The Magician | Zhifei Qin (9)

The Magician

After my performance, a little girl with a little plaid dress came backstage.

She shook her tiny hands with me, 

said that she wanted to be someone like me when she grew up.

Someone that could perform sparkling illusions, tirelessly and effortlessly-

the bouquet that spring from the empty hat, the bunny-rabbit that jumped out behind me,

bouncing towards the cheering crowd. 

I patted her on the back and sent her away to her parents.

She’s too young to understand the fact that

with all unprecedented talent,

comes consequences. The consequences that I had put onto myself,

with the catalyst being my own determination and gluttony.

It was spring, a rainy day where the only thing you could hear were the raindrops splattering.

I had just finished one of my first performances, 

a one-man show that practically nobody came to. Sitting in the backstage dressing room,

I wondered:

Did I do enough by putting up all those posters? Those advertisements?

Were the tricks that I did boring to watch? How am I supposed to pay my rent?

Thoroughly engulfed in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice the first time he tapped on my shoulder.

He cleared his throat to get my attention - 

and I sprang up from the tattered chair. 

Before me was a man like no other;

a menacing dark cloak, 

walking cane in one hand, gold pocket watch in the other,

paper-white skin,

and a chiseled face carved out of stone. 

Speechless, I stared at him with upmost astonishment,

and he spoke,

“Your performance was truly something special.

Do you care, perhaps, 

to make a deal, an exchange of sorts? I am currently scouting

true talent hidden from the public’s eye.”

I signed a paper agreement 

that he promised would give me the abilities to become the best magician there ever was

Something that would help me create illusions above human comprehension

Something truly wonderful

something thoroughly inspiring

I signed it without reading the terms

the conditions that I would be bound by 

for the rest of my life

by the way

what’s your name?

i said

lucifer

he said

now i stumble through every performance

everything i do isn’t what i truly want to do

instead of wondering what i was going to become -

how will i ever live a life that i want

i wonder 

instead

what is real

…

and what is an illusion?

that little girl in the little plaid dress

that put her little hands in mine 

is she even real?

am i real?

am i an illusion myself?

The Devil’s client sits in a hospital room,

hands buried in his face,

agony ever so obvious.

The Devil watches as the man shreds himself to pieces,

tiny shards of his forgotten voracity, 

polyphagia piercing the fragile bubble of sanity.

How easily fooled humans can be,

thought the Devil,

as he clutches a limp plaid dress.