Rain Rain Go Away 07

Herstal stared at Albarino, with the look of a predator who was moments before tearing his prey into pieces. Albarino had seen that expression before in that coyote; during these moments, humans were so similar to irrational animals.

Herstal spoke with a coarse, raspy sound in his voice as he slowly stood up from the pool of blood, stumbling slightly from the numbness of his limbs. A voice drifted out from between his lips, like the breath of the god of death: "Do you feel satisfied now?"

"Wouldn't it be more disappointing to you if I were satisfied so easily? You can think of me as a blind Phineus, forever salivating for the feast I can't get under the sharp claws of the Harpies." Albarino retorted.

"Then let me ask in a different way," Herstal said, almost calmly; that wasn't a tone which sounded sincere when he still held a blood-dripping knife in his hand. "Are you pleased by what I am doing?"

The smile at the corners of Albarino's mouth seemed to widen a bit. He answered, "From a purely sensory standpoint, I do seem to be pleased. But no, Herstal, I want more than that."

"Or maybe, you just like to watch people dance gracefully under your strings, to see them run into dead ends but have no choice but to fight, bathed in blood. At times I suspect that you hold an identical sentiment for Olga Molozer and Officer Hardy – a toying attitude." Herstal pointed out.

Herstal took a step forward into the sticky pool of blood. Then he bent down and picked up the knife Elliot had dropped on the floor earlier. He surveyed the sharp weapon with a harsh expression.

"Are you accusing me of getting my fun by making fun of you?" Albarino let out a laugh, batting his eyelashes in joy, "No. Let me be honest: I wish to touch more of your inner heart – but not the layer of the fitting mask covering your face. I want to see your Dionysian passion."

Herstal mockingly smiled, "So, we're talking about aesthetics now?"

"We have been discussing aesthetics from the beginning. Have you never realized that?" Albarino replied calmly. "You've been hiding under the perfect rational mask for too long. When you're living among crowds, you cannot tell others what you really think, nor can you demand their understanding. Your madness is bound by the rules on the surface, to the point where I've got a glimpse of the cracks beneath your mask. That's why I look forward to when your mask slips off, like the moment just now; when you're situated within a completely reasonless slaughter, this type of ruthlessness makes you more beautiful."

"Madness." Herstal spat out the word with a sneer.

"Or, if you'll allow me, I'd like to change the wording." Albarino said softly. " – 'Divine madness'."

When Olga jumped out of the car, she was pelted by rain.

The rain was already so heavy that she could barely see the road; even during fall in Westland, this kind of weather was quite rare. The temperature was extremely low during the rainstorm, every gust of wind mixed with the rain making people shiver.

She squinted and saw the heavily armed SWAT team jumping out of the car in front of her, guns in hand; Officer Hardy and Mercader were a little behind. Hardy, with one hand above his eyebrow to block the rain that kept falling into his eyes, shouted to Olga, "Is that Albarino's car–?"

Olga looked in the direction where Hardy was pointing: there was a red Chevrolet sports car parked on the side of the road, a very popular and inexpensive model, but Albarino did seem to like it.

The problem was, there was no one in that car.

"So, what are you going to do now?" Albarino asked with interest, "Bart and people from the FBI will be here soon. Are you going to retreat back into your shell of rationality just like that?"

"Officer Hardy would feel overly disturbed on what I have done to Johnny the Killer," Herstal said with a very deliberate tone, although Albarino knew very well that the passionate light in his eyes had not yet faded.

– This wasn't wrong; the body of Elliot Evans on the ground had been stabbed so many times. It was hideous enough that Herstal could be prosecuted for excessive self-defense. As a lawyer, Herstal was obviously well aware of this as well. With his left hand, he reversed the knife so that he was holding the knife backhandedly, and used his other hand to slowly, slowly grasp the blade.

"I guess, if I made those wounds on him while we were fighting wielding blades, that might make more sense – the only unfortunate thing is that I can't look this unscathed." Herstal said, lowering his head. The fingers on his right hand tightened their grip on the blade, then nimbly pulled the blade from his clenched palm – in the next moment, blood started to drip out from between his fingers.

It looked very painful, but Albarino suspected that the adrenaline had temporarily weakened the pain. Herstal's nerves were still extremely tense at the moment: perhaps it was because Albarino himself was still present.

Albarino watched in fascination as he made several similar wounds on other places: on his arm, his shoulder and under his ribs. The one below his ribs was even quite deep, the blood quickly drenching his shirt in a frightening way. Albarino suddenly asked, "You've self-harmed before, right?"

"Clearly, I've survived from it." Herstal nimbly avoided the subject. He used a small, sort of clean corner of his clothing to wipe his fingerprints clean from the blade handle, then he put it carefully back into Elliot's hand to imprint fingerprints once again.

