[Freakshow]

[Jnusch]

I am a poet. A poet and a collector. First and foremost a poet, albeit one much better at collecting. I am very good at collecting all kinds of different things, but children; special children. Very, special children. Children with powers – powers most of us never even glimpse, most of us never even think of. I can see the question in your eyes, 'But how? What... Why are- How?'

I would have to say, that is not really a question, now, is it? Not a proper one I daresay! No matter, I shall try to answer nonetheless. Let me think, what might you mean? "But how?" You started. I wonder, what are you referring to? How it is possible, that such children exist? My god, ask anyone but me, I wouldn't know! No, such things... it is pointless to fret about such things. However, maybe that was not your question, maybe you know as well as I that such things simply happen. Mutations, in the genes, something like that. No, you meant, how do you acquire these most interesting specimen? Regular children, you could understand, it's easy, almost, to capture those. But special children, now they are a completely different story altogether. They can do things – interesting, amazing things, yes but also things that may make your life very difficult, should you happen to want to collect them. After all, if they can burn you to a cinder, you might want to stay far, far away from the little rascals, and that's only one example.

I assure you though, I have never, to this day, been burnt to a cinder. Probably never will, the one boy I ever encountered who could have done something like that, he was obsessed with me. Loved me to bits - in a rather freakish way, really. Somehow, many of the things they do are freakish, even though they seem so normal at first sight. Or most of them, I should say, not all. They seem so normal, and yet..! Ah, if only you had the slightest inkling of what really goes on below the surface; there's nothing normal about it, I tell you!

Anyhow, before I start to bore you, I shall swiftly move on to introducing my treasured collectibles. Just the ones I have now, though, I wouldn't want to take up too much of your time and god knows I could go on forever about all the ones I've had in the past. They came and go, so to say. Neither coming, nor going usually of their own accord, but who bothers with such trivialities nowadays? Finders keepers, right? I've always thought that to be a terribly ill-defined concept. After all, what is finding really? I found all of those children, surely, even if they weren't lost. Can you only find things that are lost? No, because you can find the perfect gift, true or not? Let's just say these children are all perfect gifts, from me, to me. I make me so happy; we're a perfect match. Good thing, too, seeing as how we're apparently stuck together. Till death do us part and such.

[Jnusch]

1: Johnny, a funny looking angel

Little Johnny. He looks like an angel – surely you will know what I mean, white blond hair, big blue eyes, that sort of thing. Little Johnny the Angel, clad in death, wearing his cloak fashioned of the night. Of a night when you can't see the stars, naturally.

If he looks at you a certain way, you start to tingle. You start to tingle and want nothing more than to surrender your soul to him. Literally. He's only eight years old, and ages very slowly, actually, but already he's quite the lady killer. And... well, killer in general, although he does seem to prefer tearing to bits the souls of beautiful ladies – mind you, that's not to say they have beautiful souls. On the contrary! – over those of men, handsome or not. I assume it's rather frightening to anyone but me and him, and the other kids, once they get used to him. He disgusts them though, and I fear the day he will find out. He will, of course, he seems quite bright, and when he does, it will tear his soul to bits; without killing him, though. It will hurt, and he will be angry, upset, and irrational. That's usually when I start looking for a new gift.

Some of them never reach that phase, either because they are completely oblivious – these I never keep too long, they are mistakes – or because they are simply so lovable, so charming, no one would feel disgust at the thought of them. 't is simply impossible. Those are the most valuable, the real treasures. It's a shame they are so hard to come by, although the challenge is remarkably satisfying. Just the thought of a find like that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside! Yes, it's about time I find one of those again. I thought Johnny was one, but no. No, he will have to go sooner or later. Too bad.

In a way, it is a good thing that I found him, though. He would not have been any happier had he remained where he was. Not even with his parents, 'cause they had found out already. They found out much sooner than most of them, much, much sooner. That's what you get when the nannies keep inexplicably falling dead at his feet. At his crib. Poor mummy and daddy, they will've been so surprised: Their infant son, a vicious murderer! Ah ah, not vicious. Quite loving, in all honesty, but a murderer nonetheless. Merciless, that sounds more like him. But he can't help himself – or rather, he has to. The souls sustain him in ways that food simply never can. That, of course, also makes him less of a keeper. At some point it just becomes such a pain to have to find gorgeous young girls, get them to go home with you and then they always die before you have a chance to enjoy them. Pity.

Anyway, his parents. Yes, they found out when he was just an infant, got scared and kicked him to the curb. They pretended he'd died, for goodness sake! Of course that got the police on their trail – dead infant and a bunch of dead nannies, crazy mummy syndrome much? I'm not sure if they are still locked away, but the judge, who just so happened to be a mother of four, definitely did not cut them any slack. Nor did she mind too much that the evidence was circumstantial at best. I guess that is what you get when you spawn something like Johnnyboy.

Luckily, I had had my eye on him for quite some time already, so when they got round to ditching him in the woods – does it even surprise anyone that they did not have the guts to go through with actually killing him? – I was there to catch him even before his Cherub body touched the muddy ground. In that sense, he's one of the few who never really suffered. He's never known any better than having only a father, of sorts, and many, many siblings to take care of him. And why would he think of any better, when he has all he wants and more? Who would in his situation?
Exactly, no one.

You might wonder if they never rebel, never whine, never moan and never whinge. It is simple though, to teach them. Most parents don't have what it takes, discipline, an iron will. In a sense that is sad, but then again, how would we be able to discern the mediocre parents from the exceptional ones? Diversity exists for a reason: to make the good feel better and the bad feel worse, if you understand that, you can work it to your advantage. But is it possible to make the best feel better? And if not, does that mean I am not the best? I hope not!

Johnny loves me, not just because I make his life easy and comfortable, but because I am a good father. Because I do the things fathers are supposed to do. I entertain them, I play games with them, I play catch, even though I hate to and believe it numbs the mind. As much as it numbs the mind because it's so terribly tedious, there are lessons to be taken away from even the simplest things. It is surprising how much throwing a ball back and forth can teach you about a kid: are they fighters, willing to learn, or do they give up easily? Do they possess that natural grace that is so pleasing to the eye, or are they sluggish and clumsy? Seemingly insignificant and yet real collectors will tell you how much these things matter. Real collectors know better than to ignore the little things. Don't they say it's the little things that make life worthwhile?

He's not very good at catch, Johnny I mean. He doesn't care for the game, and likely never will. One of his many, unfortunate flaws. It's shocking, the number he has. He's not even really that pretty; you can tell already that he will not grow up to be a handsome man. Isn't it the saddest thing in the world when children are promising, in their looks, and then fail to live up to any of them? Yes, there hair might never lose its, but that's about it. So exquisitely sad. Broken promises that they never stood a chance of keeping, and still everyone is disappointed. Oh, how disappointment hurts. I would know, I've been there, many a time. Trust me, it stings like a mother******.

I'm undecided still, whether or not to make Johnny feel it. On the one hand, it is important to learn that life has its downsides, just as much as its upsides. On the other hand, who cares if he's going to be dead soon after anyway? Would it be an effort wasted on him, or a tribute he deserves? Forever those dreadful dilemmas. People don't understand – won't understand – how hard it is. They don't appreciate it. Best not tell them then, huh?

[Jnusch]

2: Brigitte, genuinely godlike

Brigitte is perfection, enough to almost make you fall for God. "And then I saw her face/Now I'm a believer" It's as if they wrote that for her. I tried expressing my emotions in such a way, but alas - no word can truly capture what she is like. She is not one to chain, to limit with just vocals, she deserves so much more. Brigitte deserves all the world for her saintliness. Such a shame the church does not like it when you claim Jesus has come back as a girl. Not that I've tried telling them, rest assured, but one can imagine how such conversations might progress. Their loss.

To describe Brigitte is to fail her, yet I shall give it my best shot. Just keep in mind that whatever I make her out to be, she is a hundred times that. A thousand fold! She is undoubtedly the most marvellous creature to have graced this earth with its presence. Imagine, though, finding one like her; a mate, someone as perfect, and perfectly her opposite. What would they bring into this world? What do you get when you cross perfection with itself? I recall someone talking about this, in relation to God, because he is the most perfect thing? He possesses all positive qualities to the maximum extent possible. Therefore, creating perfection would equal creating more of himself, so God is the only perfect thing. I think it explained why our world is flawed and evil exists. I'm not sure that I'm convinced, but no matter. Maybe I just don't understand what they were trying to convey. Just as you will not be able to understand what I am trying to convey, because I myself to do not even understand. Brigitte is, like God, beyond understanding.

Is it too clichéd to say she is a blonde? Not quite like Johnny, though, her hair is much more golden. Why is it that angels are blond? Why do we perceive blondes as more innocent, more harmless than those who are not? Maybe I am just making this up. Maybe it is because we think they are dumb, and we wrongly believe stupid people to pose no danger. Who knows? Who cares!

