Chandelier

Sometimes I sit. I sit in the dark and think. I think of all the things that have gone wrong, all the things I could have done, all the things I didn't do, all the things I did wrong.

I remember that night. The lights were dazzling; the staircase in the Grand Foyer was magnificent. I was on Rene's arm, wearing his ring on the chain about my neck. I remember what I was wearing. It was a champagne coloured gown; Rene had bought it for me himself. He was always doing that, always showering me with gifts. It was more than I needed, but I didn't complain. I remember everything about the way he looked that night, so dashing in his black tux, his amber-gold eyes dancing with warmth and merriment.

The showing that night was of Faust. When the lights flickered, we took our places in the theatre, eager to catch the beginning.

Our seats were in the center, about fifteen rows back, very good seats. Not only did they provide an ideal vantage point of the stage, but they were also directly beneath the grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling. I remember often admiring that fixture, its decorations refracting the light like a thousand shimmering facets of the sun. The management was obviously very proud of the chandelier, for they devoted an entire page of the programme to describing it.

I don't remember much of the performance, except the part directly preceding the accident. The lead soprano suddenly started emitting enormous croaks, as if she was a frog. Insane laughter suddenly filled the auditorium; no one could tell where it was coming from. As the laughter crecendoed, I began to hear a creaking above me, and looked up to find the giant chandelier swinging wildly, as if possessed. So shocked was I that it didn't even cross my mind to shout words of warning, alerting my fellow patrons to the coming disaster. All I could do was sit and watch, mesmerized by the swinging of the chandelier.

When it finally came loose from its hold on the ceiling, it's swaying took it far to the right of its original position, which should have been directly on my head. Instead it missed me, barely grazing my arm when it came crashing to the floor of the auditorium, hitting the seat right next to me.

Often, nay, constantly, I wish and pray that it could have gone the other way, released itself a moment sooner or later, that I may have been crushed beneath it as well. For instead of hitting me, the chandelier killed my Rene.

Oh, that we had switched seats that day, or decided to rent out a box! But most of all I wish that I had done something while I had the chance. The great chandelier could have taken my life. Instead it took the only thing I valued more.