Requiem
Childs Play:
He couldn't hear anything…
Hot white light burst from the centre of the stage and suddenly time spluttered to a halt. Warm air was sucked from the cavernous room gathering into a pulsating epicenter and the hall was suddenly devoid of sound as the core began expanding. Out and up, heat was thrown back into the room in a multiplicity of shimmering reds and oranges. It was like the birth of hell he thought.
Rubble fell like rain onto seats, carpet, people. The silence ended. He could now hear; numbing screams of people of alarms; noise welled everywhere as he began his laboured struggle through the smoke and crumbled fragments of cornice and roofing. This time these little games had gone too far.
* * *
Matt sat in the darkened theatre. He watched thin wisps of light dancing upon the polished wooden seat-backs and on the burnished head of an old gentleman three rows to the fore. Over the chatter of the audience he could hear the violins, violas and cellos being tuned. The dissonant notes melding into the restless atmosphere of judgment and expectation: The Philharmonic's first show of the season. As the tuning abruptly stopped the audience began to settle into seats. Conversations were ended and programmes scrutinized.
The lights were going down now. The audience applauded; the opulent gold-fringed curtain rose exposing the ensemble and there was the maestro enveloped in a beam of harsh ethereal light. The conductor was a slight man. Thin greying hair floated around his small head. He wore a Victorian monocle on his right eye and a coarsely trimmed moustache perched above the grave line of his mouth. Another of those impassioned eccentrics who lurked in the realms of art, music and literature, Matt mused. He did not miss the look of nervous anticipation in the man's eyes nor his hands twitch, waiting to begin.
* * *
He came to concerts often. That evening Matt had dressed in a crisp black suit, a non-descript silk tie and shined leather dress shoes. It was in the hustle and bustle before the performance began that he had time to (truly) think. He often came to this theatre when frustrated with work or he had run into a "brick wall" in one of his developing computer programs. It seemed to help him figure things out. Matt had never really thought about the significance music held in his life. Yet as he sat in the darkened theatre waiting for the performance to begin he came to a simple realisation. The mundane act of getting dressed up, and spending an evening in quiet consultation with himself calmed him. Rather startled he realised that the complex musical arrangements he often viewed were the keystone that formed many of his programs, creating a complex coding pattern few knew how to break.
* * *
With the flick of a wrist, it began. First, the tremulous fluttering of violins. Soon players were incorporating other refrains and the sound became more ominous. Darker tones stealthily seeped through, creating a discordant harmony. The cellos began creeping in, their dark bass sound resonating across the silent audience and as the pace was set, violins shrilly broke through. Their high pitched tone almost grating at the listeners' eardrums.
Louder. Louder. LOUDER...silence.
The melody ended abruptly leaving the quivering remains of the violins to die out into the thick silence.
* * *
It was autumn. The air was crisp and fresh gently stinging at any exposed skin. Two boys were playing on the grass, engaged in what looked like World War Three with two worse for wear toy robots. The taller boy with a mess of red-brown hair seemed to be winning much to the others annoyance. A frown began to deepen to a disgruntled scowl as his own robot was annihilated by the one operated by his taller companion.
The shorter stood abruptly and brought a booted foot down upon the other's toy. Matt yelped:
"MELLO!"
"I won Matt. Grow up."
* * *
The explosion happened rapidly: one minute the ensemble were readying themselves for their second piece; the next the stage was shattering, shrouded by a thin veil of arching dust and flying debris.
To Matt, that short moment before full impact was as beautiful as it was horrific. The fine pink substance of the former orchestra caught the light as it fell forwards into the flames and the final onslaught. It was typical he thought; the music just reaches its peak and then the whole place blows up. It was dramatic irony if ever he had seen it.
The noise battered at his ears as the last forceful blast pushed him backwards out of his seat. Here all rational thought left him as his brain shut down, only beginning to again regain function minutes later, as it registered the screams and bitter scent of destruction.
Matt felt that impulsive need to escape. That feeling that most sensible humans experienced when the possibility of impending death presents itself to them. He needed to run, but towards or away from the sound?
Right now, he couldn't care less about anything except his own survival. Selfish? That was what any of the other burned, bloodstained music lovers in the building would be thinking.
Self-preservation: part of an animal's instinct that demands that the organism survives. Pain and fear are parts of this mechanism. Fear causes the organism to seek safety. Adrenaline is produced. Oh how he loved it.
He tentatively pulled himself off the floor. His once black dress trousers and jacket were now tattered and burned; the skin on the right side of his face was splattered red and black with burns, dirt and blood. As he stood pain shot through his limbs and his knees gave a sickening crunch. He cursed under his breath and began to stumble forwards.
He passed broken chairs, using them as a guide in the now pooling smoke. Matt was coughing. The fumes had made it to his lungs and his eyes were stinging. Eventually he made it to a broken passageway on the west wall and staggered through the splintered opening where a door had once been.
The alarms were louder here, the smoke less thick and he could hear people moving around him. The corridor in which he now found himself was clearer. Not so much detritus to negotiate. This helped the pain in his leg to subside slightly, but not enough he thought, clenching his teeth as another shock of pain rushed through his limbs.