She has golden tresses, and a smile that could make those who found enlightenment weep, for they would know they would never be as enlightened as she. She is tall, which is her only flaw, because it makes her loom over me and I do not like to be loomed over. She has grace though, an elegance she seems to radiate onto those who surround her, making them seem more beautiful than they are. That is what she does, she makes the world blossom. Literally and figuratively speaking. I do believe she could raise the dead if she so wished, but it would tire her terribly, needlessly. Rather, she heals the weak, lightens their burden or soothes their aching head. She can take away bad dreams and replaces them with a dull ache in your heart after you wake up from her fantasies, which showed you your life as you never imagined it could be. It would be cruel, if she wouldn't be so kind. Flowers bloom where she steps and birds thing; I kid you not. Where Johnny merely seems an angel, an angel of death, she really is a veritable angel. I could gush for hours, if you asked me to.

I shan't, however, it would be inappropriate. The others would feel neglected, as they sometimes do. All fanciful stupidity, but not good for morale either way. Children are so awfully impressionable, especially by the things other children tell them. I can say in all honesty that I do not remember being so very silly when I was young. Then again, how much do I remember from that time anyway? I try not to recall a thing. One's youth is best forgotten, it only makes you sad. Either it was good, far better than your troubled life is now, or it was bad, and the memories are vivid and painful. I don't see why anyone would want to journey back to their childhood. Nostalgia is very much overrated.

Sometimes, I wonder: would I regard Brigitte as highly as I do now, should she not have her powers? To be able to cure anything, I'd say that would make even the most horrendous person beautiful. But is it that, or is it merely that she seems beautiful, because of one talent, she never even had to work to attain? I suppose it is folly to think of such things, to undermine her like that. She would be no less perfect, not for a mere human.
Brigitte I acquired. Literally. Her mother, a junkie and sometimes-prostitute sold her to me for fifty bucks. Clearly she didn't realise her daughter's worth; she'd have had me pay a lot more. Of course, it is sad, a mother selling her little girl, but it is also happy. Her mother died not much later – murder, apparently, over some drugs I suppose. Believing it would have ended well for the girl if she had stayed with her mother is blatantly moronic. Is it better to stay with your real parents than with a collector like me, when that means being whored out by your mom from the day a man's eyes linger a little longer than they should?

It might seem a little too coincidental to you, my dear reader, that all these kids should be laying there, up for grabs. Too easy, too readily available. Do I seem a liar to you? Let me tell you two things. Yes, it seems awfully fortuitous, that I of all people should come across these lost souls. But think about it: think. Firstly, there are many more shite parents than you might like to consider, and secondly, do you really feel, in your heart of hearts, that children of good parents make for such easy, rewarding targets? If so, think again. For then you are more misguided than I initially expected. We close our eyes to the things we wish to be untrue, we ignore them, let them fester and rot. Like junky prostitutes, who won't stop ruining lives until the day they die. Lives, be it their own, or someone else's, that deserve much, much better.

I don't interfere, I clean up; I pick up where others left off. Can you blame me? Do you resent me for it, despise me, fear me? Or is not that, which haunts you as you put down this book and go to sleep, but rather what lingers, what lurks in the dark, where you cannot quite see it. But you feel it, don't you? You feel it almost too well to be able to close your eyes to it, and it makes you uncomfortable.

What do I have to offer these children? Are they really so much better off with me?

Why do I collect?

[Jnusch]

3: Ephram, who howls at the moon

Sometimes, I wonder if taking Ephram was a mistake. A temporary lapse in my usually so well-developed common sense.  He has had a hard time adjusting, fighting back more, looking back more, and just generally behaving out of control. Of all of them, he acts up the most, while he is one of the oldest. Then again, it might simply be in his nature to feel restricted, to feel as if he were an animal, locked up in a too-small box. It's as if he's forever slowly working himself into a frenzy. Of all of them, he is most dangerous, too.

While Johnny takes you by surprise, in Ephram you see the bad coming from miles away. He is dark and brooding, both in his looks and in his mannerisms. His peculiarities; so very interesting. I am unsure, but I suspect that all of them – moonboys, as I like to call them – have dark hair. At least, I have never seen a wolf with golden fur and wouldn't it be strange if a golden boy turned into a wolf akin to the night? I would think it very unsettling. No, they are much more open, in that sense. While they'll never tell you of their own accord, never give anything away if they can help it, there are certain things which mark them, clearly, as different from you or me. Unless... I suppose you might well be one of them, hm? Ephram, when he's not roaming the forest, is a decently civilised boy. I pride myself in keeping him that way, even if he would never admit he needs me to keep him in line.

They all need me, but some of them more than others. Ephram most definitely more than others. He needs me most but wants me least; how sad. Life is sad that way, it often is. If you think about it too much, your heart would be constantly aching to save all those poor souls, yet you can't. Don't fret too much about it, though, imagine the burden of knowing you could do something and then feeling always obliged to go out and Help. Because if you are frank, if you are completely honest, would you really? Would you really go out and save the world? No, right? It's always other people, they are the saviours, you just bide your time on earth, waiting either for oblivion or salvation. And what difference is there between those two, really?

I am as of yet undecided as to whether it is oblivion or salvation I seek, with a slight inclination towards salvation – after all, don't we all secretly dream of eternal life every now and then? – but Ephram, he is waiting for oblivion. In certain ways, he is deliciously pragmatic and no-nonsense. One of the reasons we clash, but no one can say he's a whinger. He just broods, and broods, with those dark eyes that are uncannily like black holes: vast and empty. He broods and you know one day he will lash out, but when, or where, only the gods know. You're not even sure if it's you whose throat he'll leap for, you only know that someday he will clench those jaws around life, and kill it.

Until then, he is one of the most interesting specimen I found. A werewolf, the first and only one I have had the pleasure to meet. Full moon unleashes something primitive, or no, not primitive, something... almost carnal in him. A desire for flesh, in the most fatal sense. Unlike what you see in the movies, he hardly grows when he transforms. I have been studying him for many years now and I am convinced he is about as big as a regular wolf, although I have naturally never gotten the chance to compare. He is much smarter, of course, retaining all of his human intelligence, but losing his grip on proper behaviour. The big, bright bulb in the sky strips him of all sophistication. It makes you wonder: is this what we would be like, should we not care about our reputations, about morals and about anyone but ourselves?

Ephram is one of the golden trio, together with Brigitte and Cleo. Neither he, nor Cleo are anywhere near as lovely and pure as Brigitte, but they have other attributes that make them special. Ephram is a werewolf. I would like to find out how, or why that came to be. Is it something hereditary, or was he bitten? And if he was bitten, why doesn't he have any tooth-like scars? Do they disappear, to conceal what should stay hidden? So many questions, and so sadly few answers over the years. I must confess that I am not patient with him, like I am with Brigitte. He is so much cleverer than she, he should be able to handle it. Brigitte is much more frail, the implications of harsh words are lost on her and would only upset her terribly. Some might say she is dim-witted, I guess.

Not Ephram, he is a bright young man. And yet he cannot tell me a thing I didn't already know. So very, very frustrating, although really I shouldn't blame him. He was either very young when it happened – that much I can glean from what he tells me – or he was never bitten at all, in which case there wouldn't be anything for him to tell. He was a lot younger when I came to him, still mostly oblivious to reality, in that childlike way. Who knows what his mother and father might have been up to; I wish I could, but I cannot deny they may have outsmarted even me, keeping their secrets hidden. It is surprising how well we do at that, if need be.

When I consider all aspects, though, I personally must come to the conclusion that it is something he inherited. Even a young child would remember such a horribly traumatic event as being bitten by a werewolf. That is, if they even survived. It is quite a shame I shan't go back to see what his parents are up to, to test my hypothesis; it would be too dangerous, too risky. As with so many things, I wish it was within my power to change them. I would only be helping everyone, not doing any harm. Enrichment of the mind is one of the most important goals we should strive to achieve. Possibly the most important actually, and it is up to every individual to find a way to do so. Ephram found music.

A composer slash musician werewolf; how odd the world sometimes spins. It is those little quirks that I appreciate most, though. It is those that I seek to own. He is rather successful, if I may say so with my limited knowledge of music. Both on the violin and the piano he can produce melodies that are easy on the ear and easing to the mind. That's all classical music, as you might expect, which I think is just fine. Recently, however, he has taken up teaching himself to play the guitar, much to my dismay. He wanted an electrical one, but at least I could talk him out of that. By not buying one. It's so simple, being a good parent. You just have to draw lines, clear distinct ones, preferably. Children want nothing more than a home that fills them with a sense of security, and safety.

[Jnusch]

4: Joachim, who will cry you a river

"I won't cry, I won't cry, no, I won't shed a tear"

Don't we all know boys don't cry?

Be a man. Suck it up. Rub some dirt on it. Take it like a man. Deal with it. Man up. Grin and bear it. Buck up. Live with it. Stick it out. Big boys don't cry.

