It is a sight Eli has never before witnessed, yet is one he finds himself surprisingly familiar with. How could he not be? After all, as the silent observer of over 57 individual records, he’s seen many atrocities. He’s seen what pushes a man to betray his friends and family, to commit the act of theft, of murder. He’s been privy to the secrets shared only between a man and his woman, has seen the happiness of countless innocents corrode and collapse due to forces far outside of their control. He’s felt their pain, their anger, their deep rooted desire for change, for a revolt, for a revolution. He’s felt the sensation of taking the life of another, the pain of childbirth, of starvation, of misery. He knows of the sacrifices every single one of them have ever made. He’s felt the weight they carry.

And despite that --

He still unhesitantly sentences them to their death.

For the good of mankind? Out of love? Madness? To feed some sadistic desire for control?

The answers elude Eli, all that he knows is a single truth:

There’s no going back.

He needs to accept such an outcome, not because it is inevitable, but because he desires it. He is the one that has caused such an event, and therefore has no right to feel guilt, remorse, or regret. Such shameful actions will only make the deaths of those he’s engineered meaningless. It is the least he can do, the least he can provide these poor souls worthy of pity. He must remember this truth in the future.

The red strings flail, like some insect being burned alive. They thrash about, snapping at the still air feebly, with no possible way to interfere with the mortal realm. The red strings blossom into flowers of pain, the screams and cries of anguish erupting from the brightest red of the newly formed memories. Eli watches the slaughter from the perspective of the victims, placing himself into their skins, viewing the world through their eyes. In this state of absolute calmness, the boy has found many uses for his skill, uses that are exceedingly obvious in hindsight. He watches as blood gushes from his chest, as his body is cut in half by the tornado of bullets, bullets that are needlessly powerful. He hears the screaming, the blood curdling cries of anguish that ring through the air at a pleasant high C, forming a chorus of the damned and pitiable.

Through eyes not his own Eli occasionally catches glimpse of his still body, an emotionless husk that watches the massacre without the single twitch of an eyebrow or look of regret. Not because he doesn’t want to break down and cry, but rather because he’s incapable of such things. To achieve Tomorrow, he needs to be able to see the strings of yesterday, and to see the strings of Yesterday, he needs to give up the emotions of Today. Eli etches his uncaring face into his find, calmly recording such an expression for later reflection. He understands with absolute certainty that this event will drive him to madness, but it is a necessary kind, a kind of madness that happens to be to the benefit of many.

Like a tide, the sea of people are washed away, swept from life suddenly and without prior notice. They’re mowed down. Ruthlessly. Despite his trauma and disgust, Roy continues his duty, filling Griff’s fanatical followers with bullets. His tears run down his face, flowing from his empty eyes. A necessary action. This will allow Eli to retrieve Audrey’s guitar, after all. This will also make Griff less of a threat, since a major part of his plan requires a sudden and violent burst of turmoil. With this, he’s delayed the madman’s plan. There is a certain amount of inevitability at play, however. Griff will try again. His ambitions are both worthy of admiration and dismay. Such a man can only be stopped by death.

The dismembered corpses fall to the ground, toppling over each other like dominos. They are incapable of fighting back. Besides Roy, with his needlessly efficient weapon, his dumbstruck followers also possess weapons, handguns meant to be used to sever the lives of those that resist. They are unable to flee. The entrances are blocked by the cage-like walls and armed guards. If they can’t fight, and they can’t flee, then the only thing left for them to do is die.

And die they do.

Swiftly, in less than a minute, 57 people are forcibly mowed down. Their entrails, with steam rising due to the cold air, lay scattered across the campsite. The wall of tents and shelters have all been toppled and torn apart, ripped to pieces as the desperate fools attempted to take cover. Their eyes have glazed over, their pupils slowly dilatating as individuals here and there suddenly realize that they’ve died in a burst of clarity. An end beyond swift. Scattered limbs, torn off by the malicious bullets, roast over the fires, coincidentally flying through the air and into the burning barrels, quickly filling the site with the smell of cooked flesh. There’s not merely one or two people among the crowd of spectators that unconsciously lick their lips, a hungry, predatory light glistening in their eyes, eyes that have long lost their humanity.

