D2 :: Baptiste Descartes

( B A P T I S T E D E S C A R T E S )


be careful making wishes in the dark
can't be sure when they've hit their mark
besides, in the mean meantime
i'm just dreaming of tearing you apart

Click on. One two three. Click off on. One two three. Click off on off.

The glow of the flashlight bounces through the darkened streets, illuminating brick walls and sidewalk cracks in a series of epileptic flashes. It's the kind of late hour of evening where people don't wander around without a purpose or an important place to go, when only fools and devils tread aimless in the deepening evening. The boy knows exactly which type of traveler he is, making no secret of himself as another precise trio of three second beams burst into the night, broken by a pause before two more follow and a shorter flicker chases after. His is a language of warning that few in this District speak fluently, but might do well to learn before encountering him. In their ignorance, strangers often find the patterned blaze alluring or even hypnotic, curiosity getting the better of them as they chase it into the dark as though attempting to follow the white rabbit into Wonderland.

Come out —

Indeed, it's true that they have found something that will lead them to a long fall and turn their world upside down; this particular devil is always quite honest about that. After all, that's why the light flashes — Long. Long. Long. Pause. Short. Short. Long. Pause. Long. — and repeats its intricate beats like a song of sight. Tonight he is convinced he is practically innocent, simply seeking out a round of amusing conversation to while away a bit of time with. He loathes the aching silence of hours meant for sleeping, when the victims of his social cruelty are tucked into the safety of their beds and cannot distract him from lonelier thoughts he likes to pretend he doesn't have. Life is easier and far more entertaining when he has someone around to deflect his darkness to, no matter the time of day.

Come out —

Even now, his silent request is not something he thinks of as optional. Rather, it is inevitable that innocent moths will be drawn to his hellfire charm, wings stuck between the teeth of his too-wide smiles and not realizing their entrapment until he has already opened his mouth to swallow them whole. It is always effortlessly the same, be it now or during daylight. At his old school across the District, his peers had come to know his predatory habits too well, but recently he has transferred to a new playground — and, oh, there are such fun games to be had now. Just the thought of all the friends he has been given the opportunity to make brings a curling smile to his lips and resets the giddy clicks of his flashlight to a quicker pace. (Twenty bursts of fluctuating light illuminate the street, followed by another set of ten, and a more precise pattern of short-long short-long-short as he reigns himself back in and punctuates it with a final beat of self-satisfaction.)

— wherever you are.

Hatred becomes thinly veiled in the faces of his recurring targets when this boy approaches, preferring to build a solid report with one or two of his favorite punching bag friends, rather than spreading his efforts too far. If boredom or self-loathing nags his conscience, then he'll venture out for a quick and easy fling of social sadism like he does tonight, but otherwise he would rather revel in the patterns of human emotion than the basic Morse code he wields now. There is something so much more satisfying about lulling a person back-and-forth between fear and contentment than simply intimidating them once and walking away. For as much as he is a destructive force in the lives he bullies his way into, he won't abide anyone else encroaching on his designated territory, protecting his precious victims like a dysfunctional mother. If someone is going to be taken advantage of, it should be by him and not by some other petty bastard.

The flashlight clicks back to life, it's beam stuttering almost-aimlessly on and off into the mouths of shadows. Short. Short. Pause. Perhaps it is too late to find anyone who would be lured in by this cursed light show on a night such as this. Raking a hand through the dark swoop of his hair, the usually carefully tended strands are sent awry as he scowls at an itch he cannot scratch. It lives somewhere deep within the hollow cavern of his chest and, in a fit of recent optimism, he had begun to think perhaps this persistent flicker of annoyance had gotten itself lost for good. After all, the devil's luck has been extraordinary lately. With that thought, four determined beams of blinding white scorch the building ahead, sandwiched between two short clicks in a silent scream for the night to bow to his will and offer him at least a hint of what he is looking for. Entertainment. If his father can fall in love with woman who looks nothing like the boy's mother, but who is pretty enough that no widow could possibly be blamed for wanting to hold her in his arms, then this little excursion should be effortless by comparison. Yet, when the air remains empty, he shoots it twice in the shadowed heart for its failure.

Living in a house full of mismatched children, there is something to be said for those who still feel as if they know how to get their own way. Perhaps this is why it's not so surprising that, as a whole, the boy and his siblings seem to be settling into this new living arrangement far more easily than their step-counterparts. The other children were raised in wealth and have grown too accustomed to having things a particular way, more than one of the girls still bristling over the invasion of their home, like territorial tigers. It's charming, really. Even if this little excursion into the night yields nothing, there will be other opportunities for amusement back at the house — where dear sister Fyffe keeps a secret, but not for long, and fingers even less trusting than hers riffle through pockets in search of damning evidence. As if sins like these could be hidden in his coat. No, it's far better to keep that sort of thing right in the palm of ones hand: Twenty-eight clicks, both on and off; long and short. His usual precision takes a lazy turn for the moment, but the message is anything except lost. Rather, a clever mind might key in to a sense of emphasis.

I'm bored.

When the sound of other footsteps finally reverberates through the street, he has to pause to be sure he's hearing things correctly. However, there is no mistake about it; an experienced hunter knows the telltale signs of unlucky prey ensnared in the trap of evening. The crunching of displaced gravel on sidewalk cement echoes again and a single great, arched eyebrow hitches itself up expectantly as the boy glances around. This is an arc of knowing that stretches from him into the surrounding city landscape. The bricks know. The rooftops know. The asphalt knows. Only the fellow teenage boy across the street, peering over at him in curiosity, is devastatingly clueless.

For a moment, time stretches itself thin with waiting and the newcomer is a mere breath away from shrugging and turning on his heel when the inevitable tips into motion. The boy who is a devil raises up his flashlight, as if it were perched on his shoulder like the darker voice of the conscience he questions whether or not he even has, and the light from it destroys the distance between them. It is the kind of beam that ties people together in ways they once believed only physical strings could, but tonight is quickly being stitched into his memory with thread made of deceptively white fur. When the clicking begins — short, short, pause, short, long, long, pause, short, long, pause, long, short, pause, long, dramatic pause — of course this ignorant newcomer cannot look away. Instead he shouts something incoherent like: Hey! What's the big idea?! Already, he is crossing the street to find out, following a scheming rabbit he has mistaken for a human being. Stupid. Mesmerized. Long. Pause. Long. Long. Long. Pause. Only fools who do not know which way is up can fall without ever realizing their feet have left the ground. The hellion simply grins, wider with each step taken in his direction, as the giddy strobe light of his Morse code burns another seven short and seven long flashes into an intricate, intermixed pattern that will not be decrypted tonight. It doesn't matter. Sooner or later, like everyone before him, this victim will get the message.

I want to play.

i'm in the details with the devil
you know the world can't ever get me on my level
i just got to get you out the cage
i'm a young lover's rage
gonna need a spark to ignite
so light 'em up