Well, when Joachim cries, he cries good. He cries blood. He's a thin boy, gaunt looking, he would be gangly if he were taller, but frankly he is rather short for his age. He doesn't seem to be sure how old he is, but he must be around nine or ten years old. I found him on the street, dirty and scraggly, roaming the labyrinth of little alleys that make up a large part of the inner city. He was starving when I finally picked him up; I took a long time making up my mind. What use have I for a boy that cries red hot tears? It disgusts me and it unsettles me, and everyone else with me.

If only he weren't so sweet. The sweetest boy on the planet I might joke, but honestly, he might be. Although his understanding of the world is far more developed than Brigitte's, it hasn't made him bitter and angry, like Ephram. And while Ephram fights the world, Joachim simply undergoes it; he really does grin and bear it. He seems to be perpetually cheerful, the world unable to get to him. That's, of course, a mask, since the world got to him far too soon; far sooner than it gets to most of us.

His parents were killed in a car crash when he was a mere infant, only a couple months old. Both worked in the lab, finding satisfaction in their bland, everyday lives. Their wants in life were simple and they were happy with what they had. Life was good to them. Until it ended. Then, as they had no living relatives he could go to, their little baby boy ended up in The System. I don't know too much about it frankly, but what I have gathered along the way enough to make your bones rattle of disbelief. 'T is possible my line of work has biased me, since I only fix what they broke, and yet. It seems to me that far too many of these perfectly harmless, innocent children are dropped into the machine, poked and prodded until they bleed and then churned out at one of the many exits as a shadow of who they would have been, had life handled them more gently. As so many things, this, too, I think magnificently unfair.

Not that it matters so much, with him, he handles it ever so gracefully. You won't hear Joachim complain. At night, though, he cries. Not always, but often enough that it scares me. It seems his body generates new blood a lot faster than you and I do, replenishing it much quicker. And still, when his blood is pouring down his face like that, it nauseates me. I would perform a surgery, even if only to see how it works, but I have not the necessary skills or tools, and... a hospital is unthinkable of course. What with my not having officially adopted him and all. God only knows what they would think; probably that I am some kind of perverted mind, scooping little boys of the street. As if I'd ever lay a finger on him. I'm not in the least bit attracted to mentally and physically immature boys or girls. But who am I, and why should they believe me?

It is for the best, of course, I realise that. There are only so many things a grown man could have use for a little boy not his son for, and most of them rather unpleasant. I wouldn't want it any other way than for them to keep their eyes wide open, constantly on the lookout for the fringe people, the freaks. It's just a terrible shame it makes my life so much more difficult on occasion.

In any case, he always says he feels fine and he's not usually one to lie, so generally, I just try to keep him from weeping to death simply by keeping him from weeping at all. At first, the most troublesome was keeping the other children from making him cry. They were fascinated by those red rivers running down his cheeks. It only took one raging torrent to stop them from doing that, though. There's no fun in seeing your brother passed out on the floor in a slowly expanding pool of blood. There's even less fun in having to clean it all up, scrubbing the floor till it gleams and your hands smell of blood days after. A straightforward method, very easy and very effective.

Ah, yes, back to what I was initially about to tell you. You see, with the others, to a certain extent, you can imagine why. There powers have a certain use, or goal, if you will. They can do something. For some reason, I don't believe scaring the living hell out of a person is really a goal so much. As far as I can tell, there is no purpose, no idea, behind those tears. No reason. Is it then just a random twist in life? Another inexplicable oddity? I have a hard time believing such a thing, but maybe that's my idealistic spirit that's getting the better of me. After all, why are we even? We serve no purpose, no greater good, no higher ideal, and yet that does not haunt me in my dreams. So why would his lack of use, or his gifts lack of use to the world be any different? Why is it so very difficult to accept in others what we so readily accept in ourselves?

Man measures with all the wrong intentions and all the wrong instruments. We measure with our clouded judgement and praise ourselves on our objectivity. We create the world we want to see outside. We construct our own reality. In Joachim's, there is no need for a reason; things just are the way they are and accepting that makes life much easier to cope with. At least for him. "We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars", aren't we? Some of us accept their fate and make the best of it, and some of us don't and life their lives with a certain longing. An unquenchable thirst, a nagging, uneasy feeling that there is more out there. More to know, more to do, more to see – more to be – only where, or how, we don't know. The only thing we know, or take for granted, is that we will never attain the more, and it makes us weep inside. And those tears feel like red hot blood.

[Jnusch]

5: Cleo, the spinner of dreams

Do you ever dream? No, I don't mean in the dark of night, with your eyes closed and your mind open. The dreams I speak of are those that come to you during the day, when your mind wanders to faraway places not of its own free will but rather roams there where you command it to go. Daydreams. Aren't they dangerous things?

"All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes to make them possible."

That's Lawrence of Arabia for you, and this is me agreeing with wholeheartedly. The dreams we dream in the midst of night are foolish, outrageous; impossible. Ah, but the dreams we dream when but the sun and a short night makes us pinch our eyes shut... those dreams are the ones we know could be real, if only we want them to be real badly enough. Those dreams turn us into monsters and saints. Ghouls and fairies. Dragons and- you get the idea, it makes us capable of ever more than we thought we were. Not all of us, of course, not even most of us. Just some: the daring, the brave, the reckless.

What if I told you those dreams might not really be yours, however? None of that inception business, as far as I know that is not possible still – imagine that, going into your dreams! Wouldn't that be something? Ah, what I'd give to be able to do that. Then again, lucid dreams, aren't they the same, really? With the only difference being limbo doesn't happen, ever. So really, why bother with the dream-entering stuff in the first place? Anyway.

What if I told you those dreams might not really be yours, not truly? What if they, quite like inception, were planted in your brain by a slender girl with emerald eyes and the longest black hair you'll ever see. A bit like Jasmine, from the Aladdin movie, only better. She hates the comparison though, says she's nothing like that spoiled, ungrateful little "bitch". I do wonder where she gets those words, and why she dares using them. Perhaps she was too old when she entered my home. It's always harder when they are already past their most impressionable age, and we all know that age lasts only as long as the blink of an eye. After that, it is so much more troublesome to make them see what they just won't see without some rational guidance. Alas, with Cleo it was too late for moulding and shaping.

It makes things harder than they could have been, but we've got to work with what we've got, don't we? The difficulty is that Cleo can only work her magic on very rare occasions, only when she is very, very upset. It takes her at her saddest to change anything, maybe because only the loudest dreamers get their wishes granted. And when do we dream louder than we feel at our worst?

Is it sad that she cannot change her own dreams? She feels it is. Maybe I agree, maybe not. It is interesting, though, for you to know what she would make herself dream. She would change her dreams so that she would be perfectly content. She would dream of exactly what she had. In fact, she wouldn't really dream at all. Cleo hasn't yet realised that dreams are an integral part of what it means to be human. Without dreams, what would we be? We need things to look forward to, goals to achieve. And she needs to understand that even without wanting to change anything in your life, you can still be unhappy. You can't dream your unhappiness away any more than you can chase your dreams without acting. I fear sometimes that she will end up one of those people incapable of genuine happiness. Or has it been decided already that she will be? Are we born unhappy, or does life take away from us the tools we need to attain it?

Pointless to think about such things, isn't it? Especially when there are so many other things to think of! So many things that could be done with a gift like hers. If everyone dreams of peace, will it be? If the love of your life dreams only of you, will they love you back? If you dream you can do anything, can you?

Cleo the spinner of dreams, the oneiric tatter; Cleo the Dreamweaver. She gets along well with Ephram, hold the same anger inside, albeit for a different reason. It is an anger derived from sadness, and therefore very strong. I know this anger well. It is the anger of frustration, of feeling powerless, of your heart shattering into a useless heap of dirt. It is doors slamming and tears streaming and hair tangling into a messy bundle. It is trying to attack someone in a way that will hurt them the way they hurt you, and knowing all the while that you don't have the weapons to do that. How do you attack life, when you're living it?

It's troublesome for me to describe Cleo vey accurately, because although we are so similar in our feelings, we are so different in how we deal with them and I cannot say I always understand her. More often than not, in fact, I do not. Not at all. Keeping everything inside until you detonate has never been my style; it's unhealthy, both for yourself and for others. It pollutes everything. I am aware of how bad it makes her feel, that she upsets others; she is very sensitive to those kinds of things. It makes her vulnerable to self-pity, too, though. I wouldn't go so far as to say she dwells in it on purpose – cherishes it – but she knows full well the beauty of sadness, in all its distorted horrendousness.

There is beauty in everything; it just takes a special kind of eye to discover it in a lot of things. Cleo has that special kind of eye, or a special kind of eye. The eye of an onlooker, an observer – someone always poised on the brink of action, ready to strike, waiting for the right moment. The right moment, that might potentially change someone's life forever. For the better, if she so pleases, or for the worse. It all depends on her mood, her whims, and her fancies for the day. Rather scary, don't you agree? How fickle is life! The toss of a coin may decide between life and death, but no worries, it is but your life that is at stake. Call me again when we are playing for something that is actually interesting, or worthwhile having. Call me again when you are laying down cards, fighting over a price I might actually want to add to my collection. Call me then, and only then.

