Chapter Text
Booing.
A terrible noise. A testament to his audience's displeasure. A verbal cue of his failure. A warning.
Shivers traveled down his spine, freezing him in place as the ruckus boiled and bubbled across the stage. Such horrible sounds were markers of emerging violence. Alarms blared in Artful's head, turning his vision a grimy red, swamping his sight with a throbbing headache. It felt as if he had already been hit, already the pain had begun. Artful curled into himself, his hands open and defensive, placed between himself and the now-screaming audience. He could feel his eyes, his pathetic eyes, watering already. Why was he such a miserable whelp? He couldn't even do magic correctly? Seriously?
Something wet landed on his hat, soiling the nice black fabric. Artful stepped back, his dress shoes frantically scrabbling for an escape. He found not a reprieve, but another banana peel, this time behind him. With a mortifying slip, Artful cowered, his knees coming up in front of him and his arms shielding his head. The magician sobbed, the wet noise drowned out by the raucous shouting bouncing around inside his mind. It was as if he was a child again, punished so incredibly for the slightest mistake. He could feel the hands on his throat, the knuckles greeting his body already. A haze enveloped his vision, the loopy reds and yellows blurring into a dull gray. Murky patterns and shapes dances in random spots, mystery colors clogging his airway and flooding his ears. He couldn't distinguish any more anymore, it all simply was noise. Loud and angry, and all against him. Where was he? A house? A theatre? It made no sense.
His instinct begged him to run, or to protect himself. Somebody was going to injure him. Footsteps thundered all around him, incomprehensibly loud. So so loud. Everything was so loud. Artful hastily searched for his wand, his tears blurring his facepaint, causing a disgusting sensation of muck on his face. There was something on his face. His gloves were too much. A horrible sensation of pin needles and wool shredding through his skin erupted across his body. His fabric burned him, the lights and noises blared, he couldn't feel. His extremities were numb, there were people yelling and oh they're all so mad and violent and strong and terrible and pain and blood and an overpowering sensation of red strangling him and killing him and abusing him!
He was going to die here, Artful was sure of it.
/|\
A terrified choke slipped out, his hands trembling, gripping his wand as if it'd reverse the gore that stood before him. His hands were no longer numb. In fact, they felt too much. Slick with a warm, syrupy liquid, like the substance smudging his facepaint. The air was sticky and cloying, suffocating him through the horribly warm temperature. There were no more hands at his throat, but he still felt something gripping his neck and squeezing, dragging out any thoughts of properly-sustained breathing.
Bodies littered the floor. It wasn't very beautiful, as some seem to describe it. It was gross and unusual, tossed about as if they weighed nothing. It didn't make sense. People like his father were heavy. Why was it so easy? Blood stained the carpets, the wood tiles, the walls. The red sensation seemed to slip away from Artful and manifest into a physical thing, crawling up the walls in spatters and pooling in dips in the floor. Limbs laid unnaturally, lost in the motion of reaching or holding. Or striking.
“Mon Dieu…”
Artful gasped and choked, words catching in his throat and clogging his windpipe. Tears streamed down his face, warm and gross, mixing into a sludge with his ruined makeup. The feeling was horrible, thick and chunky. He wanted to vomit. Everything was too warm.
An unfamiliar noise startled him out of his grief-stricken haze. He blinked away his tears, the visual noise receding into his mind again. A small form laid quivering, nestled between two carcasses. Dressed in pink and frills, her face was buried in her arms, sniffling quietly to herself.
Lizzy.
Her face was just as dirty as his, spattered with red and maroon colors, an intricate swirl of anguish and panic. Bile rose in Artful's throat as the truth of what he'd done finally began to click up there. He had killed the crowd. Panic surged in his mind, horrified defenses swirling and flaring like a blaze meeting brush.
I didn't mean to!
They attacked me!
I had to!
They were going to hurt me!
I didn't mean to!
A horrible gurgling sound reverberated through the theatre. Whether it came from Artful or Lizzy, he wasn't quite too sure. But now, Lizzy was staring at him. Sweet young Lizzy, so kind and innocent, was caked in blood and flesh, most likely that of her own parents. She stared at him, horror hollowing her expression into that of a tormented soul. A tiny little gasp slipped through Artful's lips, taking a small step back. He had killed people. Oh God, he had killed people. Thoughts whirled in his mind, a cacophony of confusion, nausea, and that nasty redness that always seemed to find him.
Artful violently shook his head, trying to throw the static that plagued him away. Without a second to wonder over his decision, he turned on his heel and sprinted into the curtains, gasping for air as he frantically searched for an exit.
He needed to leave. He needed to get out of here before more people arrived, before more people tried to do him harm. Would his parents appear? Or the police? Or maybe more of the psychotic jesters that ruined him would show. All three options seemed to turn his blood to ice. He dashed about, recklessly knocking over furniture in his haste. Where could the exit possibly be? Weren't there supposed to be big stupid light-signs blinking to show him a path? Another burst of panic spread through Artful, borderline-ridiculous scenarios of gory violence playing out in hus mind, all revolving around consequences of not finding an escape. Distracted by such terrors, Artful slammed straight into some tall steel beam, knocking him yet again to the floor. How pathetic, how miserable he truly was. The offending iron was a doorframe, one of two open doors. They seemed to lead deeper into the building. Where they'd take him, Artful truthfully hadn't the slightest idea. But anywhere was better than the open theatre and its hallways right about now.
With a quivering hand, Artful adjusted his hat. His head spun, pain making him dizzy. Nevertheless, he ran. He needed to escape.
/|\
Artful stumbled out the back entrance, sniveling, facing the nearby forest's treeline. Sirens wailed close, officers and the like already storming the building. Artful could head their boots, pounding, pounding, pounding along the wood floors. It sickened him. They were coming for him. He turned towards the darkened forest. Branches rose far above him, a silent expression of how small, how weak he was. How he'd shatter if they caught him. Artful ran his sleeve across his filthy cheek, soiling his cuff with a nasty mix of whatever landed on his face. It felt as if he had no real choice. He could either run off into the forest, or allow himself to fall victim to the people. The government.
No, he couldn't.
They'd kill him.
With a whimper, Artful began to walk. Slow, shaky, and unsure. Regretful. Scared. Backed into a corner.
He was a victim, wasn't he?