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Francis hated this funeral even more than the previous one.
For one, "exhausted" didn't begin to describe how he felt, having stayed awake all night at the fairgrounds in hopes of catching the murderer who killed one of his best friends- and guilt dogged him as he figured that, if he hadn't been watching the wrong suspect the entire time, maybe he could have saved the other. He hadn't had time to get his one good suit washed, and it pained him to show up bedraggled and covered in the sweat and tears of just last night. At least then, less than a full twenty-four hours ago, she had been there to stand beside him and hold his hand, but now he was completely alone.
He hated how many people were there, and how they crowded so densely around the bier where she lay wreathed in flowers, and he hated the bier and the makeup and the dress for displaying her murdered body like a frosted cake in a bakery window, and he hated her parents for arranging the funeral like this, and he hated the guests for sobbing over her like they knew her as well as he did, and he hated himself for thinking she was so, so beautiful.
Her face, drained of color, had been done up to make it seem like she was only asleep, her hair positioned in gentle curls that framed her delicate figure. A bouquet of flowers in her white hands was strategically placed over her abdomen, where Francis knew the stab wound was hidden underneath- the same sort Alan had. People cast sorrowful glances his way, and murmured pitying remarks, but he didn't pay attention to any of them. Why do this? Why his friends?
He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out the ring he meant to propose to her with; yesterday had already seemed like so long ago. Although he had been saving up for it for months, he didn't have any use for it now, and let it drop to the ground. There was nobody else he would have kept it for.
-
Francis paced around his house, willing himself not to sleep. First Alan, now Jane... The murderer would come for him next, he knew. He'd be ready, he determined; he'd make them suffer, for every one of Alan's bright smiles he'd never get to see, for every one of Jane's gentle touches he'd never get to feel. He stood by the window, a kitchen knife repurposed into a weapon in hand, ready to kill, if need be- only to wake up the next morning, slumped on the floor and the knife out of his hand. Night after night he waited, each time more exhausted than the last, but he always woke up in a cold sweat, weakened and aching, his eyes dry from crying so often. People stopped by, but he never answered the door; only paced around wondering when he'd finally be able to rest. When the news came that Dr. Olsen had been found dead, marked with the same wound as his daughter had been, Francis could hardly summon the tears to mourn him.
-
One night, he chanced to look in his mirror, to be greeted by a gaunt, unshaven face, sunken cheeks, and a bulging, haggard stare. They wouldn't want to see me like this, he thought, before grabbing his hat and heading out. It was the first time in nearly a week since the funerals that he'd left home, and the streets seemed longer, colder, more twisted than they ever had been. As he made his way to the fairgrounds, a shred of his old resolve returned to him- perhaps, if he was successful, for the last time. The brightly-painted tents seemed to mock him as they loomed on either side of the street, but he paid them little mind as he approached the one he knew he should have entered long ago.
Francis threw open the flaps, stepping into the tent.
"Caligari!" he called, his voice hoarse. "Come and do to me what you've done to my friends! I'm not afraid of you; just finish what you've started!"
Silence followed, then the faint sound of a match being struck, accompanied by the glow of a lantern. In the light glinted a row of crooked, grinning teeth, and a pair of round glasses overtop two horrendously triumphant eyes.
"I wouldn't have expected you to give up so soon," Caligari said, sweeping into a bow.
Francis clenched his fists, anger burning through his veins.
"Honestly, if you had given it a bit more time, you probably could have figured it out. I'm less impressed with you than I thought I'd be."
"Figured what out?"
"What you were trying to figure out earlier. Why I'm doing this, how I'm doing it, why you and your friends. Don't you still want to know, Francis?" The grin stretched even further. "There's still time, if you'd like."
Francis fumed, knowing his next words were exactly what Caligari wanted him to say.
"I don't care anymore," he said. "I just want to be with my friends."
"Hm. Is that really what you want? Based on the looks of them, one will be forgotten soon enough in time, and the other will have all the riches robbed from her grave."
"You-"
"Oh, don't be so upset. No matter your friends' social standing, within the next few days, both of their pretty faces will become nothing more than corpse-meat and worms' food. Quite a shame about the girl, especially; sweet little thing. You should have heard her scream." He gave a wheezing laugh, pounding his cane on the ground.