Albarino shrugged, not caring about his evasive answer.

"oh my god this chapter was so difficult to translate if you're not reading this on my wordpress fuck you and go read it on my wordpress"

He watched as Herstal threw the altered knife back into the pool of blood, the place where the knife would have fallen from his hand if Elliot naturally fell down. Then, Albarino kindly reminded him, "You know, there's some difference in the state of wounds made by yourself or by others. Some very experienced forensic pathologists can tell the difference."

"I know." Herstal adjusted the knife and stood up straight – in the process, he couldn't help but sway slightly because of the wound under his ribs – the cold, dark pool inside his eyes wasn't as imposing as before, but that blue color was still burning like a cold flame. "Nevertheless, aren't you exactly that 'very experienced forensic pathologist'?"

Albarino was slightly stunned, and then abruptly exploded into a burst of laughter.

"Okay, as you wish, Mr. Armalight." Albarino couldn't suppress the grin from the corner of his mouth. But he still sort of realized what would happen next, so he slightly adjusted his stance. "But then what? Have you arranged some kind of plot for this forensic pathologist which I should know about?"

"This forensic pathologist entered the apartment of Johnny the Killer alone," Herstal stated in a low voice, unconsciously licking his blood-stained lips with the tip of his tongue as he paused during his words. "And at this moment, I – as you know, an ordinary person who had never experienced such a scene before – had just used a very horrible method to get away from Johnny the Killer. At this moment I was very frightened, so when another person appeared at the door to the basement, I subconsciously..."

"Attacked him." Albarino finished for him knowingly, with that smile still on the corner of his mouth. "Fight-or-flight response. A very clever reason, Pianist."

In the next second, a lot of things happened – like how Herstal pounced on him like a strong leopard; in the space filled with the smell of blood, they met, collided, and fell over onto the floor full of scarlet liquid, as if they had fallen into a river of blood.

Albarino could swear that he heard the sound of splashing, like a fish jumping out of the water, as the blood slowly soaked through his overcoat. When Herstal was agilely jamming his neck in place, he bent his knee to hit the other's stomach; because of the intentional wound on him, Herstal's voice unsteadily hissed in pain.

– Of course, that blow still didn't stop Herstal stabbing his butterfly knife in his hand into Albarino's shoulder.

The blade of that knife was narrow and sharp; the spot of the injury wasn't fatal and the wound wasn't very deep, but it hurt like hell at that moment. Herstal pinned Albarino in place with that knife, his entire body and his hand against Albarino's neck, just like the metaphorical butterfly they had discussed before.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" Herstal hissed in his ear, his voice cold, "Killing? Madness? Forcing a person into this situation, just for –"

"Id." Albarino gasped in reply, one of his hands grasping onto Herstal's knife-holding hand, removing his fingers one by one from the handle. "The intentionally suppressed nature, the burning soul, wherever your power can reach."

Herstal let go of the knife, then punched him in the face.

The small grunt of pain that spilled from Albarino's throat was worth remembering. Herstal could see the trail of the blood spurting out and slowly falling down; Albarino's teeth must have hit hard onto his lips and broken the skin. How that drop of blood fell into the overflowing pool of blood, stirring up a few drops of rich crimson, was a scene that could be drawn from memory.

Then, they both heard the sound of police officers breaking down the door and entering, disorderly footsteps rushing towards the underground. Herstal released Albarino's neck, and then he was pressed into an embrace by the other's arms.

At that moment he did not intend to resist, so he felt Albarino's lips roughly brushing past his mouth, where they both tasted the heavy scent of blood. When the police finally came rushing in, fully armed, Albarino's uninjured hand had already landed on top of his hair.

"It's alright," the other man picked back up his false facade as chief forensic pathologist of the Westland Forensic Bureau, his voice laced with a vaguely artificial gentleness. "Relax, it's alright now."

Herstal wasn't really alright – in every sense. Firstly, he definitely couldn't actually appear alright, and he hated that fact from the bottom of his heart.

Now he was forced to sit in an ambulance because the wounds apparently weren't serious enough to send him straight to the hospital. Bart Hardy found an umbrella from somewhere he didn't know, and held it while standing at the entrance to the ambulance. The police who came and went more or less threw worried gazes at the pitiful victim, including Officer Hardy himself; he had even saw the bloody scene of murder in that basement just now.

"Uh," Hardy said, his voice hesitant. Apparently, questioning someone he already knew made the whole process a lot more awkward. "Did he – did you – ?"