[Jnusch]

6: Billy, pourquoi tu ris?

Some of the little ones I meet give me the impression that, if only you want something badly enough, it shall come to you in time. This, I believe, is absolute, utter, total nonsense; there is no such thing as the American Dream. Work hard, and you might succeed. Or you might not. It's all whimsy, I daresay. You, my dear reader, naturally must feel free to disagree, but if so, do tell: have you any proof, that if I work hard enough, my parents will love me? That if I work hard enough, I will do well in school? That if I work hard enough, I will be rich and happy? If so, please, share! Share it with the whole world, for they are just dying to know! Gosh, I myself am dying to know!

You see, I've worked hard, I really have. And yet, it never seems to be enough. Not for all of us. And why do some people barely have to work at all? It's just not fair! But I mustn't talk of these things, for they upset me and I can't change a thing about them. Life is unfair and then you die. They should tell us that the day we're born, so that we may never forget and always remember that life was never supposed to be fun. It is, that's all.

Billy, or Guillaume, as he is really called, took a long time to understand that. He's somewhat obtuse on occasion, or seems to be at least. He's actually quite clever, although not in the bookish way. It's caused him a lot of grief, not being so very bookish. Bullies, meanies and the likes, for some reason they are always out to get him. 'T might be his accent – he's French, you see. Et il parle d'une manière un peu... intéressant. 'E speaks uh leetle beet funny. Girls find it attractive, boys find it awful. Ah well, it is what it is, and he has learnt to deal with what it is.

When you look quite stupid, and are just that too, you tend to grow sad, so what do you do? You train, and train, and then train some more. You train very much, until your brain is so sore. Then where your brain is just about ready to burst, you train some more and you become first. You are the best cook, and the best at play'ng chess, you are a winner, and nothing less. You are the best at English, and French, and Chinese, and won't you teach me some German, too, please? You are the best at a whole big lot of things, and that feeling of winning, oh it gives you wings. My dear boy Billy, you are now a star, great things lie ahead, you'll surely get far. But my dear Billy, why do you laugh like this? Ay, I daresay something's amiss! Oh my dear Billy, what did you do? Why is your shirt covered in blood and goo? Please dearest Billy, tell me 't ain't so? You didn't do anything; I don't want to know. Come be a good boy, an angel, go play – I'll work it out again, make it all go away. My, my, that Billy! Such a talent in him, but when he gets mad, he kills on a whim. The big boys will cross him and make him enraged, well that is one war, they shouldn't have waged! But one day, I am sure of it, I, too, will despair, and get rid of Billy, down to the very last glare.

Oh well, children come and go, whether because they grow or simply leave, how much does it really matter. I've seen a lot of children come by, and most of them simply don't make the cut. They are not memorable enough. I am sure you know at least one of those people you just know will go on to do great things, the moment you first meet them? You know who I am talking about. Yet, some of them, they never live up to that. They never quite become the icons you thought they would. It might be simply because they have no lust for being that way, they like whatever it is that they did end up doing. Others, they just burn too brightly too soon and sadly, there's no one to witness their splendour. Then when they finally have found an audience, it's all too late. There's nothing left to see and everyone quickly moves on to something that can actually capture and keep their attention. Boo-hoo.

Billy surely is one of those people, even if he was a late bloomer. He only developed his power a year ago, at the very ripe age of 12. By then, most of them have full control of what they can do already, although I suppose that in his case there was never a question of mastering the technique. It's funny, actually; his power is so very appropriate, you can't but feel it must have something to do with the life he was leading. As if one day, he simply had had enough and decided that things would be different from then on, and without really doing anything – just making that decision, really – things were different. They were better. Suddenly, he could do, or learn, anything he wanted to. Anything that captured his attention. Not that anything holds it for very long. He's so fickle, it's a bit of a nuisance; tiresome. And the things he will do when he gets angry. Ugh. More than one person has died at his hands, and it's only been so short a time since there's anything he can do.

He has vast medical knowledge, however, and a steady hand that is not only good for shoving daisies up everybody's arse, but also for simple medical procedures that I possess the right equipment for. I could see him become a doctor. Either that, or a cook. Maybe a cook is more likely, as he really does love eating very much. He's also very good at it, without even abusing his being special. He cooks for us almost every night. Yes, the dreamiest things are served to us, so you almost start believing every day is a feast. Until, of course, it is verily a festive day, and he bakes pies and cakes and scones and cookies and things you haven't ever even heard of. There's something new every time and somehow, it all tastes good. Now I can't say I'm a picky eater - as long as I am eating a meal fit for a king, I can't care less what it is exactly, although I must say that I'm not very fond of weird things, like snake or the brains of this or that – but you should hear some of the children; nothing is ever to their liking when I prepare dinner, that much I know!

So, you see, for now Billy has his purpose. We should all have someone like Billy to help us out. It's just that it is so blatantly obvious that he is a mere prototype and that there is something better coming. He causes far too much trouble to be invaluable, far too much to be a real treasure. He's handy, and for now that's all fine and dandy, and when the time comes for him to move to another place, we'll see how that goes. He's taught me a thing or two I'd like to put it into practice at least once in this lifetime. In that sense, I can understand quite well he moves on to another thing so soon; there is only so much time in one man's life and there are so many things to fill it with. So many people, too.

[Jnusch]

7: Kyle, an extraordinarily ordinary boy

Kyle is very normal. Really very normal. He is probably the most normal guy you will ever meet. He doesn't look anything special; he is not handsome, nor repulsive. He is not extremely smart, but not dumb either. He isn't very good at sports, but you wouldn't call him clumsy. He is of average height and average weight, he has an average hair colour and average eyes, and you might not remember him. But then again, you might. It is possible that you'd like him, but you'd probably not really care. He is nice to hang out with, but not a real friend. It's not that he's boring, or bland, or dull, he's just an extraordinarily ordinary boy.

The others don't mind him, but don't really like him either. They are somewhat impartial to him. I myself am somewhat impartial to him. It's almost as if he doesn't stick. Nothing sticks to him and he sticks to nothing and nobody. Which is exactly his gift. Nothing sticks to him. Trouble just glides off of him without so much as a hint of a pause to consider hanging on. He doesn't care for the world, and the world doesn't care for him, and so he gets away with just about anything. Not that he particularly cares for doing bad things; no more than you or me, but he is not a bad guy and he's usually willing to help out a "friend" in need, just like you and me.

Don't misunderstand; it's not as if he grows invisible or anything particularly fancy like that. He just has a way of having your gaze slid over him without really noticing anything. You know he's there, it's just hard to muster the attention required to really see a person. Only Brigitte can really do that, because she is just so nice. It's almost a sin in her, all that niceness. She is probably his only friend. I somewhat mourn the day when they will be separated, but it's sure to come sooner or later. A girl like Brigitte doesn't stick with a boy like Kyle, even if she'd want to. Life tends to happen to Brigitte a little too much for that.

Kyle is a sweet boy though, if you pay close attention. In all honesty, the times that I have succeeded in really looking, and really listening – and then actually seeing and hearing, too – from those times I have taken away that he isn't so generic after all. He is a nice boy and he enjoys using his gift to do good things far more than he does to do wrong things and in a way, Kant would be very proud of him, because he knows none of us see, generally. And still he does it. He does it because it is the right thing to do, because he can. I suppose Kant wouldn't approve of him thinking about what people would think if they did know, or that it is the right thing to do, but I sometimes feel Kant was a bit of a nit-picker.

If he sees a situation take a turn for the worse, he might say something or do something that makes everyone feel better, and afterwards they wonder who that was again, who said that one thing that made it all seem pretty okay after all. Or you almost knock over your cup, but then it's suddenly not where you thought it was, (right behind your elbow), but rather at a safe distance from your flailing limbs, even though you would swear you didn't put it there. He is selfless.

But the most amazing thing about Kyle is that none of it wears him down. It doesn't depress him that the whole world tends to overlook him; rather, he sees the beauty of it, and knows that we do not mean not to notice. If it was possible to actually dislike him, I think I would, for one. I've long been aware of my many flaws, and accepting that some people are just intrinsically nicer, and more likeable than I am, that does not sit well with me. Mostly, I try to ignore the fact. That works rather well, I've found.

You know, it might just be me, but when I think of Kyle, I cannot believe that he will always remain this way. A life lived more or less alone, if not necessarily lonely, it can't be happy, can it? Admittedly, I tend to think no one is perfect and that even those people who are always nice secretly think mean things about everyone, they're just better at hiding it. Is that wrong? Is it wrong to assume even the good people aren't really that good? I suppose that at the very least it is not very nice a thing to do. Can't help myself, though, just can't help myself. Maybe a better man than I would be capable of gracefully accepting his defeat. A man like Kyle, perhaps.

