“The circus has just begun.”

The recording room on its own wasn’t so different from the other times Anon entered it. The walls, the tall ceiling, the laminate flooring, the cables spread on it like snakes, discarded guitars and basses near a wall, a window into the mixing room, a monstrous drumkit – all of it was seen before, and not once. But it was not the surroundings that made Anon feel some kind of rigor (no, not rigor exactly – something cold, sending shivers, not due to the flu however, but due to unknown primordial fears). It’s who is currently in the room with him.

In the recording room, illuminated by bright and silent luminescent lamps, were two people. One, a dino male, was standing around the middle of the room, with a guitar, plugged and turned on, hanging from his shoulders; he was in a jacket and a t-shirt with some strange thin logo; he also had dreads. The other was standing right beside him, with nothing in her hands; it was a dino lady with messy hair, a military reminiscent jacket, and a diamond-colored stoned eye look.

As they noticed Anon, standing there, stupefied, unable to move or at least comprehend everything around him, their little talk turned to silence. The dino lady gave Anon a slight, non-hostile smile as if he was her long-forgotten friend.

— Hello, Anon, – she said, calmly.

The fact that she knows him, without him knowing her, made everything for Anon worse. Everything inside his mind was twisting incoherently. He didn’t know what to feel: fear, anger, or confusion; and this venomous mix, dancing on his neurons, was just going faster and worse with every second he remained silent. He knows that he needs to say something to slow the confusing dance down, but he just doesn’t know what to say.

His dumb face of shock made the dino lady snicker.

— I think we got him for good now, Derek, – she said to his partner.

— Fo’ sho’, Reeve, – Derek replied.

Derek took off the guitar and settled it with everyone. As he put it down, he turned his head to Anon and, returning, locked his gaze on him. Now Anon has to feel two pairs of unknown and somewhat maliceful gazes on his skin; paired up with total confusion, it just turned everything worse. Anon could feel the control of his thought process slipping unnoticeably, he could feel his mind going numb from all this shock.

— So, how’s the band doin’, Anon? – Derek replied, smiling like a toxic friend.

Anon understands that he needs to reply; he also understands that whoever these people are, they do not belong here, nor do they deserve to know how “Tenant” does. It is just out of their reach , he thinks. Derek was keeping his smile for quite a while, for a minute or so, until eventually losing it and, tossing his gaze aside, mumbled out of calmness, induced with spite:

— Okay… Keep your secrets… 

Only now, when Derek was thinking about something else, and Reeve, standing beside him, was also in some light contemplation, Anon found the courage to ask a proper question:

— Who are you people? 

That made Derek look: firstly at the edge of his eyes, then turning to him face to face. He wasn't smiling anymore, and something told Anon that Derek was closer to crossing the anger line than they thought he was. Curled fists in the pockets, a stern scowl, tipping the end of his toe onto the laminate flooring – all that told Anon everything would end unlikely good for both of them. The only stopping matter was Reeve, who, sadly, was also nearing the edge of a line, but that line was not about anger – it was about being involved in this ordeal in the first place. 

— Well, I'm Derek, – Derek said and put his hand to his chest, then turned to Reeve with his body, keeping his eyesight at Anon, – that's Reeve. Why do you care all of a sudden?

— How did you two get inside? – Anon asked. – The door was locked, and the keys…

That made Derek look aside. And that made Anon scowl a bit.

— We borrowed them for this. You see…

Derek tried to begin explaining, but Anon noticed his hand movements and the slight changes in expression, and cut him short, slicing air with his hand and keeping his stern gaze at him. Derek stopped, his mouth open, but no words getting out, then quickly shut it.

— You two don't belong here. Get out, now, – Anon said sternly.

That surprised both Derek and Reeve. Derek looked aside once more, this time letting Reeve contribute to this verbal fistfight.

— So what? – she said. – We know we don’t. Our studio got fucked, and so were some other bands. One dude gave us a key and an amount of time to finish anything we had in our mind. Why are you stern all of a sudden? Why can't you let others do their shit?

