Chapter 8: Repetitions
The Man in White didn’t know where they were headed. It was a compulsion moving him forward. They left the littered streets, they left the town, they just left. He did not know her purpose, he did not know his own, but the connection he felt was like he had found his own soul. What is it that keeps us moving? Why don’t we fall apart? Is it just the way we are, or are we only attempting to hide our scars? Which world do we believe in? Do we believe in what we were told to believe, or do we follow the answers to our world just as blindly?
We have a tendency to repeat ourselves, be it for emphasis or out of our own foolishness, no one knows when it will destroy us, but the Lady in Red knows with certainty that it one day will. Certainty? She forgot that now this word no longer exists, not for her, not for anyone. It was a trick, a hoax, and it took an illusion to teach her that. She was now in the same forest again. She could only wait as the hands of time came back to repeat the never-changing cycle, the hands of time that were wrapped around her thin wrists.
She stopped, he stopped. Now it was not petals but leaves that fell from the sky. But then again, what’s the difference? The ticking still hadn’t stopped for the Man in White, but he felt that it soon would. The Lady in Red felt lucky that the Man in White had yet not asked her another question, for if he did, she knew that she wouldn’t have the answers.