A Hard Descent Towards Evil

"Working hard again today, George?" I asked my pale, middle-aged neighbor after seeing him mutter and whisper alone by himself again.

"Oh god, I'm so sorry, Thomas, I didn't notice you." The man tried his best to pull off his friendliest smile, but he barely succeeded since his wrinkled visage, and those thick dark layers below his eyes are just making him look nothing but sad. "Today is the big day again, after all."

"Oh, that again," I sighed. I took the black garbage bag and hurled it down the large dumpster right next to George's 'home.' "You know, your wife called me today. She was asking about you, especially today, since it's the anniversary of… that."

"Tell her I won't leave here until I burned that place down." He whispered with a growl as his dark, empty pupils moved from one direction to another. "Tell her I'll succeed today." His face beamed with glee as he chews his muddied fingertips.

I lowered my shoulder as I felt every weight in my sink after seeing the state of my friend, my best friend. I ask myself every time, every morning, and every minute that passes, thinking of him: Is this really worth it?

"I'm always here for you, man. Say the word, and I'll take you back to your wife." I sat next to him in the rat-infested cardboard home George relishes in. It's okay; I'm still wearing my black pajamas today, or else I bet it would be tainted by black goo and god knows whatever sort of grease he has around here. "You know, your wife is still not giving up on you, George. She just can't see you being… like this. Especially not here."

"Yeah," He said with bloodshot eyes. "Yeah."

I patted his shoulder; I guess this is another day of him not saying anything, another day of seeing my friend lose his sanity. I've lost hope that I can still bring him back to the world. "You know where I am if you need me."

"Yeah."

I stood up as I looked at George sweat and muttered things all alone in his lonesome once again. Is he getting thinner? I can almost see his bones from his skin. He's getting paler as well, and his stink is worsening every year too. That black coat he's wearing since he first came here in this dark alley has seen better days. In fact, all of his clothes are all worn out, dirty, and it seems like rats are slowly eating all of his clothing, stripping them away from him one piece at a time. Call me insane, call me messed up, but I can't stop myself from perking a smile up when I see him like this, a gentle one. The funny thing about this is that he probably won't realize it no matter how unsubtle my smile would be because his head has nothing in it but his little world.

As I walked away from him, George, for the very first time in a long while, grabbed my hands and pulled me towards him. As he sat beside the dumpster, enveloped by the shadows of the buildings around him with his feet folded around his right hand, he gripped me with his other hand, trying to pull me towards him with the strength of a toddler.

"I promise you, Thomas. Today, the Caravan will burn!"

I shuddered. "I don't know what you're thinking, Thomas, but this Caravan you speak of…" I pulled my hand away from his grip. George instantly pulled his hand away, too, hugging his legs tighter than ever. "… Is not real! It's all in your head. You need to let go of her, George, her death is not your fault! This Caravan you speak of is just making you more insane! I swear, George, tomorrow I'll take you to a psychologist whether you like it or not!" I gasped to myself as I realized how I behaved just now. I'm getting too upset about a homeless man to the point of lashing out at him. What am I doing? I don't want to stoop on his level. Besides, I'm a better man now after the Organization helped me out back then. I cannot afford to lose my temper because of this troglodyte.

But George doesn't seem to mind. His frown is even more exaggerated now, revealing all the wrinkled skin on the sides of his mouth and his forehead. His eyes are as wide as it was since the day of his daughter's funeral. His muttering never ceases. He is not in his right mind anymore, and I threw all my frustrations at him like it's nothing.

"I wonder if you even have the sanity left in you to forgive me if I say 'I'm sorry.'" I extended my hand on him, trying to pat his head, seeing as how pathetic he looks right now.

However, the sudden movement of his head took me aback and frightened me enough to push my body two steps backward. His unforgiving eyes and his dauntless expression looks so determined and so darn unsettling that the fear in me felt like it grabbed me away from him, like powerful energy. I cannot explain it; all I know was when he looked at me with the endless darkness in his eyes, all I can feel is dread, and the immediate want to escape. Looking at those hollow eyes makes me feel like I'm falling in the endless pit of darkness that he has spent his time falling into for years.

