A Note from the Authoress: Hello, all! This is just a rather short piece (yes, veeeeeeeeery short) that began as a few lines scribbled down in Spanish class yesterday, and calc class this morning. So I'm just sharing. :) Perhaps I will post a good phic here some time. :)
A Rose
A rose . . . such a beautiful thing, to hold, to receive. And yet some remained untouched, dying there where they were born, beheld only at a quiet distance, watched, revered, and yet never stirred, save for that occasional rustling wind, that catch of breath . . . but still untouched. Untouched. And there it lay, tattered, wilting on the floor, but still he dared not disturb it. She had left it that way, and so it would remain, he would make sure of it.
It was a rash decision, he knew, to touch nothing, to fear losing the illusion that she was there, that her presence still remained in this place of shadows. But she did not belong here in the dark. She feared it, and he'd never subject her to such terror; she was of the light, and in the light she belonged. It was foolish to have even hoped she'd stay, lured here only by the radiance of the angel of music, whom she'd only found to be a monster. But music freed them of that distrust, if only for a few precious moments.
And so even that was abandoned. His music, everything from masterpieces to scribbles, laid rumpled, torn, forgotten all around him. Forgotten? No, not forgotten, just . . . left behind, the glorious sound that once filled this place dissolved to dust, the ink shriveled and burnt to ash. Dust and ash . . . ash and dust . . . ashes to ashes, dust to . . . no, it was not the end. That would be too sweet a fate.
She was gone, that was his punishment. He was to live here alone, with only the echo of her voice, her soul for company. It still lingered here, despite the ruin all around, and he could feel it. He still sensed her trembling there beside him. Angel? Ah, yes, that's what she'd called him. He'd always be her Angel of Music and she his inspiration, and without her . . . ?
Solitude. It was a song he knew well, the silence that reverberated through these walls, broken only by those noises from the world above, punctuating the deathly quiet with haunting melodies, howling, crying like unsettled spirits in the dark. They were beckoning him to join them, to evaporate into the shadows themselves, to haunt this theatre as a true ghost, to remain here, tormented by memories of a love that had left all too soon.
Grant to me your glory!
A ghost, an angel, a monster . . . but never a person. She'd chosen him, but as what? A monster to be pitied? Or an angel? Yes, an angel . . . when he last saw her, before she turned away to that boy of hers, he saw that childish innocence in her eyes, wounded but still glistering there, that still saw him as an angel . . . her angel.
But the angel had broken his wings.