded by laughing, happy people while they're crying and dying behind it."
The corners of her lips quirk, just a little. "Isn't everyone?"
Her lips inch closer to a smile but the eyes brighten further until they look like well water under a patchy sky. "True Funny make for great actors. They get so used to the masks they hide behind." She pauses and her eyes flicker away. "Like gravity, the mask becomes inescapable."
The smile becomes fuller and somehow sad. "True Funny are desperate to show someone, anyone, the truth behind the mask; but everytime they try, it's catastrophic, shattering." Her eyes rise to his again. "People get so used to True Funny. They enjoy it, adore it, want it to last forever. The few that earn True Funny's trust will, eventually, be shown the True Pathos behind that mask..." Her voice breaks and trails away.
"Is that a bad thing?"
Her lips twist into bitterness and the lines on her face are a shadow of sorrow. "It is an exercise in rejection, a lesson in how lonely a person can become, when they're trapped behind that mask. When someone sees what lies behind it, they are always, always horrified. They reject it as an aberration, an abomination. They're used to True Funny and they don't really want anything else, so, when they're shown the hidden..." She closes her eyes and breathes through her nose for a few seconds. "... they abhor it and they're obvious about it, cruel about it, mean. True Funny learns very quickly that to abandon the mask is to be friendless and alone."
"Surely, not everyone rejects them."
Her eyes suddenly burn, incandescent silver, and her cheeks redden with blood. "Every one. Every time. True Funny has no friends. True Funny only has an Audience because what lies beneath is twisted and ugly and evil." Her voice is final and it rings through the room, bouncing from the walls with a death knell solidity, "Alone and lonely and riddled with demons that eat your brain with slow relish and wicked glee and the Audience sustains you for a while; but there always comes a time, a day, when that Audience is no longer enough and the loneliness has eaten all the way through your soul."
"That sounds like a bad day."
She stills and it's as if her entire body is alight with the fire gleaming inside her wet eyes. "It's the day that True Funny dies."
"Is that what's in your head? Death?"
Suddenly, she is motion and movement, and she jumps from the couch as if propelled by an invisible force, and she stalks back and forth in front of the faded furniture, her hands waving, her eyes flashing, her body as taut as bowstring. "When isn't it? I dream in blood! I close my eyes and people die! Always! And if I'm not killing them, then they're killing me, or I'm killing myself. Death, and destruction, and madness!" Her forearms bunch, her fists clench, and she lifts her chin, neck cords visible and skin flushing from its normal pale hue to a pulsating, ruddy red. "I was born to and raised by depravity, a sickness in every single cell, a genetic disease that courses through them all and every last one of them gave in to it in the fashion that best suited them. I fought it! I rejected it! I ran from it as far and as fast as I could but it's INSIDE me and I can't get rid of it! I want them dead! I want them gone! I want them to have never been!"
She stands that way for a few more seconds and then collapses, a ragdoll, back onto the couch.
"If they had never been, then you would never have been, either."
Her gaze is direct and hard. "Why do you say that like it's a bad thing?"
He stands silent, unable to respond.
"What would have been so bad about that?" She shoots from the couch and comes to a halt a few inches from him. "One less crazy person on the planet. Do you not have any idea what it feels like to be completely, utterly alone?" She draws a ragged breath and flops back onto the worn upholstery. "No. Of course you don't. You're not funny at all."
"Now, you're trying to be mean."
Somehow, without changing her expression at all, her face is full of mockery and scorn. "There is no try. If I wanted to hurt you, your heart would be shattered on the floor. If I wanted to physically harm you, I'd push every last one of your little buttons until you hit me and then I would send you to Hell in the Express Handbasket."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
Her face blanks again. "I'm trying to postpone the day."
"Is it working?"
Her eyes close. She does not move but the blood leaves her face and she's paler than moonlight as the tears slide across her cheeks. The rasp is more pronounced, the tone merely a whisper, "Not very well."
She opens her eyes and stands. Slowly, she walks forward, reaches out with one hand and pushes it through the space where his chest should have been. "Because I'm alone."
Her head drops as she walks through the space where her imagination had placed him and her shoulders sag with weariness as she shuffles out of the room.