He did not know how long it took him. He didn't really care. As he saw the light of the outside world streaming through the shattered glass window of a door, all he could feel was relief. The glass crunched under dulled shoes as he stepped forward into the clean air and roaring sirens. And he fell, his mind plunging into darkness.
* * *
They had grown up together, been friends ever since parents had introduced them at about the age of three. Yet, their relationship had ever been fragile and turbulent under the surface. The robot had been the first incident Matt could recall and as they had grown their little vendettas had escalated. It was never done out of cruelty or malice, but merely as each tried to best the other.
Matt had discovered early on he held a certain affinity with the more mechanised aspects of modern life, quickly taking to video games as a child and then computers. Later learning to master and manipulate them.
You could say both children were privileged. Matt was given unlimited access to his beloved computers and consequently his talent had steadily increased. Most of his retorts at Mello came in the form of ever deadly, yet always rather amusing computer viruses.
He worked for his family firm: an accounting business. However, in his spare time he worked on self-made programs, viruses mostly creating and perfecting their mind-boggling intricacies. It was the only other thing besides music that he enjoyed.
He was by far the more placid of the two.
* * *
Matt regained consciousness seconds later to the sound of shrieking sirens, feeling an intense shaking rocking his battered frame. He was coughing again, each wracking splutter dragging his lungs that little bit further up his throat. As his surroundings started sliding slowly into focus, he looked around and saw he was still outside the wrecked building in an alley towards the back of the theatre from which smoke was still seeping. The fire department was there now though and he could see the thin jets of water being pumped to battle the flames.
The old building was now an exposed shell with flames licking up over the edges of the blackened stonework façade. The roofing had collapsed inwards, most likely after the initial blast. The firefighters were using the gaping hole to pour water into, to quell the flames. The name of the theatre, displayed on a long board attached to the side of the building, was now blackened, the neon lights no longer blinking welcomingly. The small ticket booth at the main door stood eerily empty, the glass shattered on the ground before it. Numbly he shook his head and scrambled up off the ground and began stumbling away.
The air was cold and his breath was coming out in small frosted puffs. He consciously wrapped his arms tighter around himself, hands retreating into clenched fists up his sleeves to try and conserve some heat. Briefly, he thought about flagging down one of the yellow cabs that whizzed past him but his wallet was gone.
The sun had set a long time before. Everywhere in the lit streets seemed eerily silent - a strange occurrence in this city - as he passed down them. Not that there was a lack of people. In fact there were many, chatting animatedly, looking at the ground with a glazed over look of shock in their eyes. Some were talking into phones and other just uninterestedly listened to music through ipods, defiantly refusing to acknowledge the world's existence. His hearing must be affected. A few people looked at him curiously or tried to ask him questions as he limped past and he shot them glares although he couldn't blame them really. The explosion had to be the main news piece of the night.
West 58th. He was closer to home now. Matt turned suddenly to his right down a side street. The flickering light of halogen street lamps now gone, full darkness engulfed him and he found himself shivering as he walked, deliberating his options over and over in his head.
It didn't take long to reach his apartment building it an older brown stone six storey with one of those ever rickety iron staircases clinging feebly on the exterior wall. He took the stairs to his floor (mostly to avoid any people he may run into). Each step tugged at his bruised muscles and made his head swim.
It took him close to twenty five minutes to reach his floor, constantly stopping to catch his breath. When he did make it to his door he vaguely fumbled in his trouser pockets for his key. He trudged through the front door into the familiar darkness before fumbling for the light switch. In the small hall Matt removed his ruined shoes and padded through to his kitchen vaguely noticing the mess he had left it in. His hearing still wasn't responding properly and the 'tap, tap, tap,' sound the leaking faucet made as drips of water hit the bottom of the ceramic basin were amplified and hollow sounding. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance and sighing he moved across the room to stop the incessant dripping, catching his withered reflection in a darkened window: tattered clothing, blood splattered torso and a tired looking face. He decided washing off the grime would be the best place to start. That way he would be able to see how bad the damage was.
In the bathroom he peeled off his ragged clothes and stepped under the steady stream of uncomfortably hot water and sighed as the stinging pellets hit tender muscles and began scouring away the dirt the evening had left upon him.
He dressed slowly in a pair of lounge pants and loose shirt, carefully avoiding the cuts and burns that littered his torso. He didn't bother to pick up his discarded clothes. Bending over made him nauseous; he could almost feel the blood pounding around his head, see the blackness creeping around the edges of his eyes. Leaving the bathroom he passed by the lounge, turning to the right and his tiny kitchen, briefly noting the sound of music playing as he passed. It was obnoxiously loud. Another twitch of annoyance. He obviously had a visitor.
It was fully dark outside now and the apartment's lighting was causing a warm glow to radiate throughout as Matt moved awkwardly back through to the living room, pointedly ignoring the wires and papers littered across the floor as he gingerly sunk down onto the sofa in exhaustion. The man beside him silently handed him a cup of coffee, which Matt swiftly gulped down before returning the mug to a table in front of the sofa. The music was turned off.
He sat in silence, still and unflinching as Mello's eyes bore into the side of his head.
Matt rested his throbbing head in his palms, softly massaging the temples. A look of exasperation crossing his face as his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
'You win Mello,' followed by a mumble under his breath, 'You always win.'
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