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Rated: E · Short Story · Occult · #1455618
A story about a young boy who is chosen as a volunteer to a on-stage hypnotism.
Some friend of my father had given him tickets for an on-stage magic show, performed by some famous magician. I would never have gone but some how I forced myself. I hate magic, I hate myself and I even hate life. But still some inner force urged me to overcome my hatred and go for this show.

The magician started with the usual rubbish like taking cards out of air or making coins appear in someone's pockets etc. I was just about to yawn when he cried out:

"And now, for a final event. People always complain that the magician always gets to choose a volunteer who is usually a friend of his, so now I request any one of you to draw the chit on which the ticket number is written and that shall be the chosen volunteer's ticket."

After a lot of commotion and silly jokes finally a ticket was drawn:

"And the lucky ticket number is:216. Wow!! Can I please have the winner on the stage for a little magic."

Oh God!!!

It was my ticket number. I was hoping that no one will notice and I'll get away with it but a girl next to me shouted,"He is the lucky winner",while pointing at me. I wish that I had a knife handy. I was dragged upto the stage by the magician's assistant who seemed more like a bouncer.

Finally the magician blurted out:"Ladies and gentlemen, you are all going to witness a remarkable sight. This young boy here will do whatever I command him to do". I was about to say "In you dreams", but managed to give a weak smile.

The magician took out an expensive pendulum (which if sold will bring more profit than doing magic with it). He began oscillating the pendulum in front of me and saying stuff like:"You eyelids are heavy" or "You must go to sleep".In the beginning I followed the path of the oscillation but later I just stared at one point. Finally I blacked out.

The next thing that I remember is that the magician had been shot in the chest and his blood-stained body lay in front of me. I thought about bending down and inspecting it but I found no purpose in doing so. He could never repay my help so what's the use of helping him.

After 7-8 minutes the crowd which had gathered around the body, took notice of me."He's still in a trance",I heard my mother say. People tried to snap me out of the trance, shrugged me, even hit me; but to no avail. Some time later I was carried outside the hall. I could observe everything but still my mind did not react to anything. I found no purpose in doing so.

I remember lying in a psychatrist's room with my worried parents beside me chatting with the doctor.

"I am really sorry to report that at present no one is in the position to cure your son. I must appologise but the only advice I can give you is that you return home and put him to sleep. I believe that the trance can only be broken by the hypnotist who is now no longer with us. Now the police wants to talk to you about the murder meanwhile I'll do some tests on him".

My parents left the room and the psychatrist began to show me some photos and drawings. He also put on a song on the radio and began to observe my reactions.
It was my favourite song "Butterfly" but still my body or mind showed no reactions because I found no purpose in doing so.

The next important thing that I should mention is that it was night and I was lying in by bedroom, listening to my dad on the phone and my mother sobbing. I took out my dad's pistol from my jacket's pocket and hid it in my wardrobe. My jacket had a huge hole from where the bullet had come out from but still I didn't stich it as I found no purpose. I lay down on the bed to get some sleep with my eyes open.

So was I the one who killed the magician?



Because I found a purpose to do so..........................as I mentioned earlier, I hate living, but that doesn't mean that I love dying.................

So here I am, with the help of some co-incidences, sleeping peacefully in what I believe will become my grave.

© Copyright 2008 Magician.Thanks Angel Army (amanwriter at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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