Ikimono takes their stand over the abyssal plunge of the stage. The height would be tolerable if they weren’t already worried about something else. See, fear is an easy thing to conquer, so as long as you can conquer it one at a time. Alexander the Great took his great empire one village at a time, and Ikimono thought they ought to conquer their fears the same. But when one set their sights on too many riches, they were bound to lose their grip on what they already earned. Worrying about six other people makes it very easy for a seventh fear of heights to slip into their mind, and so Ikimono stands a little farther back tonight.

It’s so odd to them how they managed to slip into such a dismal state so quickly. Perhaps it always happened with newcomers, no matter how alike the fate. Perhaps, Ikimono thinks, this is but a loop of time wheeling around again and again with which they had no memory of each revolution. A perfect circle, perfectly mirrored and round, with them as the axle around which it revolves. Or are they the wagon, the only one able to watch parts of the wheel reveal itself with no sight of the whole? Could they even be the driver of the cart, only conscious of the wheel when it breaks? Maybe they are even the horses that pull it.

Ikimono finds themself whispering. With their thumb, they trace a little circle on the palm of their other hand.

“Manmaru, manmaru…”

Time is easiest when one thinks of it in circles, they decide. It is equal, but unlike a square, the sides do not abruptly cut into each other. Unlike a triangle, it is roomy, and unlike a trapezoid one can stretch and compress it without warping the structure beyond recognition. It is as efficient as a hexagon, but it needn’t be stacked like one. You can only have one time at a time, after all. Triangles and squares often meant one had to be building something with their shapes, but circles? Nobody builds with circles, and why would they? Nothing fits atop a circle without sliding off or pushing the sides flat. In a way, they think, time is the same. You can’t do anything to it without restricting it, making it less of time and more of not-time. It might still look like time, sure, but it wouldn’t be time.

They shake their head as if snapping themself from a trance. Of all the things to be thinking about right now, this feels like the least productive. They pick up the metal beam that hangs their puppets and pulls at a helpless string. Something deep inside of them burns with the knowledge that they and the puppet are alike, but the lingering heat of the brass makes for a wonderful distraction.

With slight trepidation, they lean over the rafters to look down at the stage. Sunshine should have called them by now, and he isn’t usually one to delay the proceedings. The show must go on is less of an aphorism and more of a law to him. He could be dead with his skull fractured into a million pieces and he’d still be chugging along with his fireflies at his feet. In an odd sort of way, they envy him for that. Surely a creature such as them could conquer their misery if they wanted to badly enough. Then again, maybe Sunshine is a creature that lacks anything to be miserable about.

Ikimono grows tired of waiting for Sunshine’s command. If there’s nobody on the floor to perform, surely they don’t have to wait around with their thoughts to keep them company. With a sudden click, they flick their piano to life and begin to play. The puppets bounce down into the scene, and as soon as Ikimono knows they have taken their place, they begin to belt out their tale.

“Far off in the mountains, a turkey found himself wounded from a chance encounter with a weasel.”

Ikimono idly looks over to the bar over the stage. Generally, what the puppets are doing remains a mystery to them. They imagine the stuffed bird hopping along the path in the woods, but whether or not the toy is moving at all is their guess. They prefer to believe the bird is moving.

“He ran amuck in the forest, clutching at his broken wing and shouting.

“‘Help me! Goodness, help me!’ He cried, ‘My poor wing has been injured, and I’m in terrible pain!’

“He ran about the forest, trying to find anyone who would help.”

Down in the stage below, the bird is indeed bouncing with fervor around the forest scene.

“He ran for hours trying to find someone who would help him. When at last-”

Ikimono flourishes on a few higher keys. He imagines the next puppet cloaked in shadows, slowly illuminating from a light from the trees as the turkey cautiously approaches closer.

“--He chance encountered a fox.”

…

Sebastian stands motionless in the void. All around him, the outlines of the objects remain unchanged as they were before. Glitches of light blink in and out where the outlines of people ought to be. Every sound around him is muffled as though his head is submerged underwater. All, of course, except for the distinct beckoning to his side.

For a split second, he whipped around to see the source of the sound. Perhaps it was merely from his own mind, or even a byproduct of the haze around him. Whatever it was, though, it wasn’t Peony’s voice calling him.

“Sebastian.”

He turns to his other side. The repetition only confirms his fearful suspicion that he’s been seen. Not that he cares much that the spell is waning now.

“That I am,” he mutters, “Can you see me?”

“Yes, I can,” The voice continues, “I see everything in this circus of mine. There’s nowhere to hide that I cannot find.”

Sebastian breathes a heavy sigh of relief. The spell isn’t waning after all. Sebastian turns to the source of the voice and finds Sunshine, clearly visible in the darkness, standing much too close to his side.