As bland as the boy is, the story of how I found Kyle is quite interesting. It was a couple of years ago; he is one of those kids who sticks around for a long time, although... well, in his case you can guess why I never got sick of him. Regardless of why and how and all that, though, the story. Yes, he must have been, say, 6 or 7, I'm not sure. That's a shame, with some of them, you just don't know – it's not like they wear name tags and a dog collar with their personal information. Well, he was one of those young ones, where you wished parents would do that, for everyone's sake.

It was on a family outing, to a theme park, that we found him and took him home. This was years ago, Brigitte was only a little girl, only a couple of years older than Kyle. It was really her who found him. She saw him. She saw him, and he saw her and took a liking to her and realised how she was different from everybody else and that he needed to stick with her, because who knew when he might come across another person so very caring again? So he clung to her, the way he never could to his real parents, and it was almost as if he adopted us. He was just there, when we came home; had slid into our car without us really noticing. That is, without me really noticing, and with Brigitte keeping quiet that she had. She knew I didn't mind if she brought home someone special – she's been a great help throughout the years. If not to reel them in, then at the very least to make them feel more at ease in their new home.

Kyle acclimatised quickly. He only really needs one person, one person that cares about him. When Brigitte is around, nothing seems to be too much for us to ask of him. It's the times when she is away, into the city to go shopping for everyone, or taking a long walk because she needs to "clear her head", (God knows her head doesn't need to be cleared any more than it is), those are the only times when he might get agitated. The only time he ever remarks on our inability to treat him like we do everybody else. As if it is so wonderful to be treated like everybody else.

[Jnusch]

8: Diana, Queen

Diana is a smallish girl, slender, very silent. Until she opens her mouth and the world can’t but fall silent at what she sings into the world. Anything, any sound: name it and she’ll produce it for you. Not just sounds any of us might be able to imitate to some degree, no. Anything and everything. Electric guitar in overdrive? Why not! Brian May in Bohemian Rhapsody? Sure thing! The singing of a nightingale? Tssk, easy! Anything, and everything, whatever you please.

On top of that, she talks to animals too. Not that it comes naturally to her, but she can so accurately reproduce their sounds that, with a little effort, she is able to learn how to “communicate” with them. Of course, she lacks all the body language, and therefore I don’t believe their speech will ever be anything more than rudimentary, but it’s fascinating nonetheless. It’s also brought a wide array of pets into our home, most of which sadly got lost all too soon after we’d bought them. For peace’s sake, I hope it remains a mystery to her forever as to the real nature of these horrible disappearances. We have agreed that, now that she is older - old enough to be able to see that usually pets don’t leave so very often of their own accord – maybe it is better not to have pets anymore.

She kept one, a dog. His name is Elvis and he is a black Labrador. She tells me he reminds her of Elvis, which I suppose he might with his black fur and excited movements, but she will say that in reference to his “soul”. I am not sure that I believe in dog souls. I am not even sure that I believe in human souls, not as anything other than the result of our brains doing what they should. I’d like to raise the question of whether dog brains were ever intended for something like a soul; then again, were ours?

She also named him Elvis because she loves impersonating Elvis most. His is a very grateful impersonation, too; we all love it. It's just funny every time to see a little girl like her - although she's not that little, having graced the earth with her presence for 17 years already - sing in a big man's voice like that. Not the most incongruous, but marvellous. It is both wonderful and wonderfully strange and saddening to have someone like her around. Imagine John Lennon singing a Lady Gaga song; with her, that is possible. Everything is possible. Those that were immortalised at 27 are once again alive and singing.

What makes it so sad is the fact that no one will ever know of her gift. Her gift is far too precious, too extreme. They would hurt her, maybe not physically, but surely emotionally, psychologically. How could anyone compete with perfection? She can imitate anyone, perfectly. The only person she doesn't have a clue about is herself. Her own voice, we don't really know what it sounds like. I overheard her talking about it once, with Ephram of all people - why she would choose someone so hostile as him beats me - and telling him that, even the voice she uses as if it were her own isn't really. She can't remember the sound of her own voice. What she remembers is hearing this beautiful girl speak and noticing how people, her father, her brothers, loved the sound of her, (I'm not sure that she was old enough to realise it might not have been her sound that so captivated them, but who am I to meddle with her memories?). Then she simply decided to use this girls voice and captivate the world like she had. I'm not sure if it's her voice and if the whole world would listen, but most definitely her whole world does.

If there is one thing I wish I could give her, it would be her true voice. The voice she was born with, the one with which she screamed when she first came into the world, the one with which she called her mother for the first time. That would be a brilliant gift. A present to die for. Well, not quite. I suppose that, if I really wanted to, I could find a way to give her her voice. Only it would involve risking everything I have built up, everything I have worked for, waited for, longed for. She's not quite worth that. None of them really are - not even Brigitte.

Diana is one of the few who's parents are actually perfectly normal people who were perfectly capable of looking after her. Like all parents, they made the occasional slip, like that one time when they let her play in the woods around their house and she followed a bird deep into the forest, far behind the limits her father had given her. That one time when I happened to be passing through the forest. It was such a happy day. You're not that lucky very often in life; not only encountering someone by chance, but actually getting to see them in action without their knowing, so they feel perfectly at ease, (which is often hard later on). And then finally convincing them to come with you. To follow your lead and walk away from everything they know and cherish. To disobey their parents. To turn their back on them. Most of them readily accept that they betrayed their parents, and that they are probably angry at them for walking away. Children see their parents as such unpredictable creatures, completely beyond their ability to understand. Does that make me feel bad, lying to them like that? That depends: do I even know it's a lie?

Parents can be so cruel. Most of them are better of without them. And wouldn't it hurt much more to know that your parents never even loved you in the first place? To tell a child that, that is brutal. Should I tell Brigitte that her mother sold her to me, for a lousy 50 quid? Even she would realise what that means. Children are often scared their parents don't love them, or not enough, aren't they? Or if maybe not quite that, then at least that maybe they love their siblings more. No one wants to disappoint their mummy and daddy, yet in life, sometimes disappointment is inevitable. Why not use that to your benefit? I know I do. Don't we all? To pressurise, to guilt-trip, to convince? Don't you? We know how susceptible people are to it; disappointing someone doesn't just hurt them, it hurts you, too. The pain in their eyes, the sadness in their smile. Or smirk. Because they are so understanding. They know you can't help it, they know you couldn't do any better. But you can, you will, next time! Next time you'll be a good boy. They'll forget all about the disappointment, they will. They really will, because they love you, because you are their flesh and blood and parents love their children unconditionally and you could always come back to them, no matter what you did. Right? Wrong! But there's no need to tell the children that.

[Jnusch]

9: Apollo, keeper of truth

Apollo is blind. That is the only reason I was able to convince him to come. Although maybe convincing in this case is too big a word. Coaxing? Pushing? No matter, he came. He was quite the catch. Of course, I didn't realise he was blind at first. I must say I really let myself down there. Not that I wouldn't have wanted him, had I know, I'd just done things differently probably. Ah, regrets, regrets, regrets. We all have them and yet we still don't learn. It's not as if any mistake is a new one, is it now? They've all been made before, I do think so. We've been around for what, some five thousand, six thousand years? Longer, even? We really shouldn't be fooling ourselves then, it's not as if we're special or different or unique; we've all been done before, and probably better, too, at least a couple of times. Even I, even I.

Someone like Apollo, however, you know that he hasn’t been done a lot of times before. Or maybe it was attempted, but it only succeeded now. He is the epitome, the paramount. A staggeringly handsome boy, quite like his Greek counterpart, he has a temper to match. You’d think, what with him not seeing like we do, he might be more… evenly-tempered. Is that a silly thought? That just because he is handicapped, he would me more mild-tempered and calm, nicer? As if needing help every now and then puts you in debt with the world. I suppose it's is those kinds of ideas that make him feel so different, that upset him and make him angry and scream and yell at us. How horribly his face contorts. The rage that you can see in his usually quite expressionless eyes, it is very disturbing. It makes you realise that behind those eyes are deep pools of feelings that he doesn't often unleash onto the world. It fears me, on occasion, to have no clue of what he is really capable of. It fears him, even, sometimes, I believe.

I doubt that it is the divine Apollo speaking through this boy, but he is like an oracle. He can tell you truths about yourself and your future that you might not want to know. Without sacrificing so much as an apple, at that! His gift is still costly, though. For looking to the future might meddle with it terribly. It is very hard to explain properly how this works, especially since the effects aren't as obvious as one might hope. They are slight changes. Small, sometimes only the colour of a T-shirt, or the shoes that scary old lady passing by would be wearing. But every now and then, they are far bigger.

