Contrast (Mini Story #3) by Patrick Firth

     We were happy that the Count had come out of what our circle had termed his Dark Period. His doors had been shut and his usual correspondence had ceased. Truth be told we did not miss him at first. Our final gathering two years previous had ended with him declaring we were now a burden, a bore to him, merely another mundane aspect of his life. He had picked up a bell after this and his man had escorted us out while he sat silent, head down. The intervening months saw us shifting from the shock and anger of his condemnation to a distinct feeling of pathos for this man who, though he had everything in this world, estates, yachts, the finest of foods, clothing, and possessions, he had committed to his sorrow and cast off the comfort and happiness of social interaction. Then, the invitation had come, seemingly on the wings of faeries for the surprise that it brought with it. After years of brooding hermitage, he announced in the warmest of terms that he had discovered the way out of these doldrums of his, and that he was sincerely apologetic for ascribing the fault previously to us. He elaborated on this epiphany after we had filed back in to his dining room and had sat down to a glass of wine and a rich pate.

      "The problem," he began, "is that we are all the same." I had shifted uncomfortably at this statement. He had an army of servitors, grounds rivalling a royal park, and a yacht that matched my lodgings in London. My three servants could barely maintain one wing of his estate, let alone the whole of his possessions. "There is no variety among us. We are like-coloured mosaic tiles that lack beauty because there is no contrast. Imagine we are shades of green. What we then need to do is to introduce a red. We cannot be so preoccupied," he slapped his hand on the table, disturbing the surface of my untouched wine," with polite conversation." There was a long silence as we sat, staring, deciphering this suggestion.

      "A red?" one of the circle said. I was not sure which one.

      Then, with deliberate movements, he selected a bell and shook it so that its tinkling seemed to fill the room. The great double doors swung open and a liveried servant walked in, ushering before him what could only be described as a Wild Man. Some sort of protohuman who could have been extracted from the bush of the New World, or the the darkness of Africa. However, I came to the disturbing conclusion that his complexion matched our own underneath the layers of filth and unchecked hair.

      "This creature, who my man has discovered on our very own streets, has come to talk to us about the End of Days. About the emptiness of wealth and station." The Count smirked at this. "And to introduce himself as Jesus, the Second Coming. Am I accurate in my introduction, Jesus?"

      After my initial shock had worn off, I began to warm to the idea. A freak show brought to us, a brief but exciting glance at the inside of an asylum. Though, I must admit, I remained somewhat nervous that the mad man would become violent if he suspected that he was being mocked.