“Oh, good, I’ve been looking for you,” Sebastian smiles, “If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Nothing’s the matter, do tell me what’s wrong. Take up your arms and I’ll help you along.”

“Peony got hurt on the stage. Her arm’s bleeding real bad.”

The mention of blood throws Sunshine in a frenzy. Of course, he dares not to show it to Sebastian, but the thoughts ravage his mind like hungry sharks.

“Bleeding, you say? And on the first show? My, what a terrible thing to go!”

“Yeah. Do you have any bandages or anything? I know how to patch her arm up, but I don’t have anything on me to do it right now.”

“You know magic, do you? You should heal her yourself if that’s true.”

“I’m not the best with healing spells. I can’t get my mind off of blood when I see it.”

“I know the feeling and it’s rather a bother. I’ll follow you back if it’ll keep you from pother.”

“Thank you, Sunshine, she’s right over here.”

…

“The fox looked at the turkey’s arm and thought of a cunning plan,” Ikimono continues, “After all, what easier a meal could one get than a wounded, defenseless turkey?”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Ikimono imagines the fox walking circles around the turkey, grinning with sharp teeth that gleam in the scarce light. The orange or the fox’s fur almost make it blend into the fallen leaves atop the forest floor.

“‘I will help you,’ said the fox, ‘come, come! You shall be safe in my den. Nothing will find you there. I live in a little cavern down by the river. You can’t see the entrance from the bank. Come, sir turkey, before someone smells your woe!’

“The turkey thanked the fox graciously before following him to the den.”

As they imagine the fox and the turkey walking along the forest, the familiar taste of blood whirls around Ikimono’s mouth like a distant memory. Sometimes they wonder if meat and metal taste the same.

“At last,” They add, now certain the scene has changed to the outside of the fox’s cave, “They arrived at the den of the fox. The turkey thanked the fox again for his charity, and the fox again assured the turkey he was no burden on himself. Then, with not a moment’s hesitation, the turkey leapt into the den.”

…

When Sebastian returns to Peony, he finds her shrunken down in a corner, clutching her arm like a wounded animal. The channels of redness drip from her flesh to the ground below. A light scent of panic fills the air. Sebastian can’t bear to look at her wound. Even though he knows he can’t hurt her, he still worries that thinking too hard about her own misery will put her in even more of it. That’s what must be so hard about healing: once you start thinking of the other person, you can’t help them anymore.

He covers his eyes and tries to imagine fields upon fields of flowers. “Peony? I got bandages for you.”

Peony shifts herself around and looks mournfully at Sebastian. She notices his eyes are covered, but she doesn’t mind. She knows he doesn’t much enjoy the sight of blood. Then, her eyes slowly roll onto the visage of the beast standing behind him.

Again, the decaying monster of blood and moss looms over Sebastian like a nightmare waiting to pounce. The claws of his upper hand drape over Sebastian’s shoulder like beads on a string. Eyes illuminate the darkness around him, and she finds hordes of tiny maggots crawling around his suit and burying into what little remains of his flesh. Something around his throat gleams silver in the light, but she cannot make out what it is.

He stretches out a lower arm to her with a sound that she first thinks to be a drip or a tear. When he opens his hand, the foul stench of rotten wood unfurls into her face. The bandages are clean, but with as musty as his hand is, they might as well be rotten too.

“A bandage to close your little wound,” Sunshine says, his oily tongue clicking against his yellowed teeth, “I can help you dress it if you want me too.”

Peony jerks back against the cloth wall, her heart pounding against her chest. She digs her fingers into the tent, hoping to rip open a hole for her to escape from. When she cannot dig her nails through the heavy fabric, she imagines herself with the teeth of a lion ready to rend meat from bone.

Sunshine walks past Sebastian and reaches out for her again. The stench is overwhelming. Only one coherent sentence is able to crawl across her mind before dashing into the crevices of her brain.

If he touches me, he burns.

At once, Sunshine reaches for her wounded arm and takes it in his needle-sharp hands. For a moment, he remains lucid, but when the blood from her wound rolls over his finger, he recoils in shock. A little hiss rises from his hand, but the bone doesn’t corrode from the liquid. Peony draws her arm away from him and holds it close to her chest.

With her fear to guide her away from her pain, she imagines her arm having never been wounded. She traces her fingers along where her veins and arteries ought to connect, picturing blood running uninterrupted between her hand and elbow. She thinks of her skin and the muscle within it, strong and soft as it ought to be, resting on her arm as it ought to be. Her arm, unhurt, is all she thinks about. With the exception of the small pangs of pain and a slight touch of blood, Peony believes that when she opens her eyes, her arm will be healed. She imagines a pouring of green light from her heart over her arm, repairing the flesh around her bone.

When she opens her eyes, the pain doesn’t return. On her arm is just a small cut oozing little beads of red. She looks up at Sebastian and smiles.