Once, and only once, I asked him to use his power to look into the future and predict for me how I would acquire another child. All went well, he told me. Yet somehow, along the way, something went awry and the child ended up dying in my arms. I still haven't puzzled out exactly what happened, but to hold a young girl in your arms, but 15 years old, spewing up her own blood, that does something to you. Pulling out the ragged knife, wet and hot with her blood, was maybe the most regrettable thing I have ever had to do in my life. She would have made such a great addition to my collection. I was so, so sorry to see her leave so soon, when I had only seen a flicker of what she was capable of.

I have wondered if maybe it all ties in with that person above us, ruling from the sky. Maybe he or she doesn't plan out our every move, but only "adjusts" them, if necessary. Maybe somehow Apollo taps into this being's infinite knowledge, (if it has that? I'm only guessing here), to see what will be. And maybe sometimes this alerts that entity. I could imagine it might not always like this kind of intimate contact with its toys, especially when uncalled for. It is only natural that sometimes it might want to interfere, because what would have been would be dangerous. To whom, God only knows. Ah, I could reminisce for hours about what might have been had I had that girl alive and kicking today. It makes me sad, however, so I shan't today. Maybe someday, I will tell you all about my plans with her. For now, I shall settle for Apollo.

Apollo, who feels so restrained by his body. He can see the whole world, and he has seen for himself that he will never see in the most simplistic, most carnal way. He would give everything to see, but he had to give up his vision to Know. At night, in his dreams, I hear him rant, grumble, weep, about all the missed chances. All the girls and boys he can never lay his eyes on. All the colours he only sees for fleeting moments in his visions, but never in all their vibrant reality. He is not so much impaired in his actions by being blind, he is impaired in the freedom he feels inside, the freedom of his mind. The freedom to let it soar to faraway places, that is what he lacks.

And the hallucinations. He doesn't speak of them to me, knows there is nothing I can do to make them go away, as Billy so kindly explained to him. He speaks of them only to Cleo. She has offered time and time again to take away his longing, but he refuses. He insists that there must be a way, that if he is possible, and she is possible, there has to be someone who can heal him. Can I hear you thinking of Brigitte there? Well, let me disappoint you, (which I do with a heavy heart, really); she has tried, to no avail, on more than one occasion to fix him. To make him whole. I think it is a matter of, you can't fix what was never broken. He was born without sight, without the option to it. Truly, I believe that if we opened him up, we would find no connection leading from his eyes to the parts of his brain that he'd need. We'd find those brain areas functioning just fine, but with neurons leading to places we can only dream of.

To open up their heads, that would be marvellous. It would be so interesting to see how they are different from you and me. Do you need a special brain? I would say so. Have you heard of the savants? Those few who's minds work in ways we have a hard time understanding, allowing them to raise, in certain ways, to unknown heights. These children must be quite like them, in many ways. At least, say my theory about Apollo's neurons proves to be true, that would make them quite similar, no? Missing some connections in one place, but gaining some in another. The prices we pay, huh?

[Jnusch]

10: Sweet little Bobby, far too good for this world.

Once again, the world is unfair. Or maybe, for once, it is fair, isn't it? You give some, you take some. You lose some, you get some; powers, gifts, talents. Don't we all hate those people who seem to be good at everything? They are smart, they play some mean ball and as if that's not enough, they sing, too! Well! That is unfair. This is really quite fair, to us, in any case. Not to them of course, but when does anything ever seem fair to the victim? We are all victims, in a way. Be it of some real crime, or of our own self-absorbed pity.

Bobby of course was far too young to know all of this. Any of this. Only 3 years old, and truly the sunshine in my life. Her smile, her bouncy curly hair, her eyes ever joyful and her laughter like a chime - God, why? Someone so sweet, so innocent, so good. Someone like that deserves to live forever. Not to be kissed to death by a boy who wants far too many things he cannot get. A despicable boy, a horrendous abomination. Why does someone like him exist to end someone like her? Why does evil always prevail? Why isn't life like what you see on the silver screen? Why can't life just be fair, just a little bit. A little bit was all she needed. A little bit stronger, a little bit longer, to fight him off, to call for help, to be saved.

But no. No, of course not. And it hurts, oh, how it hurts. So much. So much. The pain is excruciating and who knows when it'll finally go away. I suppose I could ask Apollo, but what would it change? It wouldn't bring her back and it would only mean I am forgetting. An angel like her shoudn't ever be forgot. She deserves the whole world to know her name, to cherish it and to mourn the loss that I now carry alone. Not alone, the others are upset, too. But they are not only upset because of her. They are upset because of the measures I had to take.

I told you, didn't I, that Johnny would overstay his welcome sooner or later? I told you, I did. I warned him, too. I explained to him that he should be a sweet boy, do as he was told and never, ever lay a finger on any of the others that I so painstakingly sought out. And what does he do the very first time you turn your back on him for a second? He stabs you, without so much as thinking about it twice. Never thinking, that's his problem. Just follows his heart always, and we all know his heart longs for the souls of the pure. She was so pure. So beautiful.

Even perfection is not immortal, even while it should be, if you ask me.  Bobby could make anyone feel good. She had this thing with emotions, moods, she could alter them. Only for the better. She could only make people happy, or cheerful, to a more or lesser degree. Just being around her would lift your spirits, make you feel at ease, but if she wanted to, she could make you scream with laughter. Usually, she'd conceal it, by telling a joke with would make you burst out in rapturous laughter, bringing tears to your eyes. Afterwards, all of us couldn't help but wonder why on earth we'd thought the joke so funny, when it was really not very good. They were three years-old jokes. Little girls jokes. With unicorns, and pink glittery tutus and everything was jolly good fun.

She would have been four in only two weeks. Billy was already planning the cakes. She would be like Marie Antoinette, with a gown that Brigitte was sowing, fit for a princess. We'd all do whatever she wanted us too, all day long. Even Ephram and Apollo promised to join in without a word of resistance. Nothing less would have been good enough for her. Of course it doesn't really make it worse, it's simply that we all knew how much fun she would have. She was going to enjoy herself mightily and if she enjoyed herself, we knew we all would, too. The whole lot of us would feel euphoric for days after and frankly, with everyone's little sorrows in life, we were more than ready for a while of that.

Alas, 't shan't be, as so many things we wish for in life. No, rather than festivities, we mourn our twofold loss. And believe me when I say that, although he was a handful and had an intrinsic inclination for evil, I do miss Johnny, too. He was so young as well. Too young for this. And we can only guess as to why, can't we? It is too appalling to consider genuinely, but part of me cannot help but fear that maybe he did it because he knew what the consequence would be. A six year-old boy with the wish to be dead, that is too exquisitely sad. Far too gloomy to think about for a prolonged period of time. But how could it be different? Even a six-year old knows that killing is wrong. Maybe they know it more strongly than most of us grown-ups. The world is more black and white, and therefore his view much bleaker.

We sigh and move on, that's what we do. We sigh, time and time again, blinking back the tears maybe, swallowing the lump in our throat, because we don't want to upset any of the others any more. Life seems to me to be a chain of events that we move on from. Always a wee bit sadly, for when they are happy we wished they wouldn't end and when they are sad, we wished we wouldn't remember. Even happy memories haunt us. We can never revisit that time, make it come back, yet we always know what was. Isn't it the saddest thing, when someone refers to the happiest time of their life? That means it's over, gone. Never to return. And even if maybe it wasn't strictly the time of your life, as long as you consider it to be, you'll never be as happy as you think you were then. And our thoughts are all that really matters. Our thoughts are what rule our world.

Such dreadful thoughts, and I’ve been thinking far too many of them lately. How is it that we can all just toil on, breathing laboriously under the heavy weight of our memories, regrets and wishes. What do we do all of it for? If I could fine one youngster who could tell me that, I’d gladly trade them all for that one. With that knowledge, I could judge if life was worth living. I could truthfully say whether or not I want to live and then live my life accordingly, or not. Either way, I would be doing it with a peaceful mind.

But no, I mustn’t think these things. The children need me. They would be lost otherwise. None of them would survive in the real world without some kind of guidance; they are but children. Brigitte, I suppose, should be old enough to keep them alive, but she’s far too reliant on someone she trusts to tell her what to do. Ephram would never take on the responsibility for all of them, even though he could. And Beau, Beau is an irresponsible brat.

[Jnusch]

11: Beau White

'Beau, do you know what daddy's done?' Diana whispered in his ear, as she released him from a hug.
'My dear girl, he is not your father.' A malicious grin spread on Beau's face as he said this. He knew the Poet had heard and objected, he could tell from the distraught ruffling of the paper the man was reading.
'He is, though!'
'He is not, Diana,' The young man replied with a hint of another grin in his voice. Before he could say any more, though, she yelled at him with the voice of death that he shan't say things like that and that she was going to tell daddy, and that daddy would be upset if he heard.

