"Tell the fat lady she's on in five."
- The Riddler
I've got a dream to take you over
Exploding like a supernova
I'm gonna crash into your world
And that's no lie
- Savage Garden, "Violet"
He's sitting in a high-backed leather chair in a shadow-darkened part of the room, where the orange glow from the fire doesn't reach. Legs crossed at the ankles, long body stretched into an elegant slouch, he waits for the moment when he'll hear the loud clink of the old lock, echoing through the dark rooms. The thud of the heavy wooden beam being placed on the inside of the door once more. The light and almost inaudible footfall with its distinct pattern. He knows that footfall, he could tap that pattern with his own feet. Sometimes he has, just to be a nuisance and draw some of that prized attention to himself. One minute in the spotlight of that intense gaze is worth the annoyance that follows. Most of the time he's ignored. He lives in the shades, the trickster and court jester. He knows how to entertain and make them laugh, and they adore him for it. The women will be leaning on each other, nearly crying with mirth, and the men will guffaw or roar with laughter, and sometimes the pretty little boy is allowed to watch as well, and he will do his best not to giggle. Yes, they all love him. But the moment he leaves the stage, he's as black as his clothing, and he disappears in the darkness once more. Frankly, he's sick of it. He wants to be seen, he wants those eyes to land on him and to linger, his dream is to see recognition and acknowledgement dawning in the limpid pools of ice, and he wants them to shine with want, as he knows his own must.
His hands curl in on the armrests or the chair, the nails leaving crescents in the dark wood.
It's been ten years. Ten years he's been pining for that one, ten years he's been brushed off with disinterest. Then again, he thinks with venom, nothing is of interest, the world itself seems to be naught but a poor performance to him, and they've all noticed. To most of them it's perfectly convenient. It gives them free reins to wallow in the splendour and the laziness and the greyish tint their souls have taken on.
He's not like that. He shines, like a dark star in this place, and he sure as hell knows it. The cunning fox that he is, he sees the want and the dependence and he plays it like an instrument. That has always been his way, until now. This very night tonight was the moment it all changed, and their life and ways, already precariously balanced, toppled over and crashed magnificently to the ground. All because that wretched young thing caught his interest and made him forget his own people.
Well, no more.
When a loud crack comes to his ears, he looks down and realizes that he's splintered the right armrest. Small pieces of wood are embedded in his palm and fingers, and he's bleeding darkly.
A tiny sound from the far end of the building is his cue to enter. A moment later and he's gone, the dust still swirling to the floor in his wake.