I have no idea what possessed me to write this (Panic! At The Disco, I guess, since it's sort of based on their song, I Write Sins Not Tragedies). Anyway, it's weird, but short.
I like to imagine that Greg is narrating this in the same way he described his recollection of the scene in Rashomama. Trust me, it's more effective. And if you've never seen that episode... oh, well. It won't make much sense then.
A Sinful Tragedy
It was a harrowing age in Sin City. Heavy rain from the skies cascaded down the windows of the crime lab, emanating discomfort. The ambiance was ominous. I was relentlessly pacing the corridors outside of my supervisor's office, repeating the discourse over inside my mind.
Public speaking was never my strong suit. And addressing the boss in a formal manner gave me the willies.
Grissom. As you are fully aware, I began to work in this lab eight years ago, for the first five years, being a DNA technician. Do to your generosity, I was able to pursue my aspirations and become a CSI Level I, as I have been for the past two years. Over the course of this experience, I have learned a lot from you, as well as all of my coworkers, and I have matured considerably. I now believe that I am fully ready to progress to a more advanced position.
It was pure sugarcoated, icing-and-cherry-on-top sycophancy. Codswallop, as the English would say. But it was going to work.
Before I was able to finish, a breeze drifted into the halls from the office and interrupted my rhythmic marching. A breeze that sounded like familiar voices. I couldn't help but to hear an exchanging of words. A gentle wind that suddenly became tempest.
"What a beautiful creature."
A quick turn of head. A stolen look inside. And that's when I saw her—the rebellious mare. Her alluring, chestnut mane flowing after her in the similar mode that the hem of angels' robes do. Her amber eyes were resplendent with sagacity and wisdom. Indeed, what a beautiful creature. She was seated on the edge of his desk, one long leg over another, gazing at an entity draped on the wall.
"Ah, the Blue Morpho. Quite a remarkable genus. This particular one is the Morpho menelaus. This was a gift from an old friend. I told him it reminded me of somebody I loved, and he gladly presented it to me."
And that's when I saw it. Within the wooden borders of the frame was an insect. One with wings of an iridescent blue hue.
A Morpho menelaus. How absolutely common. The boss was in the wrong. It did not suit her. Not at all. Such a conventional thing would never be able to satisfy her.
They say a show horse is only good for a few years. After that, they grow weak and gray. And that man, well, he was no young stallion, that's for sure. He was ancient. Senile. An old man. He would never be able to satisfy her, either. Not without a little help first, anyway. Though even then, there would be no promises.
But that's a different story.
The harmony of two lovers. Inadvertent lovers. The discrepancy in their concerto was palpable. Her dulcet tones accompanying his coarse rumble. Like a harp to a tuba with a full spit valve. So lurid and open for all and sundry to hear.
His cadence was wrong. All wrong. Each pulse made me want to take my fingers and stick them into my ears to stop the ruckus. A disaster. A duet is inept if one of the players is flagrantly tone-deaf. The conductor would surely dismiss him. The audience would kick him off the stage in an instant.
So I decided to lend him some assistance with my expertise. After all, I was the polished cello that the gentle harp so longingly coveted to perform with. I chimed in through the doorframe, "Haven't you people ever heard of closing a goddamn door?!"
So pitiful. Pitiful, indeed, that she found solace within his arms. A sinful tragedy.
Then I slammed the door shut.
Some lyrics were changed to suit the fic, of course. I know. Half the stuff doesn't make sense. But that's okay. ;D