It’s bizarre, there’s not an ear that’s missed it and here I am, discussing it like it were some mild excursion of little importance. If I’m being honest, it all feels blurry, like a sweet dream I can only remember the sensation of. Yet here I sit, able to recite the whole night as if it were a play I kept in some dark corner of my mind. If only one could escape the disgusted remarks of those who know not what they are saying, nor who they are speaking to. Do I regret it? No. Do I wish I could go back? No. But I take no pride in what I have done. Many people will take the words of an opportunist and mould them into demonic shapes. I am no psychopath, nor would I describe myself as a sadist, for I take no pleasure in what I have done. You must understand that if it wasn’t going to be tonight, they would have chosen someone else as quick as they chose me. It just so happened to land on tonight, it just so happened to be me.

Yes, I waited. Can you blame me? I was not enthusiastic about my agenda, nor was I eager on the thought of missing out on the show. I figured if I was going to commit, I might as well give him a pleasant time. I remember where I sat, just below the exit doors, row 54, dark and isolated. No one in their right mind would pay for those seats. Some could say I wasn’t in my right mind. Just below the exit doors, row 54, dark and isolated, but positioned where the wall curves. I could hear every whisper from every corner of that hall, all blissfully unaware of the erupting cheer of horror they’d be making. I tried to steer away from that thought.

And when the choir came on, oh it was like the world had stopped to listen for a while. Never had I imagined that the human brain could be tickled so well by voices singing at the same time. Where the wall curved, it felt like they were all around me, all singing to me, for me. This was my moment, and the world had stopped for me so that I could bathe in the thunderous tremor of purpose ringing in my ears, followed by the deafening applause like a million whips, announcing the interval.

My legs moved without needing the word of my rattling brain. It’s strange. My brain was apart from my body, lagging behind like a limping dog. There was no man inside my head at that time, only the blankness of duty and purpose. I trudged like a zombie, past the bars and newspaper stands. My legs moved to the iron steps leading up. They moved across the railing and stopped just above the lights. Then they let the lungs breathe and the mind to catch up and place itself back inside the brain. A part of me was still sitting in that dark seat, embraced by the voices of purpose. When people started flooding back into their seats, well, it was like a switch had been flicked. I knew what I had to do. The choir started singing again around quarter to eleven, and my eyes scanned the rows and rows of people. I was a hawk, watching from above at the lambs below me. I can still hear the wind that was wailing outside, almost drowning the sound of the voices.

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Then I saw him. Enveloped in a navy blue suit, collar tight enough to choke. Sticking out like a sore thumb, he smiled at the stage. The sharp glint of light from his silver teeth pierced my eye, leaving a dark cloud blocking my vision. I opened my duffle bag. Luckily, he was not near any children. I prepared myself. Luckily he had chosen a seat further from the others. And I waited. I was omniscient, a God. For all I knew, every one of my subjects below me was now at the mercy of my omnipotent hand. Lucky them that my eye was focused on none but one.

I’d like to say all went quiet but it was quite the contrary. Once again I felt the sonorous cacophony of urging voices, young and old. They were my audience. I was their God.

Like a switch in my head, my consciousness was no longer apart from my body. I knew full well what had happened. Then my tribute was accompanied by screams. Screams echoing the bang that had sounded. Screams that pulled me from my ethereal trance and caused my legs to start running. And I ran, not once looking back at the red flower I had so crudely painted. No more music to please my ears, no applause to herald my wrongdoings, just the steady pulses of my rotten heart in my ears.

And they screamed, and I ran, and they cried, and I ran, and they raced, and I ran, and ran, and ran.

And they never even chased me.

So there. The whole story, recited as if it were a play I kept in some dark corner of my mind. Told over cold coffee and dry cake. Yes, I have received my payment. Yes, they still wonder who that tortured artist that painted the red flower was. They say it’s for good reason, that I’m saving the future of our children. Go ahead. Tell me my heart is as cold as this coffee I so nonchalantly drink, and that my eyes are as dry as this cake I’ve half eaten. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps all of you are right. Perhaps I really am just a twisted sadist who so providentially found himself in this position. But cold coffee is still drunk, and dry cake is still eaten. No matter how bitter, how repulsive some may find it, its purpose is still clear.

And only those who understand that information can bear to swallow it.