'Daddy would be very upset indeed, Diana. Beau, can we have a word?' The Poet spoke in a deep, clear voice that carried well and was appealing to the ear, yet it wasn't him who had spoken.
'Diana, I can actually see your lips moving, sweetheart. I know that was you.' Beau smirked again and walked away, swooshing his coat behind him in a way that only big-headed people can pull of. He was quite the sight, with his expensive clothes that even someone with no affinity for the matter could tell were probably the very latest thing in the land of fashion. Beau had remarkable hair, almost white, waving down to his shoulders in almost-curls. It would have been horrible to look at on anyone but him, and maybe even on him. Not that anyone really cared, though, not with a face like his.

'Beau, you haven't heard what I was going to tell you!' Diana yelled after him, 'It was really important!'
'I bet it was, such a shame you didn't get a chance to tell me.' Beau's voice was light-hearted, the voice of a foolish, reckless man, or of a man who knows he always wins. Not very surprising, for a man like him. Only twenty-four years of age, he had won many a time already, and him probably awaited many a win more. 'Daddy, please do put away that newspaper, there is nothing in there you want to know. Nothing that would make any difference to your precious world.'

As he poked the newspaper with his index finger, trying to irritate the man reading it, he stuck out his tongue just long enough for this father figure to see. A condemning frown spread across the man's face almost immediately, as he was forced to lay eyes on this Beau character.

'Why are you here? I don't recall sending out an invitation your way. How is your mother?'
'She is well. Edgar has taken her on yet another trip to god knows where, some exotic place. She promised to bring back something nice for me, but I doubt I'll like it. Neither of them really have taste. You should let me stay here.'
'Here?' The man snorted in reply, 'I think not. Whenever you come, you upset everything. I can't have that, especially not know.'
'Oh, do tell then, what dreadful thing passed during my absence? Did someone try to run away?'
A murderous glance was shot his way, it seemed leaving was a subject not to mentioned in this house. Not where anyone might overhear, and Diana was lingering in the room, eager to catch some snippets of the conversation about the world Beau so eagerly trekked into every time he left.
'Diana wanted to tell you, boy, and she would have, had you let her. Don't play games with them, not if you want to stay here a minute longer.' The man frowned again, sighed and put down his newspaper on the coffee table next to his armchair. As he got up, he heaved another sigh, bigger this time; either he enjoyed sighing very much, or he had a lot of worries. Possibly both.

'I must go and check on Billy, see if dinner is ready. Diana, won't you be an angel and tell Beau exactly what happened. I'm sure he'll want you to really describe it to him in much detail.' While he was not normally a man who found pleasure in pestering others, Beau brought out the worst in him. He liked to see the man, who was really more of a boy still, tortured.
'Oh yes Diana, describe it to me so I can feel almost as if I was there!'

*

As the Poet was talking to Billy, who had cooked a big roast, with vegetables and a beautiful, thick sauce, he could hear the muffled screams from the living room. They weren't really muffled; it was just Diana copying exactly what she had heard. Not only did she have a remarkable gift with sounds, she also had an eerie way of remembering most everything that was said around her, allowing her to recount whole conversations in perfect detail.

'Billy, I don't think Beau will be joining us for dinner. He hadn't heard about Bobby yet, and he was very fond of her.'
'Okay, should I take away his plate then?' Billy's voice was loud and crude, so different from that of the Poet. Though the boy wasn't nearly observant enough to notice, the Poet sometimes tended to cringe, on the occasions that he was taken by surprise once again by the simple mind that voice foreshadowed.
'Yes, put it back in the cupboard, if you will.'

[Jnusch]

12: The Poet; till death do us part

I am the Poet, the collector, the father. I brought all these children together, raised them, and tried to love them not just with my whole heart, but also consciously, with every fibre of my soul. And now I am no more to do that. I am gone. I am dead. Less alive than I ever thought was possible. It is all over for me now; the curtain fell on my performance and I have retired to a solitude that weighs down on me, quite literally, for I lay buried beneath the ruins of my home.

To be dead, how does one go about describing the experience? I’m not sure that I’d know if I did, but at the moment, I don’t feel any different at all from how I felt before. My heart aches no less over those I lost, but maybe it is a different kind of ache. The kind of dull ache that you can last a lifetime with without ever despairing quite so much that it must end. Lucky me, no? For death doth never end. “From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity.”

The last thing I remember seeing before the flames consumed me was Cleo’s face, a mask of frenzy. She felt the world owed her happiness, yet died before it ever even attempted leading her to it. She came to save me. She was the only one. Ephram stopped Brigitte from going in, which I should be thankful for, because to see her die would have been hell. Yet why he couldn't stop Cleo also? Of course, because he didn't dare dream that he might. None of them did. She was a clever girl. Too clever for her own good. I daresay that she sees death as a release from the shackles that held her in life. The dreams that condemned her to unhappiness, real or imagined.

The same holds true for Johnnyboy. He too, found freedom in death. No, I haven't seen them here, or anyone for that matter, but have my ways of knowing. Or not. At this point, to me it hardly matters. To me we are finally equals, none more equal than others. The great beyond; the great perhaps; a big vast great nothingness, if you ask me. No answers to be found here, just questions to be pondered till someone decides it is enough and ends us all for all eternity. Until then, I have found new shackles here to bound me.

Before I leave you, dear reader, there are some wisdoms, some bits of knowledge that I wish to impart on you. Some things I feel you may have been wondering about and, because I planted the seeds, I should sow them and tell you what you want to know. About my childhood, about Beau, about why? Do you remember, from way in the beginning, when I posed these questions. How? What? Why!

I shan't bother with what, because you know that now. I could tell you of children that came before and passed before I had the chance to tell you about them. Some of them at my hands, some at others'. Aurelie was a lovely girl, for instance, but she could be terribly difficult when to handle when the cravings set in. Nothing so vile as Johnny or Billy, but she did enjoy a tad bit too much hurting the innocent and weak. She mostly kept to animals, but it was still too gruesome for my liking. Or David, a strong boy. He could pulverise a rock the size of a cow without sweating. He disappeared suddenly one night. He was there, and then he wasn't, and I've never been able to track him down. I've asked Apollo, but he sees naught, suggesting David's unfortunate demise. Yet for the dead he cannot speak, for their eyes no longer see.

Well, those are but two, of course there were more. Many more - a lot of them only stay a very short while. Sometimes that is because they turn out not to have any sort of speciality at all, after all. Even I make mistakes, it seems. It also happens that they are not in control of their actions, making them dangerous; not always to our health, but to our safety, too. It speaks for itself that I cannot simply return them to their parents, or caretakers, or whoever it was that looked after them so poorly. So we do what we -must and then we move on.

Bobby will have face all of this with a smile. A gentle, kind smile, accepting Death and embracing him, making him feel better. Who knows, he might make an exception for her! Would he do that for anyone, then surely for her. I like to tell myself she moved on to a better place more quickly than I. This is only a stop, a temporary resting place, while they prepare for our arrival at the final destination. Bobby will like it there, and they will like her back. She will be happy wherever she goes, and hopefully she will be blessedly ignorant at three years old always.

There will not be pain for her, but maybe for me. I cannot be sure of my assigned residence. Have I wronged so much, that I do not deserve to be happy for once? (If a happiness lasts forever, that still does only count once, doesn't it? For it is merely one stretched out allowance of the thing). Yet another question that I cannot answer. I should get back to those that I can. How? Why?

Why is a difficult question; surely the most difficult of all, and the one asked most frequently. It starts the day we are born, in our cries one might hear an enraged, or frightened why. Why did you cast me out of that safe haven and into this cold, bright world that is painful to my eyes? Why must I be born? From that day onwards, we never cease asking the same question, but with different words. The only thing that silences us is death, and apparently even then we speak! Ha, even here the living are not free from us and our eternal inquiries!

I shall not – cannot – give you a straightforward answer that you will understand, appreciate and then forget. That is simply impossible. I’d love to do that, really, I would. But you remember that I am no fan of nostalgia and looking back and therefore the tale that I am about to recount to you, I shall only recount to you once. Listen closely and listen well, and then draw your own conclusions once I’m done. They will be tainted, don’t forget that, but they are the best I can give you. They are what I remember, and isn’t it our perceptions, our thoughts, that shape the world? It really doesn’t matter so much what is objectively true, as long as it is a subjective truth that makes us tick.

[Jnusch]

13: It reminds me of childhood memories

My mother had no love in her body. She was a regal woman, with a high forehead and a stern brow, and dark eyes that pierced into the depths of your soul. A very critical woman, of everyone, and herself especially. Flaws, she felt, could never be excused. It's sad, in a way, that the things we hate most in our parents often, at one time or another, sprout in our own character as well. It is shameful how we take after them when for years we have said, screamed, we never would.

I did not scream, naturally. It would have been punished harshly; not by my mother - she did not care one way or another for me and left my upbringing to a nanny - but rather by my father. Whatever love he possessed, he drowned in spirits. Evil spirits, that turned him into a nasty, foul-tempered man with a cruel sense of humour. I must haste myself to say that the nanny was old, and had used up most of her love on children she raised before me. She was paid a large sum of money at the end of every month, so she did not complain. The day I turned twelve, she left with all that money she had saved to live a quiet olden day somewhere, and I bet she never looked back.