The questions and the thought that Reeve, as Derek, was saying outright lies made Anon’s blood boil. The adrenal glands were at ease and ready to fire away. His face changed slightly, became more and more angry. Whoever these people were, they were standing their ground, which is commemorable, yes, only if it was their ground. And right now they are in “Tenant”’s personal studio, doing things like they are kings of this place. 

— I will not repeat myself. – Anon said, low and slow.

His hand reached behind his back, pulled up the bottom of his jacket, and grabbed onto the pistol; he then pulled it out and picked a cautious stance. His scowling physiognomy was telling both Derek and Reeve that he is a man of his word and that he can and will defend himself against anything. That didn’t surprise Derek whatsoever, more so – made him snicker. Reeve, on the other hand, had a glimpse of fear cross her expression, poorly hidden behind a stoned face.

Derek's hand reached behind his own back and pulled out a Bowie knife. Its edge was shining in the malevolent light, straight into Anon's eyes. He understood pretty quickly that, just like Anon himself, Derek was not willing to give up. But what separated Anon from Derek is that, despite the stern face, Anon doesn't have a maniacal desire to murder any of them, even if it comes to a matter of life and death. Derek, taking in a carnivore stance, blade outwards to Anon, definitely had an intent to accomplish whatever task he had up in his mind.

That made Reeve take a step back from Derek, and this time Anon saw that glimpse of fear and doubt. Now she is not willing to support any side. More than that, anything that goes on right now and what could take place in the following second was not in her plan. She just wants for it to end, and to end with no unnecessary casualty.

— I'll take you bloody if you want, – Derek said, viciously, ready to fight.

— You will hurt no one, – Anon replied, clenching the pistol handle so hard his hand turned white.

Derek only chuckled.

And then it went downhill. It was only a matter of ten seconds, that could've gone everywhere else, but it went in a way Anon liked the most; in fact, everything went like this so confident, Anon, after the fight, was sure that it was all meant to happen like this. It was not a blood-spilling contest, it was just a test of his self-defense, which he had passed against someone's expectations.

Derek, with a primal groan, rushed towards Anon with a blade high in the sky. Before he could act, Anon pushed him back, additionally landing a kick into Derek's guts. That, indeed, worked, but only slightly, as Derek dashed back onto Anon. At this moment, Anon stepped aside, to the left. Derek punctured the air with his Bowie knife, revealing his weakness. Anon tucked him into his side, then, as Derek fell onto the ground, got a hold of his hand, that held the vicious blade. With a carnivore scowl, Derek tried to push it, but Anon was stronger than him. He tried to punch Anon’s guts, hoping that this would leave him weak and open for a final attack, but Anon quickly blocked his punch and a moment later returned it to his face. Unable to fight back, Derek still tried to raise his hand with a blade, but Anon kept on beating him in the face with his pistol, until, while Derek was already bleeding out of his nose, he landed a final punch, that made Derek lose a bit of his consciousness.

His hand released the Bowie knife, and Anon was quick to pick the weapon up. Reeve was still nearby, and a singular thought that she could pick up the knife and finish the task for Derek made him act. What he didn't know was that Reeve was not only unable to attack Anon – she was unable to move or even to speak. In her eyes, everything went wrong, as if she was lied to, lied so hard that it crushed her morale. She was standing, afraid of Anon and the possibility that he would attack her now, and she wouldn't fight back, because of her stupor and, somehow, the fact that she deserved it. She could only hope that this wouldn't happen, that Anon would be satisfied with apprehending Derek.

Anon stood up and hid his gun. He was glad that nothing serious happened, that he didn't have to use his gun. He was also really glad that he didn't suffer any injuries, which meant that he passed this wicked test with ease. He felt victorious, he felt that he won the battle for the glory and peace of his band and that he stood up for his and his friend's reputation. In his childish eyes, he could've been portrayed as a hero of a contemporary epos.