"The Caravan you speak of is not real, George. It's all in your head!" I said, looking away from him, not because I am disgusted by him. It was mostly because of the constant reminder he gives me everytime I peered through his grease-covered skin. Looking at him is reminding me of how utterly despicable and useless the entirety of my existence has been, but I do not have the intention of stopping.

"The door will appear again here tonight, Thomas. They will see me again in their parties, and their banquets and their filthy rich costumes and their murder, Thomas, I swear to you, tonight they will all burn, Thomas, they will all burn because I will end it all tonight, Thomas, mark my words, and when that happens, tell me again that the Caravan doesn't exist and I'll laugh at you and give you all the heads of all those circus freaks and their wide-open mouth and their filthy rich costumes and today will be the final day they will ever see another beheading because I will be the one taking their heads myself, Thomas, and when that happens I will toss their heads on your bed and show you that, god damn it, the Caravan exists and it moves on and on and on, and today it will appear here again, and I swear to you, oh I promise to the world, today I will end it all!"

"What are you talking about, George?"

"The Caravan moves on, Thomas!" He laughed with his wide grin. Hearing his hysteria makes my head hurt as if his voice is like dynamites in my brain, and seeing his blackened teeth make my stomach churn.

"Please, Thomas…" I said, my voice trembling, my eyes gazing away from him, my hands guarding my sight against looking at him. "Please, stop smiling."

"The Caravan moves on!"

"Stop, George, I…"

"The Caravan moves on!"

"Please, George listens to me, it's…"

"The Caravan moves on!"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

I gasped! What am I doing? I just lashed on him. He clearly needs help, but I lashed on him myself. What am I doing? Perhaps, I need to buy another one of that pill 'he' gave me.

George remained silent for a while. He stood up, his lips crumpled, and his eyebrows were just as bad.

"George I, look, I'm sorry, it's not…"

"The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on! The Caravan moves on!"

He whispered over and over and over again. His facial expression never changes, his saliva dripping out of his mouth as he utters those wretched words in such an abominable fashion.

The man I see right now is no longer the man I once knew. He became someone else.

"The Caravan is not real!"

"THE CARAVAN MOVES ON!"

I heard him shout those words at me as I ran away far from him back to my apartment.

I panted and gasped, grasping my chest, or perhaps it's better to say I'm grabbing my shirt so hard until it's all crumpled up to ease my breathing. Whatever it is that happened there, it sent a powerful evil towards me, making me unable to function properly, let alone speak.

When I opened the door of my apartment, I couldn't feel my skin, I could hear my heartbeat, but I couldn't feel it beat, I could see my surroundings, but for some reason, it's getting blurry every few seconds. I have lost control of my thoughts, and the only thing I could remember is the way my friend screamed his horrid proclamation of war towards this Caravan.

The only thing that ran in my mind in how much I hated myself for not being strong enough to help him out of his descent to insanity. I can't help but think that I am the one who made him like this. I caused this to happen; this is my fault. But why do I not regret anything?

Is this really who I am? Am I ready to accept the depravity of my nature? Will anyone ever accept me if I ever turned into a monster, the evil I knew I always will be.

I leaned my back on my door and let myself fall onto the hard concrete floor. I managed to ease my breath, and to feel myself again; I'm on earth again. I'm back, but I felt like a huge part of me remained outside of this world and never left.

As I let my eyesight toggle back and forth from blurred to normal, I managed to notice a figure of a brown, rectangular-shaped object erected lengthwise in the middle of my living room. I tried focusing my vision and using my finger to scratch my eyelids until I finally realized what the familiar figure was. I was surprised; I felt both excitement and dread.

There was a door standing in the middle of my living room. Nothing else was there to accompany the wooden structure standing with its presence, towering over anything else around it. It is nothing but a simple brown door with ornate designs of a macabre Gothic architectural fashion.

It's a door.

There's a door standing in the middle of my living room, towering over all my belongings.

I clicked my tongue.

"So it's that time of the year again." I stood up and dusted my pants with my hands. I looked around while scratching the back of my head. I then gazed at the picture of a man hanging on the wall of my apartment, a few inches away from my doorway, so I could gaze at the man in the image before leaving the room and before entering. "I guess, we will be seeing each other again. Now, where did I put my costume."