All in all, it wasn't the warmest environment for a little boy to grow up in. It is as if all of them were immune to whatever innate cuteness and lovable features a baby possesses. All of that was wasted on them, to my regret. I tried my hardest, day in, day out, to live up to whatever ideal they held for me. The thing that I failed miserably to see is, that they had no ideal for me. They were sorry to have me, both of them. I kept them together against their will. Their love had been doomed from the start, I fear, yet when they spawned me into the world, it was sealed to be forced upon them until they were both kissing maggots.

Unconditional love. I don't think I have ever felt such a thing for anyone. Is it that I am not capable of the feeling, as some people are, or is it that life has cut away the foundations at such an early stage that they may never be rebuilt? Likely a bit of both, as always. (The world can never, not for once, just be black and white, can it?). Or maybe there is simply no space in me, for that much love. The space that it would normally occupy is in me taken by other feelings, such as a need for confirmation. Of my talents, my worth, my validity. I am good enough to live.

Well, not according to mummy dearest! And not according to dad, the old chum! On both sides, the grandparents died before they could ever play a substantial role in my life. An epidemic took three of them and the one grandmother that was left was my mother's. From the photos I have seen of her, I judge her to have played a large role in my mother's unloving persona. She would have hardly been any help to my cause I think. Minor loss, then.

The first time I learnt what love meant, other than in cinemas and libraries, was when I went off to college. "The best time of my life." There, I met Edgar and Amelia, two bright young students, quite similar to me. They helped me develop into the person I really was. Both were smitten with the flamboyance I suddenly displayed, which seemed to have been hiding out, waiting for the right moment to expose itself.

On campus, everyone knew us, at least by sight. I wore extravagant suits, expensively tailored to match my dreams, and a monocle, on a thin chain. Deliciously outrageous. That style was copied by Edgar, albeit in a slightly toned down and far less expensive fashion. Amelia would have worn suits, too, I believe, had it not been wildly inappropriate for a young lady of her background to do such a thing. She came from a family of old money, like mine, and was reared quite similarly, with the one notable difference being that she had a nanny who was only just starting out and doted on her terribly.

Yes, she was a little spoilt, but we quickly beat that out of her, me and Edgar. And in turn, we taught Edgar not to stand out so much. He was one of the few students there on a scholarship - a fact that distressed him endlessly - and as with most of them, it was horribly visible in everything he did. From the way he carried himself, to the way he spoke, even to the way he wrote a letter, it all marked him as Poor. Not that he came from a poor family; I assume they were middle class or thereabouts, since he'd not have stood a chance of getting in otherwise, at the time. No, he wasn't so much poor as poorer, and all of him shouted that at us.
Finally, the two of them tried, futilely, to teach me love. Their main problem was the lack of anything to work with. Love had not been a part of my life up to that point, and while I was used to getting attention and stares and longing gazes from the people in the streets, none of that could be considered anything to go from. Neither of them were willing to admit anything like that for a very long time, however. Both enjoyed the struggle far too much, and with every proof sigh of frustration also came a sigh drenched in longing. The more I started resenting their fuzzing about me, the more they started swooning over my moodiness and unpredictability. Before too long, both had fallen deeply in love with me.

I am aware of how presumptuous that sounds, and how detached it makes me seem, but that was how I felt it then and still see it now. It was around that time that I started writing poetry. Not only did it allow me to express my feelings about the matter - for I did feel something, at least - it also was another way of maybe making my parents see I was worthy of their love. For a very long time I believed they had some secret supply of love hidden away somewhere deep down inside their hearts that they were waiting to let me tap into. All I needed to do was to show them what a remarkable boy I was.

I think my father's response, when I told him of my latest endeavour, says it all:
"You, a poet?" I still remember how disgusted he sounded, "Ha! Don't be fanciful boy - even dead, you'd be no good to anyone!" Not a hint of mockery, or disappointment even. All his words spoke of was cold, spiteful resentment. I had wasted their lives and under no circumstance was I to forget that I was the one to be held accountable for their sorry fate.

[Jnusch]

14: Beau White, again

Beau White was born on the 2nd of June, 24 years ago. A beautiful baby boy, he moved his mother to tears. His father, on the other hand, felt fairly little. Yes, the boy was quite lovely to see, and it was wonderful that he did not cry so very much, during those first days, but love? No, not really. It really did seem to run in his family.

Amelia White experienced the happiest day of her life, the happiest time of her life, then. It lasted until she realised that he man he had fathered her little angel sincerely had no intention of staying with her to raise the boy. He felt a child would hold him back in his pursuit of poetry - which he was going to pursue, regardless of his parents' opinion - and he had never asked for this particular one to begin with. It had all been an accident, more or less.

When he had returned from his home in the woods, he felt morose and depressed and decided to visit the local pub. He entered shortly before eight and started drinking steadily, which he was not used to. He tried absinthe for the first time in his life and found that he enjoyed it. There and then he decided it should be his signature beverage, for it befitted a poet like him. This decision was made in a state far-removed from sobriety, at least further than he had ever been up to that point.

It was in this state that Amelia and Edgar found him at ten o'clock, a mere two hours later. They brought him home, or tried to at least. It took them almost half an hour to find a taxi willing to take the inebriated young man, who was by now loudly proclaiming his love for the world and the green fairies that popped up out of nowhere. They did it gladly though, for finally there a chance presented itself at which they could genuinely come to his rescue. On the back seat of the taxi, he started inconspicuously fondling Amelia, and groping Edgar between the legs. It was extremely embarrassing for the both of them, all the more so because they knew, and he knew, that it was not without pleasure that they underwent this.

When finally they arrived at his apartment, with red faces and a stammered apology to the driver, they quickly hauled him inside, afraid of a public display. Once inside, their defences fell significantly and they found themselves facing a difficult decision. No matter what they would like to believe, both were aware that it was alcohol that had unleashed this temper in their friend, rather than love. This was mere lust they were dealing with, and it was a sensation unknown to either of them. The only feeling that came remotely close to this was their own admiration for the boy, and normally they would look to him for guidance. Of course, being young and in love, they let him get the best of them and let fare their better judgment, and both of them giggled a little hysterically as he took them by the hand and led them into his sleeping quarters for a very interesting night.

The next morning had awoken them to a change. Something was different now, and all three knew it. He never berated them for taking advantage of him, and really he did not feel that way either. The horrible pain in his head that he felt until well in the afternoon told him that maybe he had something to do with this. If only he knew to what extent. In any case, while no hard feelings were felt, there was a certain tension now. For, no matter what they said, both Edgar and Amelia felt a kind of expectancy. They hoped something had changed now, that he had realised he did love them, or at least one of them. The two tried to hide it, to cloak their feelings, mask them as concern for his health, after yet another rejection by his parents, but he knew and they knew. And none of them made a move. All three were afraid that one word might blow it all up.

In the end, it was Amelia, always more sure of herself than Edgar, who asked him outright. She had grown tired of waiting and she felt restless, as if a storm was building up inside her. (And what storm!) One sunny morning, she was early for their customary pre-classes meeting. They usually talked about what prospects the day held for them and how they felt about those, and sometimes about something that had passed the previous night, if interesting enough. Normally, it was him who was early and Amelia and Edgar arriving more or less at the same time. They often caught up with one another on their walk over, since they lived very near each other.

Not today. Very consciously, Amelia had woken up almost half an hour before she normally did, so she had plenty of time to prepare herself for what she was about to say. She looked very proper, and wore one of her dresses that she felt made her look stern. Most days, she felt it was too neat and prim, as if she had been long-married already and the only wish that was left to her was to make a good wife. Today, however, it was perfect. It gave her the confidence she needed, to berate someone like one would an unruly child. She liked thinking of him that way, as an unruly child that only needed sorting out. She could do that, and then once she had, they could finally be together like a real couple. Secretly, she had always felt that, if the time came, he would choose her. After all, as much as he liked being so extravagant and awe-inspiring, it was his parents' approval he desired, and surely they would not approve of Edgar.

It was in this somewhat light-hearted state of mind that Amelia arrived that morning, almost twenty minutes earlier than she should, to find him already there. At once she had to wonder why he came so early always, what it was that he did. If she didn't have an important matter to discuss, she would have held back and watched him from a safe distance to see what exactly he got up to. What she might have seen was him scribbling in a little pocketbook that he always carried and that she knew very well, for it was his book of poems. That would have not been a surprise. But she might have witnessed him talking to other students, boys and girls alike, readily passing out kisses and embraces, and generally being much more touchy-feely than he ever was with them. She would not have understood that it was easy with them, because he did not really care. It would have left her terribly sad. So it was in everyone's best interest that she briskly walked up to him and planted herself, not quite as gracefully as she had hoped, next to him on the bench overlooking the lawn.