But, looking down at Derek, suffering from immense, unseen, and unfelt before, pain, his glory and victoriousness quickly disappeared. He wasn't afraid, nor smiling viciously – he was calm, but in a fragile way, like a last dam before the flood of a mental breakdown. He never thought that he could fight back, moreover – fight back so violently, hurting the opponent more than the opponent himself wanted to hurt Anon. In some way, he was proud of himself, yes, but this pride was small and barely noticeable in the background of this fragile calmness.

He looked at Reeve, pleadingly, saying with his eyes: “Please, go, before anything turns for the worse.” Reeve, as if understanding what he was saying with his gaze, rushed towards Derek, sat down on her knee for a second, to visually check out his beaten face, then got him up and carried him out of the studio. And now, the only evidence of this fight taking place was a little pool of Derek's blood on the floor.

And now Anon was alone in the studio. His hand was hurting, and he felt a sharp piece of metal behind his back, near the gun. As much as he wants to think that he acted right, under the guidance of need to protect his friends and their reputation, he can't seem to just finish this thought. And not only this thought – it felt like he can't finish any at all. As if every single time he began thinking about anything, it all just crumbled, fell apart like sand through his callous hands, worn with time and constant guitar strumming.

He never really experienced this feeling of everything just falling apart in his hands. Only once he had experienced a mental downfall – it was this fatal day of his troublesome past. But unlike that past, it wasn't caused by a major thing – just by him beating someone's face until it bled. And that was separating those two moments, making them incomparable. He doesn't know for how long this will last (as he doesn't remember how long his previous downfall lasted), and he can only hope that it'll come and go like nothing.

But still, the thought must be finished, no matter what. How will his friends perceive this situation? How will they perceive his actions? And, most importantly, does he feel like he did the right thing? 

 

***

 

Days passed uneventfully. The clock's legs were moving constantly, unnoticed by the dumbened Anon's eye. The sun was moving back and forth between the edges of the horizon, changing the color of the sky from black to dim blue, to clear baby blue, to dim cosmos purple, and then back to black. The city was living in its own rhythm, in its own perpetual motion, opening fully at nine AM and closing nearly at eleven PM. 

Safe to say, Anon was just existing, as he rarely went outside (aside from, of course, the uni, but even then it can't be considered living, as he just breezed through the days on autopilot). Everything in his established life gave a slight crack – unnoticeable to the naked eye, but ever so painful to feel. He can't understand why what he did gnaw at him so much, but he knows for sure that this won't go away so easily. Of course, not like forgetting his past to move on with a new life at a new pace was easy. The only paradox was that forgetting the past was a required herculean labor, while that meeting in the studio happened at random. It could've happened any day, but it happened exactly when it did, and that maybe was the reason (or at least one of them) why that microcrack on the window of his soul felt so painful.

So much so that he barely even moved when he returned home. This little vegetative state was already known to him: he just lies on his bed, counting the hours and the minutes, until “today” will become “yesterday”, and the alleged “tomorrow” will become “today”. This minuscule version of existence, where consciousness turns into a grain of malt, and no thoughts enter or leave his head, feeling like it is filled with something soft and soundproof.

He existed like this for a good while, maybe a week, until he got some strength and courage to stand up from his bed, dressed into his usual clothes, and left his apartment. Today was a sunny day, with no hint of bad weather coming in any time soon. He also felt light inside his body, it was easy for him to control his actions, which had become light and swift too. All and all, everything seemed to come along for now, so that he would finally step out.

The only thing that didn't disappear after those days of existing in a dreamless state of mind was the feeling of his head being stuffed to the brim with cotton. No matter how hard he pushed himself to think, this stiffness inside his head didn't allow for the dots to connect, for the pieces to unite into a single full-fledged thought. The only thing he could do is to hope that walking around on the streets would free up his mind.

