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KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)	By : runningnakedinthepark Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Rammstein Views: 2131 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Rammstein. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 17
- 18
- 19
Title: KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)
Author: Robby a.k.a. Mr Naked
Rating: NC17/AU
Pairing: everyone and then some more
Disclaimer: I was smoking some really good stuff when I came up with this.
Betas: Ketene & Hannelore_K

KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)
Part II. The Mark Has Been Made
Chapter 18.

“The others are dead too...”

“What others?”

I was the only person he was allowing to see him like that, Richard was telling me. Christoph - throwing me those accomplice smiles of his. Olli decided to beat them at their own game so he tattooed a target on his chest, while Paul was burning so bad on that table. And Flake, Flake...

Yes, those others! You have to bring yourselves back to life. I know that those are her thoughts in my head.

Her long hair dances like silk tentacles around her body; she moves her hand slowly, and all the waters surrounding us are filled with jellyfish, all glowing and glistening in a myriad of colors, just as the diamonds on her skin and on her skirt. She smiles and she stretches out her arm toward me.

Where do we find that Beast then?

That Beast is everywhere and in everything. It can take many forms and it will, just to deceive the six of you to prevent you from reaching its lair.

And where is that?

But she doesn’t know, she can’t tell me. Meanwhile, the glittering jellyfish form a wall behind her and around us, blinking like millions of neon lights. But she is sending me to the maps cabinet for me to find the path. And she smiles, and with her smile millions of jellyfish get even brighter, blinding me.

How do I get back to life? How do the others get back to life?

You will need the warm, alive blood of one woman. How would we... ? You will know who that one is, you will know it without anyone telling you. There are some things in this world that one just knows.

Her arm rises, the sinuous tentacles of her hair sparkle like black diamonds, as the wall around us lights even brighter, making my eyes hurt.

You will have to eat one of these jellyfish to get back to them.

The wall explodes throwing me further away, and I float along with millions of particles of what looks like diamond dust.

I stretch out my hand and grab one of the cold, mushy bodies.

Shouldn’t I be turning the page, I wonder, as I place the jellyfish in my mouth. But as I try to swallow it I realize I’m choking on it. I should turn the page, I think desperately, as I try to spit the damn thing out, and, in the same time, struggle, swimming. I should reach the surface, I should find a crack through the ice and ...

*

My knees hit the ground. Under my palms I feel long, coldish, almost wet strands of grass. Long slender strings of grass, sharp like swords and taller than me sitting on all fours.

It’s dark here too, but I still can distinguish something due to the dim reddish light that seems to irradiate from the ground, through the grass.

I’m still a bit shaken, so it takes me a couple of minutes until I dare to lift my head and look around, to see where I am. And, as I’m raising my glance, my eyes meet this endless slender silhouette standing motionless right in front of me. A man. Olli!

At first I hesitate, not knowing if it is a statue or he is for real, flesh and blood. His bald head and his face are so pale that they seem almost fluorescent in the bluish darkness surrounding us. Only his eyes, motionless too, but glittery like silky coals, indicate that he’s an alive being. Also, he seems not to have noticed me, the man in front of him, now rising to his feet, scrutinizing him curiously. I don’t know if he intrigues me more by his expressionless face and his motionlessness or by the stuff he is wearing: the long white cape that seems rather like a blanket, while his chest appears to be covered by some sort of armor made of plastic heads - baby dolls – his 19th century outfit and a hay saw in his hand.

“Hey!” I whisper looking straight into the cold flames dancing in his frozen eyes.

Nothing. He remains still like a statue of himself, in that pose with his hand holding the handle of the saw.

And the room we’re in is just as strange – there’s this tall grass growing from its floors, while the walls are painted in blue and covered by all sorts of pictures. Is this the maps cabinet the mermaid was talking about? But I can’t see what they show, in this shadowed place.

I throw the guy another look; he doesn’t move. So I pass by him and get near those walls; those aren’t maps, they are paintings. The bald fellow behind me remains like that as if he is frozen in that position for eternity.

Most of the pictures on the walls are too darkened and aged, and all I can distinguish are some silhouettes of men and women. In some I can see different images of a city, and I figure that it’s the same city with white marble grandiose buildings, while the background is dominated by this gray windowless construction of concrete, surrounded by huge towers like necks holding monstrous mouths opened threateningly toward the skies.

This painting of a man wearing what appears to be a chef’s outfit, while in one hand holds one of those knives used to chop meat makes me almost yelp in horror and step back. I look around, alarmed, but Olli remains motionless. I look again at the painting; it isn’t the pose of the guy, nor the thick black surrounding his eyes and his mouth, not even those strings coming out from the skin around his mouth, as if he would have had his lips sewn shut and now he managed to cut the strings so he could grin fiercely. No, it isn’t even that, it is the fact that I know the guy, I know who he is. I can recognize in his blue eyes my eyes. His facial features are mine.

I shake my head. I was supposed to look for a path, something like a map.

Near that picture is another one with a person playing a horn; I recognize the person to be Paul. Near Paul’s picture is one with this guy wearing a white shirt and red tie; I recognize the black spiky hair to be Richard’s, as the pose shows him with his mouth opened wide as he’s just about to bite a faucet mounted into a wall. I’m starting to feel that someone is mocking us. Maybe the mermaid was one of those shapes the Beast is supposed to take. This doesn’t look at all like a maps cabinet.

