Throes of Melancholy

By Siya Agarwal

Her hands were shaking. Breathing heavy, face chalk white. A few minutes ago disaster had struck but she was still perched on the rafters, looking down at the chaos below. Like a god, presiding over her subjects, untouchable but just for a moment. Because soon people would look up to her. She took a deep breath, got up and bolted from there, her boots clacking: the only sound echoing in the darkness.

As for the scene below, people ran about, berserk, trying not to trample the little actors. Because not minutes ago, a colossal prop had fallen from the ceiling. In and of itself not a big deal, however, this enormous thing crushed beneath it two people. Two people! Blood flowed in rivulets around the shimmering remains of the prop and bodies. Dark red and glittering gold mixing together, a contrast rivalling heaven and hell. No wonder the crowd lost their mind! Still enough clarity remained to call upon an ambulance–though they knew it was too late–and a police car! After all, no one was foolish enough to let the prop slip so naturally, it was assumed to be intentional.

Still, she has been foolish enough. Foolish enough to let it fall. And now foolish enough to run instead of clearing the air up. Though it would seem she would be caught, she ran, her shoes scuffing on the linoleum, her chest heaving. The surroundings left behind, a blur of black and grey the only imprint left. Sirens and screams sounded but didn't register, well not until she reached the door anyway. It didn't open. She had forgotten the key! That is when the world slammed back into focus. The noises, the red walls and the red, camouflaged door fitted in them. It all came back into focus.

Those bloody walls started to push in, trapping her. She rubbed her eyes and when she squinted them open again, the walls were green! Not red. Not bloody. Just plain, old green. She blinked. She had come here time and time again. Why did she think the room was red? Why? Why? Why? Why….

Her legs gave way and she fell against the door. Shaking, hugging her arms. Tears streamed down her face and she screamed. Raw and terror filled. It tore out of her, her throat shredding. Through the scream a voice spoke; not to her, to others. Her eyes opened and through the blur, she saw the figures in black running towards her. She tipped her head back, closing her eyes. A sigh. Seemingly of relief.

Outside, the choir started playing the despondent tune of the masterpiece that was to be.

By Siya Agarwal