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With every breath Antonio took, there was the acidic taste of bile that rose from the back of this throat, staining his mouth, the lingering unpleasant smell wafting from below his hunched form. Arms were wound tightly around his thin frame, stuck stiff there despite his wishes, as his forehead rested against the ground. Knees were sore from the thrashing, spine aching from holding the position for so long, and every single muscle in his body protested. With each ragged gasp, his body begged for mercy, lungs no longer wishing to expand. With each foul exhale, his body begged for more, head throbbing with a dull ache in time to the ticking of the clock that had sat in the corner of the study.
Blood dripped from his nails where they had dug into his sides, staining clothes a deep crimson amidst the mess, unable to move from where they clawed at his flesh. It isn’t for another few hours of being forced to hold the position that Antonio finally moves. Body relenting, muscles no longer holding position and becoming pliant once again. Though, it is not without help that he finally moves, stiffly crawling to a chair that had been toppled in the episode, uprighting it and slowly, painfully, lifting his body to sit in it with a groan.
He was, without a doubt, a mess. It is another few hours before one of the butlers—a male on the shorter side, built rather burly with curly ginger hair, green eyes, and a kind demeanor. Foreign, with a thick accent sometimes difficult to understand to the untrained ear, but Antonio quite enjoyed his company, and he was one of the few that openly scolded him should he deserve it—employed to serve under him finally thinks to check on him. He had missed dinner, wasn’t seen in the manor since coming back in from his latest performance, and while all those in his service were ordered to leave him alone, there was concern from what was essentially one of Antonio’s closest confidants.
Aisling was taken aback upon entering the room in which Antonio locked himself away. Furniture tossed all about; sheets of music scattered and stained with ink, wine, or blood; and, most jarringly, entire lengths and clumps of hair littered around the room. Antonio himself leaned back in the chair he had sat himself in, head tilted back to face the ceiling. A pair of scissors could be spotted on the ground among the wreckage.
While this was nothing unusual of a grand act for Antonio, something Aisling had become accustomed to with his dramatics, the scene felt like something beyond what the normal was. As he moves to guide Antonio out of the chair and to the bathroom, Antonio begins to laugh. A low noise, bubbling up from beneath the exhaustion and toil.
He mumbles and mutters something Aisling had heard in the late hours of the night, being the sole confidant Antonio sought the trust of. Repeating the same phrase over and over again as Aisling cleaned him up, snipping his hair to fix the uneven clumps.
“ It is gone. ”
Other staff members were called in to assist in the cleaning and repairs of the room, though when asked what exactly had happened, Antonio remained silent, and Aisling, who was first on the scene, kept his silence as well. Shortly after, Antonio had found, through a hastily written letter, that he was dismissed from Antonio’s estate. There was never a reason given as to why, just that Aisling had to leave immediately. Antonio didn’t hear from his friend again after that.
—
“Why must you be so coy with me, dearest Michiko~? You know I am only ever honest with you!”
“You are only ever honest when you see fit, so you may ask a favor of me, Antonio.”
Antonio barks out a laugh at the maiko’s blunt response, filling the empty lounge with noise beyond the music that played at a low ambiance. In his time, Antonio had befriended a geisha in training, who was a dazzling star that would surely rise to brilliance. He even endorsed her himself, often allowing her use of his regular stages to perform, sponsoring her as needed. The two had a close relationship, often joking back and forth with one another in such a way.
Antonio had become captivated by Michiko for more than just her performances. Surely, a beautiful woman like her certainly catches Antonio’s eye, her moves graceful and demeanor like a rose, but what truly stole Antonio was what he’d seen beneath Michiko’s exterior while she danced. What was a beautiful face would sometimes be shadowed by marred skin, like a presence drowning beneath a pristine lake. And only Antonio could see it.
Because, as such, Antonio has his own shadow when faced with the mirror. The only difference between the two is Michiko has come to co-exist with hers, while Antonio had overpowered his. And he was better for it, and so desperately wished Michiko the same freedom.
“Well, perhaps it is a favor I seek, but is it so wrong for me to ask one of my closest friends for something?”
Michiko nearly rolls her eyes, sipping her tea. “It is, when I already know the favor is going to be troublesome. Inviting me to your private lounge after my performance spelled trouble the moment I saw that grin on your face.”
