It was one of my many insomnia nights when the Harlequin visited me for the first time. I was lying face-up on a sofa in the last floor of an insignificant building in London smoking. It was the time of night even clocks are too afraid to mark. Right in the middle, when everyone is too afraid of even coming out of their holes with their tail between their legs like fearsome animals.
The bell rang again and, full of curiosity, I lunged forward to the door with the cigarette between my red lips. The grey smoke followed me to the door as curious as I was. And there was when I saw him. The Harlequin, with black hair, grey-almost-white eyes painted in black, looked at me from his height. His lips where painted in the same color as his eyes. There were moments when the light didn't reach them, and it seemed ti me that they blended with the black of the make up and the night and the tenebrous thoughts. His figure was long and tall. His harlequin-like clothes fitted him perfectly, and I couldn't have imagined him differently. His hat seemed, at times, to be the same dark as the night, like they were the same.
I let him in. He walked in with elegance and without saying anything until he sat on the couch I was laying on seconds before. I sat on the left couch. He put his feet on the black painted metal table and looked at me right in the eyes. I didn't say anything. He neither.
We stayed a few minutes like that, trying to read us, until he spoke. "Do you remind me, Audric?". His voice resonated and bounced on the white boring walls until reaching my ears. I shook the ashes off my cigarette, I turned it off on the ashtray I bought on one of my trips to Mexico and rested my elbows on my knees, crossing my hands before my mouth. I tried to picture him without that black shit on his eyes ajd crimson lips, without the spine-chilling look on his eyes, dressed as a normal person would, but I couldn't. He was enveloped in mystery.
"No", I answered. The Harkequin smiled one of his spooky smiles. A feverish chill went from my head and to my feet. There was a weird sensation at the back of my brain, like a weird tickling. I tried to hold it between my hands before it got away, but I didn't manage. It was gone, an I forgot.
He hurled down at me a significative look, like warning me about something, taking at the same time a cigarette to his mouth. He winked at me, smiled creepily and got up. With a lot of elegance, he reached the door and left me alone with my thoughts.
The following night, the same weird tickling creeped up my back up to my prefrontal cortex of my brain and to my basal ganglia. They wanted to tell me something. Something important. But the sensation vanished in the air, and I forgot about it.
I looked at the skinless ceiling, through the ascending grey smoke and I got lost in the cigarettes in the dark. It was the same dark hour as yesterday, the same way all clocks stop and look at darkness, asking her if they're allowed to continue their hectic tic tac tic tac tictac tictac tictac tictactictactictactictac tictactictactictactictactictactictac silence~
The buzzing in my head stops, interrupted by the ring of the bell. I get up from one jump, I chase the door, I reach it like a lion that chases its food and open it violently, as if I was opening the abdomen of an animal to devour its inside.
TheHarlequin looked at me with his eyes made of vapor. I never knew if his eyes were really made of vapor. Probably yes. He smiled wicked at me. He sat down at the same place he sat the previous night, placing his feet on the table, just as the previous night. This time he did light the cigarette he took to his lips. He looked at me from the other side of everything. Y analyzed his movements.
He didn't move. He just smoked his cigarette. He looked at me in the same way I looked at him: he wanted to enter into the deepest part of my being, take time out of there and examine the little and insignificant me that hid under all that formality, all those bigotries of society, all that deceit, behind the eyes and all alone in his crimson blood, muscle and vein prison, so he could, then, throw him with violence like a savage through my throat and against my stomach repeatedly until that little me that lived in my heart ended up naked and with no secrets, lie he really actually is.
I looked away first. His eyes were just too wicked. I didn't want to looked at them, but at the same time I wanted to find out a lot of things. I was curious like a child that discovers what dying really means. What was it that hid under al, that make up he used as a shield? What did his memories accuse him of? What did the now accuse him of? What was it the future accused him of doing?
I looked at the ceiling again, ousting out the smoke of my second cigarette through my nose and my mouth into the monotonous false sky that protected me from reality. I imagined the sky full of stars hovering over my head. I inhaled the recently ousted venom back into my lungs and my veins, killing me softly. I guess a part of me wished to die, but was too coward to commit suicide.
The Harlequin gathered his mystery and his gothic elegance, reaching the door. He looked at me one last time before wickedly laughing and then whispering: "Sweet, sweet victory."