The Sad Man

Flash Fiction #30

Part One “The Sad Man” | Part Two “Amelie” | Part Three “Horatio”

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Part One

“Have you seen him?” Amelie asked in a hushed tone, her eyes stealing glances left and right as she leaned closer. “The Sad Man.”

That was her great secret. A true blessing. She claimed that all her sorrows had been lifted. The Sad Man had absorbed all her sadness. Finally, she could see the path. All that had weighed on her was gone, and she was reborn.

“No. And I don’t intend to. I don’t believe in all that nonsense. I am a man of science. I have no use for senseless superstition.” Realising the harshness of my words, I added, “But I’m happy to hear you’re better. Really, I am. It’s just… not for me.”

“Ever the sceptic, my dear Horatio.”

And she kissed me.

Her lips met mine, my eyes closed. I felt her tongue, hot and passionate, a kiss so unlike the Amelie I knew. I drew back in surprise one moment, only to reciprocate the next. Something stirred in me, something I had not known I possessed. I wanted more, but she escaped my embrace with a coy laugh and pressed her fingers on my willing lips.

“You’ll come around, my little Man of Science. You’ll see him. Tonight. Then we can be together.”

I looked at her, the white silk gown clinging to her thighs. Lost in the curves of her shape, I was ready to agree to anything.

***

It was the darkest night, clear and cold, so cold, the heat of passion I had felt dissipated before we took three steps. With a frown, I looked up. Not a star in the sky, as if a black shroud had been pulled over us.

“I don’t know, Amelie. It’s already late. Are you sure he’ll be there? Maybe we can go in the morning?” I looked at her feebly, knowing my protest was in vain.

She clung to my arm and called me silly, leading me along a dark alley towards where this fabled man was waiting. I don’t know how we had gotten from our doorstep to the alley, for I thought only moments had passed, and only vaguely did I remember the strange starless sky.

Another pair of footsteps echoed closer. It was Marcus. I felt relief at the sight of a familiar face and greeted my friend and colleague. Now, I had an ally in my endeavour to expose this ominous man, this charlatan.

“You came,” Marcus stated.

“Marcus, I was just saying to Amelie—”

“Horatio, you fool. Be quiet, or the Sad Man will not see you. Don’t you hear it?” Marcus was pointing towards the black sky.

“Hear what?” I was confused and disoriented. I looked around. The alley was gone. We were in a large room, a red velvet curtain hung before us, blocking our view, and from behind came a soft noise, like water dripping, drip, drip, drip.

“Listen,” Amelie whispered.

I could feel the warmth of her tongue on my ear. It aroused me.

“Listen,” Marcus repeated, his lips close to a skull in his hand. “Listen and learn,” and he laughed, his laughter echoing in my head.

The sound disturbed the velvet curtain, and the next moment, Marcus, skull in hand, still talking to it – what I could not hear, but it seemed he was talking to me – went right through the red barrier and was gone.

“Open yourself up, Horatio,” said Amelie, kneeling before me, her hands folded, her head raised, eyes wide, blood dripping from her right temple.

Drip, drip, drip, like water on wet stone.

Looking down, I was struck with horror as I stared at my distorted reflection, holding a drill in its hand – my hand – I let go, and the implement splashed into the dark pool.

“Let your sadness pour forth,” Amelie’s voice sounded distant. She was lying down in her crimson bed, smiling, beckoning me to join her, her satin gown drunk with dark liquid, sticking to her like a second skin. “Come, we can be together. Come to the Sad Man.”

I wanted to shout, to help her, to stop whatever this was. I thought, this can’t be real, I must be dreaming, when I felt a pinch on my arm.

“We’re here,” Amelie smiled at me, and as she turned towards the door before us, I saw a mark above her right temple, no bigger than a pinhead.

I swallowed. None of this made any sense. A feeling of panic mounted inside me. This was preposterous, a parlour trick. She must have intoxicated me with something, I tried to rationalise. The kiss, yes, it must have been the kiss. Still sorting my thoughts, wanting to ask her about the mark, I found myself shoved inside the very same room I had been in moments before.

Struck by the strongest sensation of deja vu, I drew in a sharp breath. There was the curtain. In front of it, sitting in a simple wooden chair, was an old man, his bald head covered in silver. He wore a long robe that flowed around him as if it was alive, its fabric writhing, defying any attribution of colour. It was dark, yet when I tried to focus on the garment, it was too bright to look at, so I averted my gaze.

I knew we were on the other side of the room, and I had this inexplicable feeling, this deep reverence, so palpable, yet I could not express it in words. I heard other voices, muffled, from behind the curtain, a steady drip of noises.

“The Sad Man will see you now.” Amelie’s words flowed into my ear on the warm and alluring river that was her breath.

“Don’t mess up.” Marcus nodded. He, too, had the mark on his temple.

They both laughed and disappeared behind the curtain. It irritated me.

“I have been waiting for you, Horatio Helfinger.”

“How do you know my name?” I could barely see the man’s face in the twilight. It was an old face, wrinkled and weathered by time, with eyes bright and grey like the morning mist.

“It is my business to know all the names,” came the calm reply.

I noticed that it was suddenly incredibly hot as I was staring into bottomless grey eyes, eyes that knew my name.

“So you’re working for immigration or something?” I was perspiring uncontrollably now, wiping thick pearls of sweat from my forehead, my shirt clinging wet to my back.

From behind the curtain sounded the never-ceasing drip, drip, drip, and through the tiny gap, I felt the slightest breeze of cool air. That, and voices, many voices, and I wanted nothing more than to be there, on the other side, along with everyone else.

“You know why you are here, Horatio?” the eyes did not wait for an answer. “You are here because you want to be happy. I will make you happy. You will never be sad again. Do you want that?”

The voice was speaking words my brain craved to hear, or so I think, I cannot know. I was sweating buckets, my throat too dry to reply, and I felt incapable of uttering more than a parched hiss in affirmation. I wanted this to be over. I wanted to be back in my air-conditioned room. I wanted to be lying in my bed.

Drip, drip, drip.

I felt cool drops on my forehead, and I smiled. With great relief, I realized I was on the other side. The Sad Man was gone, as was everyone else.

Drip, drip, drip.

Everything was dark. More drops. Where was the water coming from? On my forehead, on my eyelids, on my mouth, and a sudden fear of drowning shook me.

That’s when I woke up, in my bed, in my bedroom, Amelie sleeping next to me.

Another drop hit me on the nose. With a jolt, I sat up. Had it all been a dream? I looked up at the aircon blowing nothing but hot air, leaking onto my bed, onto my face, and cursing, I got up, switched off the aircon and went to get a towel from the adjacent bathroom.

“Why are you up, silly-bean? Come back to bed,” groaned Amelie, her hair in perfect order, a mystery no science can explain.

“The aircon is leaking,” I replied, looking down at her.

One of her breasts was showing, and a drop of water landed on it, a scintillating pearl on ebony skin.

“Don’t just stand there. Get back here and take care of this,” she demanded, and then I woke up.

Water from the aircon was leaking all over my pillow, and there was no sign of Amelie. Irritated about my stupid dream, disappointed I had woken prematurely, I wondered where she was. I called her name. No answer. Her side of the bed was untouched. I sighed and went to the bathroom.

Staring at my sad face in the mirror, I noticed a small crimson mark above my right temple.

•

Continue to Part 2: Amelie

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