“Come now, am I truly so distrustful? You hurt me so, Michiko!” Antonio feigns injury by placing a hand over his heart, the other to his forehead, as he leans back in his chair. Michiko can’t help but let out a sigh.
“You are not distrustful, Antonio, as I would seek you out in confidence as well. But you suffer from delusions. Perhaps removing that mask here and there will help you see reality how it truly is.”
She looks up at him once more, hands delicately folded over one another on the table, as though telling Antonio she is waiting for his move. The toothy grin normally resting on his face is replaced with one that is much more mild, shrugging. The mask was not something metaphorical like it once had been. In contrast to the white suit Antonio wore, he donned a crimson mask, fit to look like a demon, tied in the back with long strings of ribbon that were the length of his former hair. Since the incident, he has kept it short and choppy, though styled neat enough for bachelorettes to consider him handsome and mysterious.
Michiko could see right through it, however, and raised her brows at him in waiting. Antonio, however, doesn’t relent.
“Please, Michiko, is it really so important for me to remove this? We both know it helps me! My poor eyes need the cover, as well, I feel so… reinvigorated whenever it is upon my brow!”
He practically pleads with her, the last attempt to drop the subject, make her understand that there is nothing wrong with this mask he wears. But she only looks at him with pity, reaching into her purse and counting money. “I am sorry, Antonio, but I cannot grant you the favor you seek.”
“You don’t know what I was going to ask—”
“You wished to see her , did you not?” Michiko’s gaze is sharp as she looks across the table at Antonio, his grin now turned downward into a confused frown. “It does not take a genius to know that is what you are seeking, Antonio. You think she would just enjoy a sit down, have a chat, perhaps show you a little dance? To perform for you. The thought makes my skin crawl, which leads me to believe she would not enjoy that in the slightest.”
Michiko places the money on the table and rises from her seat, holding as much elegance and grace as she always does, despite the heavy air lingering around her. Antonio pleads once more: “I just have questions! I did not mean to offend, but there is a curiosity within me that is desperate for answers! I would not ask something that would make you uncomfortable!”
Michiko stops before reaching the exit of the lounge, half turning and looking at Antonio. “One question, but if I do not wish to entertain an answer, I will not. Be wise about it.”
One question isn’t nearly enough to sate Antonio’s curiosity, for he contains possibly a lifetime of questions that are just begging to be let forth. Yet, he simply goes with the one that popped into his head first.
“Why have you chosen to coexist with her?”
Michiko looks at him long and hard before turning away, as though she were going to walk out. Antonio accepts this to be the case, before her voice cuts through the ambiance of the lounge once more. “The same reason you have chosen to coexist with yours. Some of our demons cannot be escaped from easily. Some of them are intricate parts of us, and without them, we would not be who we are. Some demons are merely easier to see than others.”
“My dear, you should know I have long since shed myself of my demon. I’ve told you as much in the privacy of a comforting space shared between two friends! How else could I have come to be who I am? Without it shackling me down, confining me to limitations I did not ask for. I had relied on it once to break me from the convoluted game of high society, but after I had realized I truly did not need it, I rid myself of it. I am a better man now than I ever have been! I am pursuing my dreams of sharing my music with common folk, and none of it is thanks to it!”
And there is that look of sympathy again, how her brows furrow, shoulders drop, and the way her eyes soften. “You are truly a fool in denial, Antonio. We cannot rid ourselves of the parts of us we do not like. You think running from a shadow merely means you must face towards the light, but when you look back and see that no one else is with you, your shadow has always been at your side, even if you turned your back on it.”
She shakes her head, and makes for the exit once more. “I am sorry, Antonio. You are a dear friend to me, and it is for that very reason I am telling you to try and open your eyes. I do not wish to see you fall into a despair too deep to return from, but even I can see that is the path that you are quickly heading down.”
Antonio doesn’t give a response as she goes, though it would be something he holds much regret over, as it was the last time he’d see her. Michiko had gone missing a few months later, leaving Antonio’s stages bleak and dreary. And, most importantly, he had lost another trusted confidant that understood his plight.