I look at the next pictures. In one Olli is shown as he’s playing some minuscule guitar, while something like a kitchen funnel is coming out of his right ear. What the fuck?

But then I look again. Behind him. Behind him I see the Ocean. The Ocean from North and the snow and ice covering its surface. The next picture shows an empty bluish room, with only a metal table in it. I recognize it as being the room in the ship, and table is the table Paul was laid on, waiting for me to cut his chest open and save his burning heart. The painting near it shows the white field of snow; from here to there are some cracks in the ice, while in the background I see the mountains. Yet, in the next picture I see our ship, that cross between an ice breaker and a battle ship. It is stuck in the ice, but far off I see the mountains. I guess we have to find land at one point, something like an island, some place with mountains. And on the top of those mountains, under a frozen sky covered by a huge dark cloud is the castle. It looks so small in this picture. But that must be the place; they always hide in some castle. That’s where that damn lizard must be!

I turn around and freeze there, stunned. The grass is gone. Olli is gone. Now the set is different and there are other people in the room. There’s one guy sitting on a chair in a corner, in front of me. He is wearing these ridiculous pants printed with squares, a black vest and this white shirt with big fluffy sleeves. His face seems to have been sawn with barbed wire. I recognize him to be Flake only by his scraggy frame and that long hair. Near him is Christoph, hanging by the neck from a rope. He is wearing the same style of white shirt, but black pants. His hands are cuffed in front, while from his neck, on his chest, hangs what appears to be a huge scuba diver’s helmet. They both – Flake and Christoph – have their eyes open, but they aren’t even blinking.

“I won’t even bother to wonder about this,” I whisper, and I look around for a door.

I should find the ship, and the others. Since the room isn’t moving with us, I assume we aren’t on the ship. So, I guess I have to find it. But as I look at the walls, I can’t see any door. There aren’t any paintings on any of the walls, except one, on the wall behind Flake’s chair.

I take a step; the old wooden floor covered by the reddish carpet covering it creeks under my weight as I walk slowly to cross the room. I stop in front of Flake; he doesn’t even breathe. I look around again, hoping that the door might have appeared. But no, only the walls on which the paint has turned brown, that’s how old it is. And, in the opposite corner I spot Christoph – this time he is frozen in a different pose; he is wrapped in all these electric wires, of all colors. I shake my head in disbelief and turn to watch the painting remained.

I move near Flake’s chair, get closer to the wall, and rise on my toes to be able to see it. There’s this guy, wearing 19th century clothes, a black coat and a black top hat. His mouth is wide open while he has put in it the long, black barrel of a gun. I prop my palms on the wall to see better, because I know that I know who that is, but I refuse to acknowledge that. I notice the guy’s black and messy hair coming out of the top hat. His blue eyes are wide open, just as his mouth. His finger is about to squeeze the trigger. At the bottom of the picture there are few words: “To live is to die!”

No, that must be just another trick. There’s no path, there’s no map, there’s nothing! I should find the damn door. Now! Or I should just turn the page!

I take a step backward, shaking my head, refusing to accept that. No, that guy isn’t who I think it is. The page! Turn the god damn page! NOW!

I take another step. Those blue eyes were looking at me, like I was looking into my own blue eyes. No way! It’s only just another scheme! If there’s no door, then where’s the page!

*

Slam! Something like a heavy door closing above my head! Then, the reverberations of some heavy steps on stone floors, fading into the distance.

Then, another door - a heavy rusty lock being opened. The door emits a long grunting lament, and then it is slammed with a heavy thud. And, again - the rusty locks securing that door, the sound being followed by the one of heavy steps melting into the silence.

The first thing I feel is the humid coldness, as I realize that my torso is bare. Then, the coldness worse more on the side, and the flatness make me figure I’m lying on some sort of floor. But I don’t dare to open my eyes yet, after all I’ve been through (oh, God, is this going to end some time soon?); I just curl more into myself and cover my face and my head with my arms. Under my fingers I feel my own shaved head.

In that silence that covers this place, my ear picks some squeaks. Something like an alive, yet wet and extremely cold dot touches the skin of my back, making me flinch. Then something tickles my skin, but it disappears the moment I have this sudden spasm.

I open my eyes and jump to my feet. I can barely see; I am again in some dark place, barely lit from above, a sickening electric white light pouring through the holes of the trap door above my head.

As I move inside what seems a small pit, like for an animal, I hear squeaks, and I catch a glimpse of tiny shadows running like illusions near the walls and around my feet. Rats.

I start walking around the narrow room, looking above at the door trap. I must be a hostage. And, with this realization in mind, I become restless and claustrophobic.

I’m not chained, but I’m bare-footed, and I’m wearing only a pair of dirty pants. I am cold, as I feel it stinging and biting my naked upper body. This flash crosses my mind, this image of me wearing only a pair of pants, with a shaved head and put to run barefoot in a small yard, in the snow.

I notice a shadow among the regular pattern of the square holes of the trap door. I walk over there to see it better. Looks like a dish or something similar. I reach out and touch it with my fingers.

Yes, it is a dish, made of metal, a rusted old thing. It seems full, so I bring it down carefully. Food!
Food for the soul.

I’m an animal in a cage; I’m even fed like a caged animal. A cage so dark just like my soul, as if I’d be prisoner within myself.

Where are the others?

What others?

~ To Be Continued ~
- 17
- 18
- 19
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KAAMOS (A Tale For Grown-up Kids)