Gilded Grimoire #04 – Two Face Too Many – Façade

Alright people, I’m back from exams. And I won’t apologize to say sorry that I have not posted for more than a week and that I hope you guys are still reading. I’m not doing that. Anyway, today I’m back doing what I did last six months ago, fiction writing! It just struck me as astonishing that the last time I wrote a fiction for my blog on the 11th November 2004, and that’s like six months ago!

For those who have never read any one of my fiction (which I think includes all of you), here’s a quick intro on what Gilded Grimoire is. It is a series of individual short stories about basically anything but are based on a central one word theme. I’ve started with Vengeance, and then went on to Hopelessness, Resistance and Imperfection. For today, I’ll be tackling Façade.

So there you go folks, enjoy.

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Gilded Grimoire #04 – Two Face Too Many – Façade
A fiction by Seraphim

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And the man just dropped dead.

The former terrorist fell down with a loud thud, followed by a silence of astonishment and occasional gasps. The four friends remained huddled where they were throughout the whole ordeal, too stunned by the spectacle before them. The fifth friend released himself from his attacking stance, staring at his handiwork that was the fallen man and a quick glance at the gun on the floor. It must be one of life’s ironies that the gun was in the hands of the man, a weapon of murder in the hands of the murdered.

The actual surprise to the huddled forms was not the death of the man, but the fact that one of them actually did it. They stared at their fifth friend in doubt, unsure of what to make out of the situation. Moments ago he sat huddled with the rest of them and the next moment he transformed, in looks and being, into that form that saved them all.

The surprise was the face of their fifth friend. It was not his.

30 minutes earlier

The band of five lay seated on the moss-covered floor. All of them were awake now, starving but conscious. The stench of the sewers had long left their thoughts as their worries dismissed that. A masked guard stood over them, a gun in his hand and eyes showing eagerness to put his sidearm to use. Somewhere else behind him, hidden among the shadows, stood his fellow accomplices speaking into a cell phone.

It must have been a day or so since the boys were kidnapped. It was hard to tell under the darkness of the sewers with only a fading light for illumination. As they were walking back the previous night, from the cover of the night came these masked men. The men covered their heads, beaten them and brought them to this forsaken place.

“What exactly are we looking for sir?” asked the man with the cell phone, with it on hands-free mode for his colleagues to hear. With nothing else to do, the boys decided to eavesdrop into the conversation.

“Well, that’s the problem you see,” replied a croaked voice from the cell phone, voicing with frustration and murderous intent. “The boy we’re looking for, he’s rather tricky. For some reason, no one knows how he looks like.”

I’ve always been living my life like this; a normal life by day and a more disturbing one by night. Under the cloak of darkness I would go about with my secret life, the life of a vagabond, unsure of what I’m looking for but always holding on to the hope that my purpose lies somewhere out there.

When I was small, my parents left me because of what I am. The first time it happened, my face initially turned into a blank canvas, waiting for the artist to define it. Then my hair changed, followed by the contours of my face, and then the eyes. My parents stared at me in disbelief, unsure of what to make out of me. Eventually, they decided I was too much of a worry for them. They abandoned me.

Apparently confused, the masked man continued, “So how do we know who’s the real one?” There was a pause, then the croaked voice sounded again, “You’ll have to meet back with me, I have some new information that you’ll have to see that might help. For now, you must know that whoever he is, he is the one with the information we need. And if you really have the real one with you, beware. It is said that he’s rather… dangerous.”

For a moment, the boys stared wide-eyed at each other. Then an awe-struck one spoke, “They’re looking for just one of us? You mean one of us is dangerous?” That statement brought out another silence. “Wait, they’re not even sure we’re who they’re looking for. I mean, they don’t even know how the guy looks like,” came the reply from a calm-faced one. “For all we know, they could have made a mistake.”

“But there’s also a possibility that one of us is just a disguise,” rebutted a more concerned one. “Furthermore, that guy is supposedly dangerous.”

Without hesitation, an optimistic voice came. “Don’t be ridiculous, we’ve known each other for ages. How can any of us be of any danger?”

