Reaching out for more...
Nov 26, 2008 1:35:38 GMT -5
Post by Phantom of the Paradise on Nov 26, 2008 1:35:38 GMT -5
It had taken the man in the black leather costume hours to pick his way through the streets and alleys, hiding himself in the shadows of tall buildings and passing carriages. He masked his movements with the blotted red cape - in the night, it looked purely black, but should he suddenly appear in a light, it could possibly stun and startle the unwary coming too close with the sudden flash of a "devil" in front of their eyes.
In Winslow Leach's broken mind, at least, it would work right. People feared the unknown and startled easily, but when did he ever get to Paris? If this was not something of Swan's design to get rid of him, then it must have been something laced into his latest dose of uppers. Yet, if this was merely the side-effect of a speed overdose, how did his "trip" bring him to Paris?
Perhaps because, once, long ago, he had dreamed that he would perform at the old Garnier, on an international tour of his cantata, his own production of "Faust," to a packed opera house. But he had seen the opera, upon slipping into it, and it did not look as old as he would have imagined. Many of the statuary looked new, or at least well-kept beyond what he knew of in his time.
That was what Winslow had been trying to use to convince himself that he was just in the middle of a drug-induced hallucination. There was nothing of the technology he knew, other than the microphone-box strapped to his chest. The only thing he had for a voice.
...But enough of trying to make ration of a dream.
He had managed to steal into a rehearsal room, far-removed from the rest, sneaking through the shadowed building with his unusual skill of avoiding being seen, despite being within arm's reach of another human being. Perhaps it was just that he was so otherworldly now, or that this "other-world," this dream, merely allowed him to pass unnoticed as per his own control of a makeshift reality.
In either scenario, Winslow stood before an old and dusty piano. It was in shape enough to play, just merely neglected. He had stayed seated on the bench for a long time, just staring at the keys in silence. His gloves had been pulled off and laid across his lap; he had desired to feel real ivory keys - even if it was all a nightmare - just once under his fingers. Cheap lucite keys had replaced ivory long ago for him, but the real ebony and ivory just under his withered fingers felt just as cold as his skin - a perfect match, perhaps?
Closing his eye beneath the hawk-like mask, Winslow summoned up the will to press the keys for a gentle chord. When the right note had sung out in the silence of the room, Winslow pressed his blackened lips into a tight line, feeling the note waking what he considered the remainder of his soul. The part he could not give to Swan, despite their agreement.
Opening his eye again, Winslow let his left hand fall against the keys, and both set of thin fingers danced across the keys, trained to play out whatever he was feeling at the moment. Their movement was slow, and his body followed. He could never consider the piano a mere instrument - he was the instrument here - the piano was the only voice he had. The music flowing from the interior was rich and sad, causing the leather-clad "Phantom" to shut his eye again.
Winslow had to bite his lip as he played, feeling a warm tear running down his left cheek and hang at the edge of his jaw for a moment; a sob sent it fleeing into the confines of his collar, seeping into his skin.
"Phoenix..." he whispered, grinding metal teeth together when he heard his voice come through as a distorted, hollow croak. Red and blue lights flashed briefly when he spoke, then went dark again.
As suddenly as his playing had started, it stopped. He snapped off the voicebox and put his helmeted head in his hands, shaking violently. He wanted to scream, to wake himself up out of this stupid hallucination, but he lacked the voice to even do that much. It all came out in gargled whines with the device on his chest inactive.
Finally, he slammed his hands down onto the keys, not an act of direct violence, but rapid, angry music flowed without direction or course, and the rest of him followed. He played as if it were familiar and old music, letting the noise bring whoever dared to come in.
He could kill them if he had to, if they tried to stop him.
((Anyone is free to find him playing. How do I manage to get off on these mini stories, I'll never know.))
In Winslow Leach's broken mind, at least, it would work right. People feared the unknown and startled easily, but when did he ever get to Paris? If this was not something of Swan's design to get rid of him, then it must have been something laced into his latest dose of uppers. Yet, if this was merely the side-effect of a speed overdose, how did his "trip" bring him to Paris?
Perhaps because, once, long ago, he had dreamed that he would perform at the old Garnier, on an international tour of his cantata, his own production of "Faust," to a packed opera house. But he had seen the opera, upon slipping into it, and it did not look as old as he would have imagined. Many of the statuary looked new, or at least well-kept beyond what he knew of in his time.
That was what Winslow had been trying to use to convince himself that he was just in the middle of a drug-induced hallucination. There was nothing of the technology he knew, other than the microphone-box strapped to his chest. The only thing he had for a voice.
...But enough of trying to make ration of a dream.
He had managed to steal into a rehearsal room, far-removed from the rest, sneaking through the shadowed building with his unusual skill of avoiding being seen, despite being within arm's reach of another human being. Perhaps it was just that he was so otherworldly now, or that this "other-world," this dream, merely allowed him to pass unnoticed as per his own control of a makeshift reality.
In either scenario, Winslow stood before an old and dusty piano. It was in shape enough to play, just merely neglected. He had stayed seated on the bench for a long time, just staring at the keys in silence. His gloves had been pulled off and laid across his lap; he had desired to feel real ivory keys - even if it was all a nightmare - just once under his fingers. Cheap lucite keys had replaced ivory long ago for him, but the real ebony and ivory just under his withered fingers felt just as cold as his skin - a perfect match, perhaps?
Closing his eye beneath the hawk-like mask, Winslow summoned up the will to press the keys for a gentle chord. When the right note had sung out in the silence of the room, Winslow pressed his blackened lips into a tight line, feeling the note waking what he considered the remainder of his soul. The part he could not give to Swan, despite their agreement.
Opening his eye again, Winslow let his left hand fall against the keys, and both set of thin fingers danced across the keys, trained to play out whatever he was feeling at the moment. Their movement was slow, and his body followed. He could never consider the piano a mere instrument - he was the instrument here - the piano was the only voice he had. The music flowing from the interior was rich and sad, causing the leather-clad "Phantom" to shut his eye again.
Winslow had to bite his lip as he played, feeling a warm tear running down his left cheek and hang at the edge of his jaw for a moment; a sob sent it fleeing into the confines of his collar, seeping into his skin.
"Phoenix..." he whispered, grinding metal teeth together when he heard his voice come through as a distorted, hollow croak. Red and blue lights flashed briefly when he spoke, then went dark again.
As suddenly as his playing had started, it stopped. He snapped off the voicebox and put his helmeted head in his hands, shaking violently. He wanted to scream, to wake himself up out of this stupid hallucination, but he lacked the voice to even do that much. It all came out in gargled whines with the device on his chest inactive.
Finally, he slammed his hands down onto the keys, not an act of direct violence, but rapid, angry music flowed without direction or course, and the rest of him followed. He played as if it were familiar and old music, letting the noise bring whoever dared to come in.
He could kill them if he had to, if they tried to stop him.
((Anyone is free to find him playing. How do I manage to get off on these mini stories, I'll never know.))