—
It was like Antonio had suddenly become aware of himself in the midst of the performance. Playing on the streets as they become lightly dusted in snow, the light from the street lamps illuminates all passersby. He would watch and play in time with those rushing home to their loved ones, those walking slowly on a pleasant stroll. Playing for the toddler learning to walk, for the dogs that trotted by. For the men, women, the ones that were neither or both; for the children and the elderly.
Playing at such a time, existing within the world, always made him feel at ease. Except, there was the feeling of something being incredibly wrong tonight. His muscles ached and were stiff from far more than just the cold, and as such he normally would have trouble playing. And yet, he still hit every single note perfectly, the master of his own craft. He would sway to his own playing, the melodies knitting together one after another. And it is as his gaze was following a random speck of snow that he noticed it.
A ribbon, as red as blood, coiled around the hand on the neck of his violin.
He thinks nothing of it at first; the mask he wore did have ribbons on the back, and he wore them long as a subconscious replacement for his hair. Perhaps one had just gotten caught on a rough part of his glove. It is when he finishes playing his last melody that he notices another ribbon, coiled around the bow of his violin, right over his hand.
His heart ties itself into a knot at the sight, and hurriedly he packs his things and rushes back to his estate. He slams the door shut upon his arrival, pacing up the stairs and into his private quarters where he locks himself away. He clumsily pulls the mask from his face and places it on the nearest surface, willing his limbs to thaw from the cold. But, as his body warms, they do not become any easier to move.
“ Cazzo …! Come on you useless corpse!”
Strings of curses are spoken aloud as he stares down at his hands, fingers stuck in place, twitching and trembling only with little give, despite how hard he attempted to move them. He finds his shoulders are stuck as well, and his legs, numbed by the cold, practically creak with each step he forces himself to take.
Antonio continues pacing and muttering to himself, when a flash of red in the mirror catches his eye. He looks on in horror as four ribbons, each matching his arms’ length, flutter behind him, as though his room possessed a gentle spring breeze. Clumsily he reaches up to his face, confirming his mask is not worn, and that his eyes were not deceiving him. And, as though the ribbons could tell Antonio had been attempting to reach back to touch them, one places itself in the palm of his stiffened hand. As if to confirm its existence to him.
As if to mock him.
“You… you are not here! I merely drank too much earlier… Yes, that is it! You vile, wretched thing, are only a figment of my imagination!” Antonio barks out a laugh as he attempts to work through this with himself. “After all, I got rid of you! I severed those ties, cut my strings and made myself free! You’ve been gone for years now! … Haven’t you?”
Something in the back of Antonio’s mind rings out: I haven’t.
He rapidly spins, looking about the room, looking for the figure in red that had plagued his nightmares for years. And yet, all he sees are the cursed red ribbons behind his head. And, much like a bull being taunted, he reacts in a volatile manner. He screams and curses as he throws his limbs about, knocking over furniture, spilling ink, creating a mess. “You undying roach! You absolute abomination! You lying fiend! You are not here, you are no longer tied to me! You haunt me, torment me, but you do not control me! You no longer have that control over me!”
Antonio hears laughter at that, mocking him further, as though the dismembered feeling of a voice is telling him it always had control over him. Antonio, in his fit, smashes into the mirror, sending shards everywhere. The laughter rings out as he grabs a sizable shard, held haphazardly in his fingers, staining his sleeves crimson with the action. “I have bested you once, and I’ll do it again! I’ll fight you off until my last breath! No one can control me again !”
The ribbons are gathered in his fist, and he slashes through them with the mirror shard, snagging his palm and fingertips in the process. Droplets of crimson stain the red ribbons as he drops them to the floor, panting and ragged as he drops the glass to the floor.
At one point, his laughter mixed in with the dying sound in his mind. Cackling loud and maniacal, as his knees buckle and knock hard to the floor. Laughter turns to wretching as he hunches over, arms wrapping around himself, chest heaving. His spine begane to ache after some time from holding the position, all his muscles protesting as they remained tightly wound around himself. He was gasping, ragged and fatigued, as the sound of the clock in his study.
Hours pass, the light of day begins to creep in past the curtains. There is a light rasping at Antonio’s door, one of the estate servants finally thinking to check on him.