"Are you asking if Johnny the Killer sexually assaulted me?" Herstal asked, straight to the point. He saw Hardy flinch visibly. "If the subject at hand we're talking about involves a specific form of penetration, I think no."

He didn't bother injecting too much vulnerability, confusion or wandering thoughts into the conversation; they all knew he wasn't that kind of person. Hardy composed himself, then decided to be honest and said, "It's... very unusual. Johnny the Killer isn't someone who has that much patience to restrain himself."

Evidently, as seen from how Herstal's pants were completely destroyed, Elliot Evans was not a patient man. Herstal was now wearing a set of patient clothing from the ambulance, since all his clothes before were taken away by officers into evidence bags carefully. Herstal knew that he might never see them again in his life, but of course, he didn't really want to see them again.

"He's not a very patient man," Herstal agreed, carefully adjusting the ratio of lingering fear and vulnerability mixed together on his face, hoping not to arouse too much suspicion in Hardy, "But I believe I persuaded him."

Hardy looked at him as if he were some kind of rare animal.

Herstal raised the corner of his mouth, revealing a mirthless, bleak smile. "He has anejaculation – my guess is that it's psychogenic anejaculation[1]."

[1]Psychogenic anejaculation: males who cannot ejaculate despite an erection, caused by the mind.

When Elliot rested his hand on Herstal's stomach, he still felt nauseous.

Elliot's fingers trembled, struggling with great difficulty to undo his belt buckle. Herstal stared at the young man's face, catching a glimpse of a completely maddening excitement and a hint of odd worry. He thought about it for a moment, then asked. "Did you do this with the people who were here before?"

The other hesitated for a moment, then replied stammeringly, "Yes, but I didn't... I can't –"

Yes, that's right; there was no semen extracted from those victims' bodies, so on the CSI's side they thought that the perpetrator had worn a condom. However to put it harshly, looking at Elliot's condition now, Herstal really couldn't imagine where he would pull out a condom from. This was a really ironic, comedic realization. Herstal thought about what Elliot's secretive attitude really meant, and then he suddenly realized.

"You can't do it, can you?" He asked.

Elliot's face even looked a little more flushed, "I –"

"That doesn't matter, and besides, it isn't your fault." Herstal said in an artificially soft tone; the other had yet to have the ability to identify the artificialness in his tone. "Be patient, and you will recover."

"... Will I?" The other's voice was very light.

"If your cock's on me, definitely." Herstal whispered. The right amount of suggestiveness, so artificial yet arbitrary. "Considering the time we will spend together in the future, you shouldn't have to worry about how much time it will take; you can take it slow."

Elliot swallowed lightly.

Herstal looked at him and tilted his head slightly, revealing the submissive curve of his neck, something which the tasteless serial killer clearly enjoyed. Then he said slowly, "You can start with what you can do. I think you can start with fucking my legs tonight."

"I feel like Scheherazade at times, doing everything I can just to still see the sun rise the next day." Herstal said hoarsely.

"You've done a very good job." Hardy reassured him, although the hint of shock in his eyes still hadn't completely faded.

"You say so only because everyone else is dead." Herstal pointed out.

At that moment, Hardy made a slightly embarrassed expression, because in fact, Herstal was saying the truth. Although strictly speaking, Elliot Evans' corpse was lying on the floor of the basement now, having clearly died a horrific death, this still didn't count as victory.

"You're going to need help." Hardy said next, "I suggest you go to counseling or a support group or something. Seriously, that would be good for you."

"After I kill someone, then attack Dr. Bacchus?" Herstal scoffed.

"You didn't mean to do that. No one can control themselves in this kind of extreme situation." Hardy said sincerely, "Just... take it easy, okay?"

"Divine madness, also known as theia mania and crazy wisdom, refers to unconventional, outrageous, unexpected, or unpredictable behavior linked to religious or spiritual pursuits. Examples of divine madness can be found in Hellenism, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism, Sufism, and Shamanism. It is usually explained as a manifestation of enlightened behavior by persons who have transcended societal norms, or as a means of spiritual practice or teaching among mendicants and teachers. These behaviors may seem to be symptoms of mental illness to mainstream society, but are a form of religious ecstasy, or deliberate "strategic, purposeful activity,"[1] "by highly self-aware individuals making strategic use of the theme of madness in the construction of their public personas".[2]"

Herstal let out a low grunt, pulling the blankets on himself closer. The wounds on his body ached dully, so that he didn't have to spare much effort to pretend to be pale and frail, using it to hide the bloody truth. Albarino probably was sitting in another ambulance at this moment, letting someone else stitch his wounds shut.

Objectively speaking for Herstal, stabbing the knife into Albarino's shoulder was the best part the day.

– This wasn't over.