The sound of clicking breaks the silence.

Roy continues to pull the trigger, unconsciously swaying his arms back and forth, mimicking his motions from moments before. Empty eyes. An expressionless face. Tattered apparel covered in dust and grime. A man with nothing left. Was it really for Tomorrow? His body language says he’s forgotten entirely the reason for his actions. It’s obvious that he’s drowning, not even bothering to reach out for straws, accepting his fate. In the blink of an eye, he’s dead. A bullet through his head. The semiautomatic pistol falls limply to his side as his corpse collapses heavily to the ground with a solid thud. Silence. Not a soul dares to breathe. Though hundreds fill the large campsite, none can find the courage within themselves to take even a single breath of oxygen. They stare. Awestruck, terrified, confused. Their minds fail to comprehend the scene before them. The children don’t even have it in them to cry. Silence. Stillness. A sharpness akin to a knife's edge.

Movement. Like the swaying of dried grass, a body smoothly and lightly turns. Not a step out of place. Not an ounce of worry. Not even the hint of care.

A single man, a boy, really, returns to the place he exited from mere moments before. He disappears briefly from the sight of the petrified crowd, returning an instant later with a black case. He slings it over his back. Tightens the remaining strap. Adjusts his clothes with delicate movements. And walks through the ocean of blood and gore. Carefully. Like a nimble dancer, or a fine gentleman, he easily avoids the dark patches of filth, making sure not to dirty the clothes that have been so earnestly given to him. His expression is light, his eyes exuding an aura of complete indifference. No ounce of shock. No hint of remorse. No emotion, whatsoever, other than a pure, inhuman, monstrous calculating calmness. Not even a smile.

The crowd watches in fear, in horror, as the devil crosses the field of carnage. They would understand, albeit slightly, if the stranger had laughed, or smiled, or expressed any kind of sick pleasure at the sight of his orchestration. They would have appreciated it if he showed even the slightest hint of human empathy. But the boy doesn't. Hollow are his eyes, so hollow must be his insides. They watch him near the entrance, blankly staring at the guards equipped with knives of dull metal and spears of rebar, or empty handguns lacking ammunition. The terrified men throw themselves from his path. Just as they think they’re about to be rid of the incarnation of nightmares, the creature stops, and looks down.

Eli glances at his feet, a familiar face reflected within his glassy black eyes. Such a face is, at present, twisted into an expression of pain and malice. His hand is tightly wrapped around the poorly made handle of a knife, a rusted piece of steel with a thin fabric wrapping. The boy stares at the stranger that can’t be called a stranger, his name automatically formulating in his mind. He watches as the squirming red strings grow still, until they eventually fade away into nothingness. Such a scene is happening around him simultaneously, the bright red lines of life twisting and fading away into nothingness, like smoke in the wind.

So it's confirmed then? This what happens after death? You’re erased from history? Why is it that I still remember them? What does this mean exactly? Is this why the entire street isn’t filled with strings, despite the city being centuries old? The stray thoughts leisurely swim around his mind, completely unconcerned with the atrocity he’s knowingly orchestrated. The dead man’s tattered body fills his vision. The torn clothes. The oozing flesh. The blank eyes without life or light.

The red world of strings gradually fades away, disappearing faster and faster. Before his emotions return, before he breaks down and falls into insanity, Eli reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a small metal lighter. He slowly bends over, picks up the stiffening hands, the cold hands that have already lost most of their heat, and passes the object to him. Then, without looking back, he walks away, steps gradually becoming disorderly. His youthful voice whispers to the corpse in a mixed tone of ridicule and grief.

“You forgot this.”