Page 78 of Gunslinger Girl
“I wanted to take this opportunity to make a little announcement,” he called out, replacing the hat on his head. “On the eve of the New Year, the Theatre Vespertine will hold its next performance.” He paused dramatically. “One that will include a Finale!”
Pity sucked in a breath as the room erupted in ferocious applause.
“Who?” said Luster over the din. “Is he going to say who?”
But Pity already knew. The blood in her veins chilled. “The assassin.”
“Yup,” Scylla confirmed. “Your friend is coming back out to play, Miss Pity.”
“They kept him locked up all this time?” Max’s brow furled with revulsion. “It’s been months! I assumed he was long dead.”
“We all did.” Scylla petted her snake again. “But he’s not, and now we get to have some fun.”
Casimir had never been so silent as when Pity woke on Christmas morning. Like the morning after a hard snow, the quiet enveloped the whole building; even the swish of her slippered feet against the carpet seemed a harsh trespass. She had been the first to abandon the party the evening before, sarcastic booing ushering her out of the Gallery. But she had wanted to wake early. Everyone had agreed to exchange presents after breakfast—or lunch or dinner, whatever ended up being the first meal of the day—but Pity wanted to leave her gifts as her mother had done, outside each person’s door.
She visited each room in turn until only Max’s present was left. Turning the gift over and over in her hands, she considered it, the paintbrushes within clacking against each other. A porter might know where Max’s room was, but she still didn’t. She could wait, but it hardly seemed fair, now that she had delivered the others.
The basement, Max had said. It wasn’t much of a clue. Casimir was huge—it could take her hours to explore its tunnels. But the night he had found her on the stairs, he might have been coming up. Though her memories were hazy, she found the stairwell and descended. When she opened the door at the very bottom, cool air carried the scent of iron and damp stone to her nostrils. Surrounded by drab concrete, she made her way through the bowels of Casimir, searching for anywhere habitable. She found nothing—only utility closets and storage rooms. Once a brown mouse scampered across her path.
As she was ready to give up, she came to a junction of halls. To her left, the passage ended abruptly at a large metal door spotted with rivets. Drippy letters were scrawled across its surface: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PAINTED.
Pity smirked. At least I know I’m in the right place.
She went to deposit the present. The door was ajar, allowing a dim ochre glow to escape. She listened for a moment but heard no movement within.
“Max?” There was no response. She peered closer.
Even in the low light, Pity could see how spectacular the room was. Murals covered every inch of the walls, bleeding onto the floor and up to the ceiling. Mesmerized by the vortex of colors, she took a few steps inside, the door creaking feebly as she pushed it. She couldn’t even begin to pick apart the layers of imagery: spindly trees and bizarre animals mixed in with pure abstract strokes and splatters; a skyline of buildings half covered by a spray of fireworks; a pair of alien eyes looking out from beneath a field of poppy flowers.
As she reached out to touch a bloody sunset, a bell tinkled.
Behind her, on a thick mattress set against the wall, was Max. The only parts of him visible in the mess of blankets were his hair and one hand, hanging limply over the edge of the bed. Beyond the wilted fingers sat a bottle, an inch of liquor left in the bottom.
Pity grimaced. She’d seen Max drink plenty, but there was always a measure of control to his merriment, an easygoing restraint.
This… this was new.
It was a party, she told herself. He let some of his care fall away and he drank too much, that’s all.
But she knew a sad drunk when she saw one.
Suddenly feeling like a trespasser, Pity began to retreat. Her foot caught a jar full of brushes as she did. It overturned, glass and wood clinking against the cement floor.
Max stirred, his head and shoulders emerging from the nest of bedding. “Pity?” Her name came out thick. “What are you… doing here?”
She held out the package. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”
His features pinched with confusion as his gaze moved from her to the gift to the bottle near the bed. “What happened to the rest of that?”
Pity sighed and went to the mattress. She sat down on its edge. “I have a pretty good idea.” She overturned the bottle, letting the remaining liquor trickle out. “I think you’ve had enough of that.”
Max tried to rise, groaned, and fell back onto the bed. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Max… are you okay?”
He blinked at her, eyes fluttering in an effort to stay open. “I’m…” His eyelids gave in and he put his head down. “I’m just tired.”
The words carried a weight she had never heard from him before, as if there were anchors attached to them, dragging Max into some unseen depths. All around, the murals drew closer, condensing the dimly lit room until there was barely enough space for the two of them. Powerlessness bloomed in Pity’s chest. You can’t fight someone else’s demons, she thought, reaching out to pluck a stray bit of tinsel from his hair. You know that. But that kernel of knowledge didn’t bring any relief.
