I stood there, not knowing where I was.
Hadn’t I just closed my eyes?
Please no chaotic dreams, now that I am finally free from the giant.
As if my body and mind were resisting being here, I stood there, looking at my shoes while crossing my arms in protest.
I was dizzy, seeing everything blurred as hell.
Red.
The sounds also seed strange, and when I finally looked up, I saw that there were a bunch of people before in what seed to be a parking lot.
What the hell... had I gotten into Harry’s body, and he had lost his glasses on the way to a stadium?
No, this felt like my body, but the sounds were as if I were underwater.
I saw people fighting everywhere and slled alcohol and the smoke of cigarettes.
As I tried to leave the parking lot, not wanting to be dragged into the stadium by the people here, I was pushed and shoved there nevertheless.
On the way to the stadium, I nearly fell over a child that was on the ground and seed injured, so I picked him up and carried him.
The kid said sothing in my ear, but I didn’t understand a word.
Just blurriness, strange sounds, and the people who shoved forward to the entrance.
Red.
I ended up in the big hall after entering the massive open doors, but nobody wanted to see tickets as the people went in different directions, as if they knew exactly where they had to go.
I carried the child who was hugging my neck and was again shoved, this ti into a curved corridor to my left. Although the crowd had beco smaller, it was apparently big enough to force us to be dragged along.
On our way to wherever, there was a kicked-over wheelchair in the middle of the long corridor, and the people in front of either stepped around it or jumped over it.
The child held onto as I grabbed the wheelchair and turned it around.
There was even still soone sitting in that chair. What the fuck?
The people behind were crowding against , but I leaned back with all my weight to gather a bit of space.
I placed the child in the arms of the thin guy in the wheelchair, tightening my hold on the handles. After seeing that the blurry man held the child securely, I just moved forward without turning around.
Was I here to gather the frail and sick and take them to the ga?
What the hell is going on here?
Behind , there were screams because we took a second of their ti, and soone kicked in my back; I got punched as well.
Red.
My intuition warned to turn back, so I didn’t do it, and I took whatever little wrath the crowd had, though it seed they were soon over it, as we all moved forward in the curved corridors with strange red carpet and walls.
This seems more like a concert hall than a stadium.
On the walls hung pictures, but it was impossible to make out what they showed.
We moved and moved; I pushed and pushed and was shoved forward, endlessly forward, until I saw daylight falling through a big opening on my right into the suffocating corridor.
Part of the crowd walked through the opening to their seats in the stadium, while the wheelchair guy and child, together with , were pushed past it.
Though I was again shoved forward, I got a glimpse of the massive lawn; clearly, a ga would take place, and going after the blurry lines, it seems to be Arican football.
I also saw the extent of the stadium—thousands of seats. It was massive.
Red.
We continued along the corridor; with each opening, the crowd lessened, and at the end, there weren’t that many people left—though enough to lead us three into an opening, soone even pointing out a row of seats.
The mont I ca into contact with the daylight that seed to stem from an early sumr evening, I squinted my eyes shut, forcing them open again to navigate the wheelchair to the spot for wheelchairs, which was just an empty spot instead of a seat.
Placing the wheelchair there, I plopped on the seat next to it, looking around with crossed arms.
There is so much noise—at least that I can tell.
The lawn down there is really huge; we are high up, and I had no idea if these were good seats or bad ones. I’ve never been the sports guy; playing myself was cool, though not football, but watching was boring. Maybe I should start being a fan so that I could gather another allegedly straight-dude trait to call my own.
There were two Y-goals, or whatever they were called, on each side of the field, so it is really football.
The Wheelchair Guy turned to and said sothing, but I didn’t even look at him because I wouldn’t see or understand him anyway; the child was still hugging him, so he was the perfect choice of babysitter.
The stadium was nearly filled to a third, and the people here weren’t really behaving that well.
