Applause.

            As I opened my eyes, moonlight pours through, blindingly bright, sickeningly pale. The crowd’s jeers reaches my ears, but as any good jester knows, jeers are a form of applause. For after all, they prove one’s existence, one’s actions, worthy of acclaim, regardless of actions. We jesters hunger for such applause; and what greater laudation does one receive except one at the culmination of life, the curtain call of the Reaper?

            “The criminal, Pierre Osmanthus, have been charged with theft, murder, and high treason. He has been found consorting with the Black Hand, with numerous irrefutable evidences of his traitorous deeds. Thus he will now undergo purification of his soul through death, found at the cleansing fire.”

            The rasping voice of the preacher resounded harshly within my head. I glance about, noting the stake I was tied to, the rough rope that digs into my flesh, the dry tinder about my person, and the audience, the ever present audience. I lightly laugh, inciting the anger of the crowd.

            “Fucking traitor!” “Burn in hell you bastard!” “Worthless son of a bitch!” So cries out voices that had lauded my name in the streets not even a week ago. Oh how fickle are the hearts of men.

            “Pierre, do you have any confessions to make upon the eve of your death?” the preacher contemptuously inquires.

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            “Oh priest, what are confessions, but the revelations of secrets which one has held within the deep recesses of his heart? And what are secrets, but hidden desires and actions? What use is it to speak of such secrets when my actions have so clearly been revealed?” I respond, lightly sighing, in that flowery speech I am so accustomed to.

            “But your actions make no sense, why did you--” a soldier at the side inquired, but was cut off by his comrade who dug his elbows sharply into his sides. I turn my head to glance at him, recognizing him as one of my more ardent fan, one of many that had attended every one of my performances with a zeal. Ah what a pity, that although I long for the end of this play, that I would leave the audience behind.

            “PEOPLE! Look upon this unrepentant criminal, one that refuses to alleviate the burdens of his soul but would rather mock the intelligence of the people that stand witness here. Let us not tarry, light the fire!”

            The torches are set to the tinder, which is set ablaze, setting my vision within an amber glow. I close my eyes, reminiscing, as the flames lick upon my soles, desiring to consume my flesh. Yes, I reminisce, of simpler days, the days in which I had no recollection of my gift, my affliction, my curse. I open my eyes, glancing at the moon, the accursed moon, that whose light is hollow, as I am. I then turn my head towards the crowds, and smile maniacally.

            “Ladies and Gentlemen, I welcome you to my last performance. I appreciate your support over these past few weeks, but I regret that all good things must come to an end. And so, I bid you adieu. ”

            Then with a grin, I….