Since then, I’ve been on the constant search for the place where I would truly fit in, normal, like everyone else. With each place comes a new face for me, afraid of having someone recognize my true self.

Whenever I change my looks, it is as if the whole world changed. My looks are not the only thing that changes; it goes along with my personality, like a role playing scenario. It is amazing how one’s perception utterly differs from one person to another. Each person’s perception is the product of the accumulation of the person’s life experience and opinions, with each person having their own encyclopedia of the world. There is a whole new world through different eyes.

Sometimes, I would wonder if it was right to deceive everyone around me. It is true that seeing is not necessarily believing. But I have come to assure myself that what I do is no different from what everyone else does. Everyone walks around with a mask of their own, showing one side of themselves to some and another side to others. The only difference between me and everyone else is that my masks are more physical.

“How can you be so sure?” came the voice of the fifth, unquestionably doubtful. “Now I don’t even know who to trust. Look, if any of you are who they’re looking for, just own up. For the sake of our safety.”

“Silence!” roared the masked guard. “I’m sick of your ramblings! If you so much as to utter another word, I swear I’ll shoot you where you sit!”

With that last remark, the awe-struck one shook. “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die”, he whispered. In a hushed voice, the concerned one spoke, “Have you ever wondered, what exactly we live for?”

It was apparent to me that with my ability comes a purpose. The problem is, there seems to be no clue as to what that was. As I wandered along the darkened streets a night moons ago, it struck me. If I can’t find my purpose, then maybe I could create one.

Seeming like a doppelganger was a trait that gave me an edge. With it, I have managed to enter the most secured of vaults, the most secret of lairs and the most obvious of places unnoticed. Even the president’s office was not safe from my reach. People wonder what some of the greatest people in the world do, but I have come to note that the most wondrous things are the simplest ones. Like for example, what struck me as wondrous about the president is what he eats.

With excess to virtually everywhere, it was obvious that I have my hands on dangerous information. That is how I go about with my life, trading secret information on the black market. It did not disturb me the intention of the information’s use to the bidder. After all, I can be anyone, the enemy and the ally. But it did strike me as disturbing how I live my life. And to think all that I want is a normal life.

That last question left everyone stumped. Was there a right answer to that question? That thought kept everyone thinking.

“Oi, you there, keep the kids under control. Me and the guys gotta meet up with the boss. He said he has something we might need.” shouted the masked man from beneath the shadows. “Alright, go ahead. These boys ain’t going nowhere.” replied the guard.

The splashing made by their footsteps grew fainter as they left the place where the boys were kept. Though most of the men were leaving, the boys did not seem more assured. It was as if they knew there was an impending doom upon the place.

The tension was to the point of utter intolerance. The guard playfully pointed the gun towards the boys, revealing the barrel of the gun threatening the presence of a bullet through it. When all of them thought that the tension would become more murderous that the gun, the doubtful one stood.

That was when they all knew.

One moment he was just another one of them with paranoia written all over his face, the next moment he was barely recognizable. As he stood, his features started the transformation. From the top of his head, his hair was the first to morph, then his face and then the rest of his body. Standing at his full height, he was a totally different person.

“You,” remarked the guard, unsurprised by the sudden metamorphosis.

“Yes me,” the stranger replied in a calm, casual voice. With flight of feet he moved with blinding speed, reappearing in the blink of an eye behind the captor. A harrowing glare shone in his eyes before he made his next move, apparently signaling the end for the masked guard.

There was no loud bang, no stab in the guts, or the sound of fighting. All the remaining four boys knew was that there was a “crack”, and that it was all over.

And the man just dropped dead.

I knew that I they would find out someday. I knew that it was not possible to keep up a mask forever, but I never intended for them to find out this way. The truth is, it happened, and that I could not change what has been.

As I stared back at the four of them, I knew that I would look back to the times we had and miss them. But now that they knew, I could no longer remain. It would only endanger them further. So I turned to them with a smirk of goodbye, and ran.

Trickster. Liar. Betrayer. Protector.

What will I be next?

