The Silent's End [EDITING]

PROLOGUE

"This is what I had become — transfigured, I was, in my very eyes. Yet, I never percieved, at it's commencement, my metamorphosis from what I was to what I had come to be, no — no. Never, not until now."

~~~

CIRCA. 1827

Thunder crashed as rain started to pour. The only light lit at the theater house was that of a single spotlight, illuminating the pitch-black grand piano in the midst of the platform. An assemblage of nobles, young and old, had gathered at the Grand Opera House. Each of them was expecting a performance from a great maestro that evening, giving them that awe and wonder they expected in exchange for the fancy fee of a single ticket. It's exorbitant price could make one fine gentleman curse at the top of his lungs.

At exactly seven in the evening, every one of those ladies and gents were on their seats, waiting for that distinguished musician to perform his most in demand concerto.

Half past seven, and still no famous musician performing in their midst.

Complaints, murmurs and shouts could be heard as the clock strikes eight.

8:15pm

A gentleman stood up and shouted for a refund.

8:30 pm

The ladies could be heard, complaining loudly. Those so called gentlemen

were now blurting out curses and foul words. Their noises synced with the ravenous storm outside, in tempo with the clashing thunder.

8:40 pm

Sudden silence filled the room.

            Widened eyes and gasps could be heard as one man, of vague and shady expression on his face, started to walk in the midst of the stage. His countenance wasn't that of a dignified and renowned pianist, rather he looked gloomy and murky. The man was soaking wet from the rain and crimson hues flooding his before white shirt could be noticed, hands shaking, eyes bulged from crying through the rain.

None of that was what got the attention of the ladies and gents in their seats. It is what he was holding, rather, carrying as he walked along the stage. A woman, pale and cold; her blood dripping on the floor and seeping in his clothes. He kneeled to lay the stone-cold corpse upon the stage. Standing, His eyes lingered at his own hands, soaked with the thick crimson ichor of the unfortunate woman.

The sinister emanation of that fated cold night, the harsh downpour and the corpse of the woman lying in front of them -- the once riotous crowd hushed. None dared to move nor made a sound. Although they wanted to walk away from the gruesome scene or shouted for help, they could not as their voices were muted. But then, the stillness was so suddenly disturbed by a loud bang echoing through the confined space of the theater. Anxiety and mayhem was triggered. Every man and woman started to panic. Like disturbed colony of ants they ran, trying to find their way out of the horrid nightmare that was before them.

The man stayed glued on the stage, watching the uproarous panic that he brought. As another gun shot blared; his body jolted by the sudden blast of sound reverbing in his ears. A painful sting, a metallic tang of blood in his mouth and a crater in his abdomen. He stumbled down, lying on the pool of blood mixed of his and the woman's. The chorused footsteps and the bright ceiling lights were the ones he lastly saw and heard before his consciousness drifted and eyes closed.