Blot

He opened the writing-book, turned some pages and sighed: it was still here. At the very end of the line of carefully drawn letters, at the very bottom of the page – big, ugly and black. A blot. He has never rewritten a single page of his book, and now the necessity of it seemed at least something unpleasant and unusual. The sound of a ring – of the third already – forced him to put the writing aside and to leave the make-up room.
She was standing in the wings. As before. As ever. Even despite the fact he was the only actor here, the performances of The Theatre of Shadows and Illusions would be the most popular in the town and today the house was also full. He never acted, never sang, never played any musical instrument; his performances could be conditionally considered as tricks: the Butterfly Show.
Light movements, slow charming speech – and incredibly beautiful, docile butterflies produced a great effect on the public. They were obviously calculated for it. He always reminded her of a romantic hero: handsome, smart, mysterious, with perfect manners, but…not of a living man.
She was waiting – an unnoticeable girl with ink-black hair – with a revolver under her smart black dress, in the remaining time trying to convince herself of the falsity of what she knew for sure: of this good-looking young man on the stage whom she met a few months ago and whose apprentice she wanted to become, being a serial murderer. The murderer of her mother.
A ring again – this time for an entr’acte.
The applause was still heard when he returned to the make-up room, hesitated a little and entered.
She was already there, standing at his writing-table, now going to glance at his book. He started and snatched it away.
– Ma cheri? Want to talk in private? – he smiled and threw Aki down from the armchair and slowly sank into it. The blue cat with brown paws spat, but then jumped onto his master’s lap and slumbered again.
She was not able to listen to his voice any more. All this should have been finished by now.
– Stop this, Master. All your tricks are of no effect now. She tried not to look at him. – I read your diary. I know it was you. Everyone knows! It is you who is guilty of all these deaths! But why?! What was their crime?!
It didn’t take him much time to answer. He said calmly.
– They were worse than me.
Not expecting such an answer, for a moment she was taken aback.
– Were they criminals? But my mother wasn’t!
He stroked the cat.
– They were never sent to prison, never appeared in court. Generally speaking, they committed nothing that can be considered a crime. Lawsuits are not brought against such deeds. But, nevertheless, the dirt on them must be cleansed.
– No better than an animal…
– Ma cheri, – he frowned, – you have a rather unpleasant way of speaking without any logic when you are nervous. You should have practice –
– Stop it! You’re stark mad! You’ll soon be convicted and executed!
He sighed and stood up. She reflexively jumped off and bumped herself against a cheval-glass, that was covered before. Now the cover fell to the floor. The girl stood motionless: the same small room with the same fireplace, antique furniture and lots of books reflected in the mirror – all was the same, except one thing: no human. No reflection of hers.
He tore the page and in annoyance threw it into the fire.
The room slowly vanished. The last thing she saw in the mirror was a blue plush toy-cat with brown paws, laying in the armchair. The last thing – the last thing before vanishing herself.
– Just a blot…

“Should have rewritten it earlier” – he grumbled and opened a clear page, looking at an ink-black butterfly. The latest in his collection.