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Phew, months of not writing fiction sure made me rusty. But it was fun nonetheless. For those who are confused, note that there are a few POVs (point of views) in the story. And oh, if you have missed it (which is most probable), the whole story is rather symbolic in most aspects of it, that’s why it took some time to write. I would appreciate it if you would take your time to indulge in them.

Then again, you might not.

Me, Professional Hypocrite

God, how did I ever manage to spill all that bullshit? Oh, sorry, I was just thinking out loud. For today, I've finally gotten sick and tired of my usual columns so I'd like to deviate a bit and write about a popular theme: Hypocrisy.


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Me, Professional Hypocrite


"Say to others what you wish to be said to yourself."
- popular old saying by some unknown goddamn person


Let us all just stop doing whatever god-forbidden activity that we are all doing right now and have a moment of enlightenment for a second. Let's think, how many of us here have heard or are guilty of saying "I hate backstabbers, betrayers, liars, bitches/bastards (and their synonyms)"? Yet a closer look would tell us that we belong to the very category that we've mentioned above.

Yes people, this is no exposé, everyone's a hypocrite. Oh shut up and don't say no. You're a hypocrite too, yes you, the one saying you're not. If you hate me for saying this, then congratulations, you've just joined the Hypocrite Club. Strange how we could hate the very qualities that we ourselves possess.

Allow me to give you a personal encounter with a hypocrite (actually all you have to do is just look for someone else). The other day, I went to have a haircut. Now, I'm a paranoid person but nothing scares me more than going to get a haircut, because that is when I really get paranoid. I could kill you before you could even strike me but when I go for a haircut, the paranoia becomes overwhelming as I sit helplessly in that Throne of Doom as another person holds sharp tools (capable of performing the most brutal murder) close to my head. What's more, I have to do it willingly.

Back to the topic. The guy who cuts my hair is kinda interesting. I'm quite familiar with him as I always look for him at the usual place for haircuts. Well that doesn't sound quite right. Anyway, the thing about him is that as he does his stuff with the objects of brutal murder, he has a knack of asking me about my academic life. There's always that pause between snips for him to commence his lectures proper.

In those so called 'lectures', I'd pick up things about how to study better, the methods to score papers, how the education system sucks, same goes for government (stuff that taxi drivers complain about) and things like that amidst my constant nods and grunts every 2 to 3 minutes. The thing that I always wondered was if he knew so much about all those things, why in the world is he still grazing about people's hair? Then he would go on telling me how well his kids are doing etc etc.

During those moments I always had the urge to jump out of that Throne of Doom and give him a lecture. Firstly, he has his facts wrong, like that time when he mixed up Newton with Edison. Secondly, I think he has the impression that I was some dirtbag dropout. Excuse me mister, but I'm studying at some god-forsaken yet so-called prestigious school, hold appointments in everything I am in and probably going to a hell-lot better JC than your cunt-dripping daughter.
Editors note: Whoops, did that turn out too harsh?

Anyway, he's quite an amusing guy.

Go ahead guys, take a moment and relate yourselves to the story above or look for the inner hypocrite in you. Find it and hold on to that thought as you read the following.

With respect to the topic of hypocrites, let me start a new leaf for everyone and blurt out some optimistic lines instead of their pessimistic versions.

"I don't hate backstabbers because I luuuurve them. These people are my friends as we're friends not because of the happpy moments we've shared but the amount of times we've stabbed each other in the back. Heck, I probably had my share of stabbing and getting stabbed too. How could anyone hate these people when everyone's a backstabber too? Backstabbers should be loved, not hated."

"I don't hate liars now as I've realised that liars equate to every human being. My friends lie to me all the time but I do not hate them for it. Instead I appreciate them for being who they are. Heck, I'm a liar too. I lie all the time, to my family, friends, teachers, everyone. Lies make the world go round and we should all embrace it's ironic truth."

There, those are what people should be saying instead of the stupid common cliché lines of hatred that is often heard. Accept yourselves and everyone else for who they really are. Do not turn away from reality.

Come people, from this day forth, we shall address ourselves as Me, Professional Hypocrite. Let the whole world know who we really are.

Until then, let your inner hypocrite out to play.