So, dressed as usual, with an empty, yet tense mind, and nothing else to do, Anon leaves his apartment into the lit streets. Life, as he noticed in the window, was flourishing as usual, without his consent or order. It moved in its unpredictable passion, from side to side like in a vulgar dance, displaying all the casual romance to everyone who dares to step onto the dancefloor of routine activities. Anon, thinking about this, concluded that he does not belong to this dancefloor, to the people, and to the vibe the coastal town life gives, but he still dances – alone, for himself, hoping someone would notice. Good thing it’s a temporary feeling.

Anon was hauling, moving so slow even some grannies were faster. There were a multitude of reasons for this to be like it is: an absence of goal, a desire to spend as much time outside, in constant travel, as possible, and a wish that this blast of cold wind would finally tear the cotton gauze on his mind in two, allowing for him to properly think and do things without using the last bits of volition there was left.

With this, an hour or so later, he came across a diner with a huge open parking lot. The diner itself looked quite lively, which cannot be said about the empty concrete field, where only a handful of cars were sharing this gigantic space. Looking at this openness, this little land of actual freedom, Anon couldn’t feel anything but a strange desire to know why it was made so big. Maybe the construction site workers were forced to make it this big, despite them all knowing that no day would fill it to the brim? Or maybe they just wanted to let anyone have this empty parking lot as their little archipelago of personal sovereignty? Only those construction workers know.

Leaving this unnecessary questioning aside, Anon walked in and out of this parking lot, crossed its length and width a multitude of times, and circled around it like he was actually dancing to the music he heard in his head – so distant, yet so loud and close he wants to reach in and either turn off or break the speaker. He felt this freedom and felt like he was getting drunk from it, maybe due to the cotton stiffness that he had inside his mind for quite a while. Whatever it was, he enjoyed just being in this noticeable strange or outright schizophrenic solitude, he liked dancing around like an idiot for everybody to laugh at, because afterwards he felt refreshed and a bit free from this stiffness.

He entered the diner. It was looking rather new, kept fresh for every customer’s eye to feast on. The people here looked tired, carried away, depressed even; they were too taken by their things for them to care about Anon or the silent dance he did in that giant parking lot. Good for me, Anon thought, as he walked over to the interactive screen. Using it, he ordered himself a bit of this and a bit of that, just for the sake of eating something. After paying, he took the receipt and began waiting.

As he waited, he couldn’t stop hearing the constant noise of the kitchen. All that beeping, something closing and opening on repeat, the hiss of oil, the sounds of paper and cardboard folding in and out; it was its own symphony. A diner symphony , Anon joked, and smiled a bit, hiding his chuckle. But even joking about it, he can’t hide that he likes to listen to it. Again, maybe it is due to some cotton remaining inside his brain, that made him feel tired and empathetic to anything or anyone.

Soon, he saw a dino lady, finishing packing his order. In those few seconds she was standing, neatly and swiftly putting everything inside a branded paper bag, he managed to examine her entirely: her uniform, her gigantic fluffy pink tail (the end of which looked like a pompon), swinging from side to side slowly, her long messy hair, tied with a couple of bands, her caring eyes. She reminded him of someone, but he didn’t know who. Or maybe he’s still delusional, waiting for his order to arrive.

But he can’t deny that he likes her outlook. He likes the way she packs food, the way she looks ever so warmly and softly at her routine work, and the way she sacrifices herself for the benefit of those who don’t even bat an eye on a lady like her. And what’s more important: she doesn’t bat an eye at this at all, she doesn’t care if people don’t notice her beauty, her warming eyes, and her comfortable tail veering like a metronome. She doesn’t even care if somebody would notice that, like Anon did. And that is what made Anon sad a bit, sad, but understanding.

Soon, the lady turned around with Anon’s order in her hand, glided to the counter, and gave the order to Anon. She still was smiling, she kept her smile even after she turned away to continue her myriad of unfinished tasks in the diner kitchen. To not look like a weirdo to other dino people standing around waiting for their orders, Anon walked away, found himself a single lonely seat, and began eating that.