“Oh, you didn’t have to get Mr. Sunshine to come look at me,” she says with a somewhat forced smile. “Look! It’s just a little cut.”

Sebastian uncovers his eyes. When he looks over, he finds Sunshine with a nastily bloodied hand, but Peony with only a minor wound.

“Oh,” Sebastian says. Then, he starts to laugh a little. “For a minute there, I thought your whole arm had been ripped apart.”

“Look at you, getting all worked up again,” She replies, “You worry about me too much. Get me a bandaid, would you please?”

Sebastian reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little pink bandage with a cartoon cat on it. He unsticks the paper from its backing and sticks it over her arm.

“There you go,” he says, “Better?”

“Much better.”

Sunshine stands in utter bewilderment. He looks down at his hand, which is utterly covered in sticky gore, then back at the two friends kneeling down on the ground.

“But,” he stutters, “But her arm was ripped open! I saw it myself! If it wasn’t that bad, why did you ask for my help?”

“I have no idea what you’re on about,” Peony says, “And don’t just say that to him, he’s squeamish!”

“Peony, it’s fine-”

“Blood’s blood to him, leave him alone!”

Sunshine shoots a threatening glare at Peony, then sulks away again into the shadows.

When at last he is out of their sight, he looks down at his blood covered hand and smiles. Even if he’s lost in her eyes, he’s won by walking away with her blood. He raises his hand to his mouth and licks the ooze from his finger. The warm, metallic taste floods his tongue and tugs his cheeks into a smile. He slowly licks the blood from the rest of his hand, savoring every drop. Her life, to him, is sweeter than the finest of honey.

He finishes the blood with the greatest longing in his mind for more. His thoughts are almost manic now, but no predator can resist themselves amid the stench of death. He doesn’t care what he must do to have the heavenly sweetness in his mouth once more, the burning hunger within him has to be satisfied. He would-- no, he must --maim her, kill her, bleed her dry in the name of thirst. A thirst like this may never be quenched, but no matter the risk, all he wants to do is try.

He stands by the edge of the hallway to the alcove, trying to calm his thoughts once more. He assures himself he will have her blood, but only if he keeps his wits about him.

…

“‘My my,’ the turkey said, ‘Your house is terribly dark!’

‘All to keep you safe, my friend Turkey.’

‘It is terribly tight, Fox!’

‘So I may keep you by my side, Turkey.’

‘Nobody will find us here?’”

Ikimono braces for the tightening of the noose. Of all the evenings to be hung by the neck, now is not the evening to be doing it.

“‘Nobody,’ said the fox, ‘Nobody except for me!’”

Ikimono rips their hands across the keyboard as he imagines the fox pouncing upon the turkey. They bang upon the keys, and from the corner of his eye they notice the strings of the puppets thrashing violently upon the bar. Suddenly, the noose begins to tug at their throat, and they find themselves being dragged away from their keyboard. They try to plant their feet firmly on the creaking planks, but the noose only digs deeper and deeper into their throat. They try to pull themselves forward, but a sharp and terrible sensation shoots its way down their chest. Now, for the first time, the wire has caught their windpipe.

They frantically dig around their neck, desperately coughing to try and loosen the wire. They stumble backwards and hit their back against the support of the tent, then tumble to the floor on their stomach. The beams below creak and bow under their weight, and a splatter of rotten red smacks against the wood. Ikimono gasps for breath, but before they can get any amount of air in, the floor gives in below them.

In true showman’s fashion, they dangle in the stage with a grin as though nothing is wrong. They know they haven’t the air in their lungs to give their curtain call, but they don’t have much of a choice in the matter. They give a loud cough, then shout to the crowd below.

“Don’t expect charity from the wicked!”

Luckily for them, the noose pulls them back into the rafters. With a sharp tug, Ikimono rips the cord from their throat and coughs again. They clutch at their throat and try to breathe, but even now the air escapes them. When they finally catch even an enth of a breath, a sudden pain of nausea overwhelms them. They try to breathe again, but something catches in the pit of their esophagus. Weakly, they try to scamper to the edge of the platform, but they only make it part way before they begin to heave. They can’t throw anything up, but dribbles of bile, blood, and spit leak from the corners of their mouth and collect into spatters on the floor. Their mind is focused on their lungs, but their body is more concerned with its stomach.

At last, Ikimono can dry heave no longer. They roll on the floor beside the small puddle of ooze in a hypoxic haze. Their arms twitch and their eyes lull partly shut, but aside from that they cannot move. By the little rattle at the back of their throat, they are indeed breathing, but not enough to wake them from their sorry state. The bile burns in their mouth and nose, but apart from that and the hardwood below them, they feel nothing else. If they didn’t know better, they’d worry they’d die there.

Welcoming whatever death or life awaits on the other side of time, they close their eyes and slip from consciousness.