"Stop," Francis gasped, feeling tears spring to his eyes. "Just get it over with already."
Caligari only laughed again, prodding at Francis with the cane. "Now, now. You're giving me far too much credit. Why don't you meet who you should really be angry with?"
He led Francis to the cabinet at the far end of the tent. “I’ll skip the spiel. It always did exhaust me.” He smiled, and swung open the doors. Inside, standing upright, was the skeletal, sleeping form of Cesare, which Francis had watched tirelessly the night before Jane had been killed.
“How…” Francis gasped. “But I… I watched him that night; neither of you left your caravan.”
“You did, didn’t you?” Caligari said. “Then I’m glad my amateur dollmaking skills were that convincing. As you may be aware, as a showman, I embellish some details to draw crowds to the exhibition at the fair; you must forgive me for that. You see, my Cesare is not a parlor trick. He is not some amusing entertainment-” he raised his eyebrows- “unless I want him to be. In fact, he’s my patient- or at least, he was, long ago.”
“Patient?”
Caligari doffed his hat. “You have the honor of speaking to the director of the Holstenwall Asylum,” he grinned.
“No,” Francis gasped, shaking his head. “You can’t be- who would put you in charge of a mental institution?”
“You’d be surprised what they let people like myself be in charge of,” he answered. “But we can philosophize another time. It was Cesare who killed both of your friends, while asleep, at my instruction. That is what he really is- my judgment, my contempt, my insatiability.” He ran a hand under Cesare’s chin. “I hunger for him; I crush him beneath my heel as easily as I caress his paper skin, for it’s all the same to me. Don’t you know that when you have hated for so long, and loved for so long, that the burning passion that fuels you is the same force either way? But Cesare cannot hate nor love; I have freed him from such torments.”
Francis found himself unable to look away from the sleeping figure, a million questions racing through his head. Now that he saw him face-to-face, despite the paint slathered over Cesare’s bony features, he could tell they couldn’t be too far apart in age. May he once have had friends, and people who loved him? Had he once felt sorrow, and anger, and the brutal constant pain of unfairness before finally giving up, succumbing to a life trapped between those awful hands?
"Is that what I’m becoming?" he thought.
“Wake!” Caligari suddenly commanded, and Cesare’s face slowly began to twitch, the heavy eyelids rising to reveal an endless haunted gaze that made Francis’ blood run cold. He stepped forward from the box, spindly hands outstretched as he drew a pained, rattling breath.
Francis found he could no longer stand and wait to die. Without wasting a second, he lunged at Cesare, who clawed at him with an icy grip, hissing as Francis threw him to the ground. A sickening crack followed, but Cesare stood as if nothing had happened, head lolled to one side as he approached Francis again. Francis grabbed a board from the ground and swung at him, but missed, and Cesare latched his hands around his neck, digging his sharp fingernails through his skin. Francis attempted to pull his hands away, but felt his vision blur, and his muscles slack. It wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair.
“Snap his neck,” Caligari ordered, and Cesare dug his nails in deeper, ready to follow the order. But as he did, Francis shoved him away as he collapsed, breathing hard. Cesare was thrown off, both of them sprawled beneath the tent. As Francis attempted to stand, he locked eyes with the wretched monster, with splaying, twisted limbs and a trickle of blood beginning to form between the dark lips. There was something different about the unblinking gaze- but what?
“I told you,” Caligari seethed, wrenching Cesare up, “to snap his neck. He came here to die; why are you unable to follow the simplest orders?”
Cesare didn’t answer, but stood there with his head turned downwards. Francis began to creep towards the entrance of the tent, hoping neither would notice him.
“Have I not given you enough?” Caligari demanded. “Am I not everything you could ever desire?”
He shook the limp form, but Cesare was still unresponsive. One of his arms hung at an odd angle. Francis edged out of the tent, stumbling back through the fairgrounds as he rubbed the marks on his throat. Whether Cesare was dead, in shock, or had merely fallen asleep again, he could not tell.