The diner food was not perfect, but it was satiating and, what was important, felt like it was done with actual love and care. Safe to assume gals like that one is the entire population of the kitchen , – Anon thought. This thought made him smile even more, and suddenly he felt clarity inside his head, like someone opened it and finally took out all the cotton. The food tasted different, the smells were different, the diner and that parking lot were looking different – every single thing has changed subtly, collapsing the previous picture entirely.

With the new picture now taking its rightful place in his mind, Anon quickly finished his meal, his cup of coffee, discarded the trash in the nearest bin, and left the diner. He walked through the parking lot with lightness, almost dancing like in a ballet. The only missing part, that divided this reality and the reality of him being a ballet dancer, was the absence of music – and not any music, the kind of music that only can be heard once, that brings out feelings unnoticed by the naked eye. The music is only preferable in this little flight of passion and thoughts.

In this lightness, Anon walked like a free man. He didn’t haul slowly through the streets and alleyways, he didn’t find weird beauty in a distant metal boulder or a tall street lamp, – he just returned to his previous self, the one that was restored after the emotional throes he experienced, the one that could’ve been kept forever if not for his simple one-day-long decision and three-weeks-long move. He is now himself – this simple man of no face, holding seismic resentment against his online opponents and believing that he destroys everyone with his speech.

But what was separating him from the previous version of himself was that he was not oblivious anymore. He didn’t hold any resentment against anyone. He has experienced a downfall worse than an unanswered troll comment. He was a grown man – talented, feeling, thinking, or just living. And he will use his talent, his feelings, his thoughts, and his experience in life – he will use everything of himself, to make sure that neither he nor his friends will experience what he did. He has fucked up once, and if it happens twice… Only higher powers know what is going to happen afterward.

Still, Anon walked on the streets of the coastal city. At any point in his walk, he thought about returning to his apartment, but either a smell, a dropped leaf, or a beautiful silhouette dragged him deeper into the streets, making him forget about returning to Noah Arc and his little home for the time being. And one can’t say that Anon hated it, no: he enjoyed it, as it brought more reasons to stay on the streets, almost the same way as his lightened clean mind. And so he walked towards the smells or the leaves or pursued a beautiful silhouette, that was nothing more than his imagination beautifying the reality.

Soon, he found himself roaming a part a couple of miles away from his home. It was a typical park, put on the gentle slope of the hill, with typical trees, leaves, concrete pathways, benches, and trash bins stuffed with trash and cigarette butts. It was rather empty of people, only a couple of distant figures, and even then they looked like leaving soon, allowing Anon to delve into solitude the size of this park. This little observation made Anon stick around for a bit, waiting until he was all alone for himself and his thoughts.

Ten minutes passed, as Anon walked in and out of the park until the last lady with her newborn child decided to return to their home. Now Anon was entirely alone. Feeling his peaceful loneliness spread around, covering those trees, leaves, and pathways, Anon decided to take a seat and think for a bit, about everything. He looked around, and right beside him spotted a bench, looking rather new and sturdy, with its varnish shining like a dark crystal.

Anon sat down. The cold wind, like a mischievous little child, ran back and forth in front of his face, changing directions almost every moment he thought about it. So did his thoughts, they entered and exited his cranial framework like a workplace or university. Calmness and solitude spread around like crazy, enveloping Anon in a pressurizing, yet benevolent and reassuring hug, as if a phantom was hugging him tightly, unable to be near him.

Suddenly, Anon's phone rang, breaking this enveloping solitude in an instant. He took it out, looked down, and was taken aback – it was Curtis. Something in his guts told him that this call would be serious. Between a choice of not picking up or picking up the call, Anon pressed the green button and placed the phone at his ear:

— Yeah? – Anon said. 

— Anon, are you there? – Curtis asked, in distress.

— Yeah, I am, – Anon said, a bit worried for Curtis. – What happened?

Curtis turned silent. It was just a second, but Anon felt a thousand times more afraid and vulnerable to what he would say. Then, Curtis let out a sigh and said:

— Come to my place, quick. Trent leaked our demos.