The rain had not yet abated. Albarino sat in the ambulance, letting the doctor treat the wound on his shoulder, his exposed skin shivering slightly from the cold. At that moment, Olga ducked into the ambulance wearing a disposable raincoat.

"Are you okay?" Olga asked.

"Yes, I am. Are you going to say 'I told you so' next?" Albarino asked, smiling.

"I really don't want to say that, but I really did tell you so. Didn't I let you wait where you were and wait for us to join you?" Olga snorted.

"The worse outcome you thought of didn't happen," Albarino shrugged. At that moment, the doctor left after finishing bandaging the wound; Albarino hurriedly reached for a blanket to drape over himself.

Olga looked at him derisively. "You were stabbed, and there's a bloody disfigured body lying in the basement. I'm not sure this counts as a good outcome."

"It would be better than Johnny the Killer creating another corpse. Moreover, I don't intend to sue Herstal for personal injury. Under that tense situation everyone would have an error in judgment; my appearance was too sudden," Albarino replied.

He looked in the direction of the other ambulance – separated by the web of lights knitted together by several police vehicles. Herstal was there, but his expression was unreadable. His wounds weren't deep, so they only needed stitching and didn't need to go to the hospital.

Albarino thought for a moment, then asked, "What do you think would be the opinion of the prosecutor's office?"

"I think they most likely wouldn't prosecute him. After all, the perpetrator was holding a knife, and with such a criminal record, if he hadn't fought back he definitely would have died." Olga let out a laugh, blinking in thought. "The prosecutor will take reference to the report you just provided on the extent of injuries. When the wounds are healed they probably will assess his level of disability, although I think it won't even count as a minor injury….. But, the opinion you're providing now would help them trace back what happened in the basement."

Albarino kept smiling: the opinion he gave at the scene would tell someone that Johnny the Killer did indeed want to use that knife to kill Herstal. In this regard, Herstal was good at making the best of what he had.

He should have understood that Albarino did not really want law enforcement officers to be involved in this competition.

Then, Olga suddenly asked once more: "But there's no point in thinking about things that wouldn't happen. Actually, I'm very curious: What did you feel when you arrived at the basement? – I mean, when you saw him bathed in blood?"

Albarino gave her a strange look. "Why would I feel anything? I've looked at too many corpses since I started working in this industry. The terrifying scene in the basement our dear lawyer made in that basement couldn't even be on the list among the worst I've seen."

Olga laughed secretly, her voice lightening a bit, "Because color is a kind of spiritual power. I think red really suits him."

They were silent for a moment, watching the police officers move in and out of the police line. Elliot Evans' body and the remnants of his tragic romance were put into body bags and carried out on stretchers by the police. The red and blue colors of the police lights were reflected in the puddles gathering on the ground, and then were torn to shreds by the rain.

After this rain stopped, Johnny would never go out to play again.

"You're right," A moment later, Albarino said honestly, "Red really suits him."

Author's Notes:

(T/N: please check Wikipedia sources for a more accurate source; the below are translated from chinese to english and as such, are not guaranteed to be completely accurate with the terms used in english.)

1. Phineus:

King Phineus of Thrace had the power of foresight, but then because he kept leaking secrets he angered Zeus. The gods cursed him so that he was in an abandoned island bearing hunger forever, not being able to eat the abundance of food before him. Every time Phineus wanted to eat, Harpies (half-human half-bird creatures) would fly over and steal his food.

2. Dionysian spirit:

In this chapter, it refers to the Dionysian in Nietzsche's philosophy. Nietzsche believed that the Dionysian spirit represented the venting of emotions, principally connected with passion, excessiveness and instability. The Dionysian spirit, in the earlier stages, meant getting a tragic intoxication of fusing with the true self of life of the universe, from personal pain and destruction. Later, it referred to getting a tragic intoxication from the meaninglessness of life.

3. Divine madness (T/N: theia mania)

Here, Plato's philosophical and aesthetic views are involved: Plato believes that there is an intangible world of ideas beyond the material world. The intelligible world is real (and perfect), while the material world is not real, which is a vague reflection of the intelligible world.

Plato believes that the inspiration of artists comes from the state of madness, meaning that when poets see beauty in the material world, they would remember the real beauty in the intelligible world, so their souls leave their body and fly towards heaven, reaching the state of "madness". As such they can create excellent poems, so this madness is due to being attached by the gods.

4. Id: from Freud's famous theory (T/N: id, ego, superego). Id is the instinctual natural desire. When it is used, Id seeks to remove excitement and nervousness and to release energy.

5. Scheherazade: a character in Arabian Nights who was married to a cruel king, who killed a bride everyday. So she told a story to the king every night in order to survive.