During a pause from the stage to ensure I would be heard clearly, I waited for the perfect moment. Employing a ventriloquism trick learned long ago in my youth, I seemingly roared within each of their heads "Who dares to disturb Box Five! Be off with you trespassers!"
Without question, the ensuing frenetic screams and bungling tumult was extremely gratifying. There would be definite bruises to be explained at another time as those girls seemed to be literally running into each other in a frantic, desperate rush for the door. In spite of myself, I could not help but laugh aloud and resisted the impulse to peek out at bolting ballet slippers. In the endless course of my interminable days, it was quite delightful and I experienced a vague gratitude to the silly girls who had innocently cheered me. The scene in Box Five, along with the subsequent shrieks had also mercifully put a stunned end to the rehearsal below. Bless the children, I thought.
Later after I was quite certain rehearsal was abandoned while no doubt the poor girls were being comforted from their horrible fright, I slid into the shadows of the hallway. Upon entering my secret door, I recalled how many times I had used my vocal abilities to manipulate and deceive. Would all my interactions with others forever be of such sepulcher and devious quality?
Just as well. The nuances of human relationships were an enigma I could not fathom.
After arriving to my lair, the intimate silence surrounded me. Shrugging off my cloak, I once again sat down to my piano beginning to lazily play an old French composition I wrote as a child. God, how I loved music...the notes seemed to lift me up over the monotonous gloom of my existence and I could almost see them swirl in the air. Melodies took me to places no one else could follow - places where I was possessively alone with the score like a furtive lover. A wondrous retreat where it did not matter what one looked like...only the music...only the music...
Abruptly recalling my mother's reaction to my compositions, I unconsciously ceased playing - lost in thought. She had termed my music "unholy" along with my voice. After that, she did not permit me to sing in her presence. Only when Mama was absent from the house could I sing to my heart's content. Abruptly, it occurred to me in clarity of light that the only real interaction I've ever had with a woman was through my voice.
If it were only conceivable for me to love a woman with only my voice as though in some different plane of existence. My gruesome face hidden from her view so all she could perceive was my voice. Somehow to just surround her with the pure pleasure and arousing movement of adagio and wrap her invisibly in desire. I would make love to her with the caress of my music as I was denied to do with my hands. To touch her with my gift of intonation; envelop her in the passion long denied me. She would be beautiful, this woman, like an angel. Certainly, angels are not concerned with appearance. An angel...
Undoubtedly, she would find me the most ardent, seductive lover. My mind wandered and imagined such a woman returning that provocative benediction with her own voice - willingly touching me with her own song. Wanting me, loving me, kissing me...
My daydream reluctantly ended in the harsh face of reality as I stared unseeingly at my bleak surroundings. "To make love to a woman with my voice," I reproached myself aloud. Truly, my psyche was disturbed at my age. Still, the thought was intriguing and continued to taunt the edges of my consciousness.