His puppet sat there dumbfounded at his intense requests. She seemed thick in the head to the common eye, and perhaps she was. There was something about her eyes that made him think otherwise. There was a cunning blade behind those purple eyelids.

"Sing, if you can" he repeated. He demanded.

What little blood was left in her flooded her face and her visage was brought into the direction of the floorboards.

"What is it you want me to sing?"

And a familiar tune possessed him in response,

"What the angel of music, sings in your head."

Upon spitting the words out his chest began to tear at itself inside his skeleton. If only the angel of music, could sing songs her head.

He ignored his weaknesses and distracted himself with anticipation, for what he assumed would be a screeching, squealing pig like the rest. He usually didn't give the beggars that wandered here this much time; He usually ended their lives swiftly. He usually never even asked for their names.

"I had been told," her lips moved, but suddenly he was not in the room as she sang. He was not sitting on the rafters twisting the strings of someone's mortality. He was not playing god, but he had joined him in the stars.

"One had once said,

your life will be,

Good one day.

That your life might be,

Worth something,

Little dove, he had said,

Little angel of mine,"

Angel, The words brought him crashing back to earth.

"Little dove, sing again,

And you are never confined,

By the flesh and the bone,

That will not long be mine,

Flee as you will, but you'll never

Escape,"

The song was growing dark, and dripped with possibilities of its inspiration. She held the gift of connecting the listener to his own past, and his own fears. Or perhaps she held the same fears as him. Fears which resurged as hers did in every note.

That voice, her voice, it was not perfect; nothing like Christi-hers. In fact it was greatly flawed and untrained. But the gem behind it all, the unrefined diamond that ensnared his every being was the emotion, the poetry in it all.

The passion in her shriveled body; It was unmatched, and quickly swallowed him, and suddenly now it was gone. She had stopped singing.

His voice responded smoothly, and so unbearably false.

"a voice which pains the ear,

You have sung all you can,

I have heard all I'll bear"

He fled the scene entirely as his eyes dripped in mourning.

She would have to be gone tonight.


Evangeline sat in embarrassment and shame. She hardly focused on her search for box five, and in her head never let go of the idea that she was terrible at the only passion she held in her heart. It was as haunting as the meaning of her song.

A half burned clock sat on the wall adjacent from where she was resting. How remarkable it was she thought, how it was mutilated, and scorched, but ticked all the same, perhaps better than any other clock. Her green eyes stared at the hands as they climbed about, a beat to some unheard tune.

She pulled at a half burned chair to help her upwards, and yelped as her knees locked up. She understood the hunger would be the death of her soon. She feared the thought and held no way to prevent it; no courage to disregard morals and steal, nor the strength to do it.

"At least, no one will cry that I am gone. The sadness will die with me." She mumbled and reminded herself, "God has been kind, even if he has not been generous." There was a purpose for everything in this life.

She only feared the idea of eternally roaming the halls of this place, like the man without a face, the angel of song, the ghost of shadows.

She felt his eyes all around, his mind calculating her every move, scorning her. But she aimed to please him, how Evangeline craved his praise. Praise from a man she didn't know.

She stumbled up the dark staircase as best she could, avoiding the rubble and sharp glass, with her tender bare feet. Her legs failed her once again and her hands met the icy knifes as she launched them to catch her fall.

A shriek of agony echoed through the hallways and she yanked herself upwards, her palm was diced and bits of dirty glass imbedded themselves in her snowy skin, crimson dripping down from the wound.

She wept like a child, and her wet cheeks grew red. It wasn't for the pain she felt now, but for the infection that would surely follow. Evangeline was too weak to fight it, and too poor to cure it, and she knew it would kill her if she were to develop disease.

She continued on up the stairs sobbing for herself like a fool, wondering why she even sobbed. Her life had been full of pain, and that was going to end most likely.

Box 5 loomed on a pristine cherry door in bronze. The stairs themselves were demolished, but the lobby and box seemed mysteriously untouched as with the dressing room; perhaps her job was going to be easier than she thought. She entered the room and witnessed to her own amazement, pure luxury.

A leather seat sat at the right angle to see the stage from shadow, while on its left was a table with doves carved intricately atop it, the image barely covered by crystal scotch glasses. A warm blanket sat on the chair's arm, and she felt so deeply tempted to steal it for her own. But that would, as she had even thought, be stealing. Even if it was from a ghost.

She did, however, find herself taking a handkerchief for herself. A letter that seemed foreign to her, "E" was laced onto the cloth. Perhaps this was the ghosts name before he passed.

She tied the silk square around her wounded hand, and prayed he would not punish her for it. She noticed her ghost had set supplies in the corner of the room, and she began her work quickly.

There was little for her to do, though it was however, difficult for her greatly. She was truly a delicate creature, her back aching, hands raw, and knees brittle like an elderly woman. She finished nonetheless, within two hours. Every inch of the room was spotless, and the rich furniture was gleaming.

After she was done, she decided to pass on her daily trip to the market. The girl was far too weak to make it all the way, and would probably not be given anything for her troubles. She dragged herself back to the dressing room, her stomach growling and her body already beginning to decay.

Her rough lips scratched each other in dehydration as she pumped her trembling legs to the couch. She climbed on it and fell to dreams almost instantly.

She was scared awake by the door to her room being opened.

Her body went limp with fear, and she sat pretending to be asleep; she was in no position to defend herself, perhaps the intruders would take what they wanted and just-

A cold metal blade slithered against her jugular. "Please, please don't kill me"

The cackling laugh that followed seemed to pierce her being and she felt nauseated from panic. As her heart raced she saw the wound on her hand had reopened and was gushing blood.

"what's that girlie? Got a little hurt on those dainty lil' hands o' yers"

The man grabbed at Evangeline's tangled red hair, kneeing her in the back until she cried.

"Go'head n' cry, ain't nobody here to hear."

Except there was.