Then, out of the blue, the ga started; the Football Guys entered. Nobody sang a hymn, and there were no cheerleaders or anything.
The massive lights shone at the players and at the audience just the sa.
The loudspeaker announced whatever.
Why am I here?
I touched my forehead and found that I had a fever or sothing.
Red.
"TWENTY YARDS!" The sounds cleared up a bit before turning back to underwater-style.
Soone in the row behind us shoved cups into my hands, Wheelchair Guy’s, and even the child’s.
I slled the contents of the cup; it was beer.
I chugged it down, seeing the wheelchair guy and kiddo doing the sa.
Whatever. Can I go back to Henry when the ga is over?
The ga passed, and then the players left the field.
A platform was rowed in, and then it went silent all of a sudden.
It seed that there would be a halfti show.
People with instrunts entered, getting applause from the suddenly well-behaving crowd as they took their seats on the platform, unmovingly waiting for soone, even when there were no more free spots.
For whom are they waiting?
For so maestro?
Then I felt it—trendous pressure, like I had felt from the giant.
My body stood up, the empty beer cup fell on the ground, and I was on my knees, the people around doing the sa. Fuck, I think the whole stadium knelt down.
Red.
I looked up at the sky, nearly thinking I would see the giant bending over and waving at —but luckily that wasn’t the case.
Looking back to the lawn, my vision suddenly cleared.
I saw a man entering with shoulder-length straight black hair, neatly parted in the middle. Black slim-fitted tailcoat, white blouse underneath, with big frilled cuffs that peeked out of the coat, covering his hands; black leather pants and black leather boots.
While going to the platform, he turned his head, and I thought for a mont he was looking at with his pitch-black eyes.
Ah... fuck. I can’t tell how sick I was from constantly seeing my own face on so random fuckers, especially if they are so powerful, but I couldn’t turn away, couldn’t avert this fucked-up individual that brought to my knees.
He turned away again, as if he had just looked in my direction in passing, stepping on the platform to stand in front of the orchestra.
There was a small smile on his lips, and in this deathly silence that was suffocating and, I bet, the rest of the audience, he raised his hands.
When he moved his arms, the frilled cuffs fell back, revealing his long black fingernails.
The music started. The cello was strong, the violin even stronger, emitting nothing but enthrallnt—a lody that was so powerful as if the Maestro was announcing war.
It was, however, unclear if the audience was the enemy he intended to fight or the army that would die for his victory.
I was still kneeling, and so was everyone else as we watched, my body trembling with exhaustion from being controlled.
Red.
I eventually managed to look away and see how the wheelchair guy and child were doing, both also kneeling, the latter in front of the forr, who had his hands on the child’s shoulders as if to provide security.
As I looked at the profile of the wheelchair guy, a cold shiver already ran down my spine.
When he looked at with frightened red eyes, my stomach turned.
The child looked at , his red eyes glowing, soft dark blonde hair sticking up.
I looked to my right; a few seats were empty, and I saw a guy with a few piercings, his red eyes directed at the orchestra, at the maestro.
Horrified, I turned my head back to the row behind , wishing for nothing more than for the blur to co back to or for soone to look different, to be able to look at soone else, when I t the gaze of a middle-aged guy, his red eyes staring at with pity.
Now I wasn’t trembling because of the pressure anymore; my body shook as if I were experiencing a seizure when I turned to the field, seeing one of the teams at the opening on the side. They didn’t wear their helts anymore; their red eyes were directed at the orchestra.
Acid stuck in my throat, the convulsing intensifying, yet the pressure held in place, as I couldn’t move more than to look around, my eyes wandering to the orchestra and then the audience on the other side of the field. Everyone had different ages, different hairstyles, and different clothes, but all were kneeling, all looking at the maestro with their eyes that were so...
Red.
Everywhere was...
Red.
Thousands of n, thousands with approximately the sa height, sa face, sa body, and sa eyes.
Red, red, red, red, red, red, red.
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