Where The Choir Sings No More

By Melissa M. Sharp

The angel statues wept sharp stones and blunt rocks onto their delicate palms, for liquids cannot flow from marble. Hands crafted by an architect long dead covered such grotesque faces, cleverly painted to hide the truth they refused to face. Pointed teeth, carved intricately, escaped from scowling mouths, often piercing lips torn away just from the simple act of speaking. Or perhaps, only moaning and whining in such irredeemable devastation was all they could manage, because uttering words was too painful. How could they dare speak of this bleak tale, the only conscious memory they had and the burden they were cursed to remember forever? 

There was an uninvited echo of stone tears falling upon the desolate stage below. They overflowed from the overflowing collection of ashen gravel held in the angels’ hands, tumbling down awkwardly like a razor-sharp waterfall, forming pools of grey boulders in a space once so worthy of observation. Please do not blame them, for they could not help it. What else could they do but cry a crashing collection of fragments, their crumbling bodies succumbing to time’s irreversible grip. 

And as the remaining angels succumbed to their fate, the wandering ghosts all agreed that they sounded eerily like the deafening rain that had battered the wooden roof of this old theatre all those moons ago. 

Lavinia’s sagging clothes were heavily draped over the maroon carpet, threatening to pull her into a mass of human flesh. Droplets of rain delicately trickled from the ends of her messy hair onto the vomitorium as her swollen boots sank into a muddy step. She cursed herself silently when she realised a trail of muddy footprints was following her movements, as if a ghost had crept up behind her on her cautious walk. Her toes ached painfully as she began to tiptoe through the auditorium, worried her mess would get her into trouble. 

Looking around her, she spotted plush, neatly arranged seats, their deep vermilion colour glowing from the candles lining the edge of the aisle, like poppies in a field bathed by a wondrous sunrise. Lavinia imagined she heard laughter and graceful cheering envelop the room, the actors on stage relishing their success. There must have been gentlemen and their doting wives seated within these seats, enjoying the delight of being rich not only in money but also in access to the theatre. She was perilously out of place among such people, her soaked presence a sinful travesty as she continued down the aisle. A small chuckle escaped her lips as she pondered how she must resemble the likes of a ghost bride, meeting her gruesome fate on the stage before her.

The quiet enchantment this domed room held hit her all at once as she reached the front of the stage. The proscenium arch, lined with colourless crying angels, loomed over her as if daring her to step onto the stage. Lavinia did just that, her long dress and coat sagging as she hoisted herself up, lifting her weight over the edge of the stage until she rolled into the space. Her fingers were covered in wood dust as she scrambled to her feet, so she began brushing her fingers off on her torn dress, but the dampness of the silk only made the wood dust stick to her even more. She gave up and turned her attention to matters other than material things.

Her heart pounded fiercely as she perceived the auditorium's shadowy space and felt it stare at her, waiting patiently for her performance. There was a haunting quality to this theatre — the loneliness of its craft, given over to the likes of future grime and rodents — yet she felt safe and protected within it. She felt as if she had known this place all her life. 

An unreasonably wrong and immature impulse surfaced in her mind as she felt an urge to scream. She imagined her impulse tearing into her heart and daring to squeeze until the blood burst out of her mouth and stained the stage with the same colour as the audience seats. She longed to dominate this space, to make the stage her home. 

A blush crept up her neck at the thought of being reckless, yet the roaring chaos echoing in her ears overwhelmed her senses and tugged at her vocal cords until she produced a glorious hum. It was an old chant, a folk song she remembered from her childhood, its nostalgic lyrics clinging to her bleeding heart as she began to sing. She softly sang, her tongue folding in certain places, the tune perfected as it filled the stage air, a gentle breeze of song and memory surrounding her in wonder. 

“You will make the angels jealous.” A gentle voice interrupted the splendour Lavinia had created, causing her to startle suddenly, her damp clothes brushing against her skin. 

Embarrassment and shame filled her body, paralysing her enough to dismiss her wrongdoings. She sank her head, not daring to look behind her as she heard soft footsteps creep up until they stood by her side. A chill stole her warmth as the foreboding presence stood patiently, awaiting her next move. 

“Why do you stare at the ground?” The hushed voice of what sounded like a man inched closer to her right, his breath tickling the tip of her ear. “It is not as interesting as the space before you, and I know you think that too, after all, you sang sweetly into it, enraptured by its allure.” 

Lavinia shakily nodded, frightened that she would be sent away for her misdeeds. She heard a dismissive ‘tsk’ from the man, his footsteps gliding across the stage, barely audible. 

“Do you like my artwork?” he asked, a hint of curiosity edging his commanding tone. 

Lifting her head warily, Lavinia’s eyes flicked towards the man who smiled amiably, drawing her into his enchanting spell. He was elegantly dressed in an ivy-green suit, his strong frame hugging it, with the glossy buttons on his waistcoat flickering in shades of auburn under the candlelight. His whole body seemed to glow; his pale skin illuminated like an oil lamp, which she longed to ignite with the flames travelling beneath her fingertips. His coal hair was slicked back slightly, with some strands falling in a messy disarray as if he had been running his hands through it. He was an angel fallen from Heaven.

There was undoubtedly a charm he wanted her to see, wished her to be lost in, but she knew it was a deception. She couldn’t escape his persistently grave aura, which fluttered around him as if afraid to touch his body but couldn’t stay away. Lavinia noticed that deep woe was etched into the laughter lines that crinkled at his eyes, something many would overlook. The candlelight outlined them all in rivers of light, leading in skew-whiff journeys to the green eyes that dimmed in realisation, causing the man to turn hastily away from her.  

She suddenly feared he would leave her, a feeling bitter and unfamiliar to Lavinia. Recalling his question, she hurriedly looked above him and spotted the crying angels whose marble palms covered their faces. There were so many moulded into the proscenium arch, making it resemble a gateway to Heaven. Was this what he was referring to? 

“Why outline this theatre with angels who hold no face?”

“They do not own that privilege as we humans do,” he quickly responded, as if he had been waiting to vomit out those words to a question no one had bothered to ask. His back was still turned to her as he continued in an astute tone. “But even so, do you keep your face when on stage or do you swap it out for the one you want them to see?” 

“Are you calling me an angel?” She intended to mock him, but genuine curiosity slipped from her lips. A blush more intense than any she had before swept over her skin so quickly that she coloured. She thought she must look like a fool, resembling a tomato, and was thankful he couldn’t see her clearly in the dim light as he slowly turned around. 

He eyed her agonizingly slowly, deliberately making her feel uncomfortable. “Of course,” she blinked in disbelief. “An angel that sings under both the lights on stage and the moonbeams at night, leading gentlemen and penniless fools alike to their death with your lulling ruse.”

“Do not paint me to be so grey and vicious.” She stepped forward but paused at the pride in his smirk. It made her nervous, and she then remembered that she had trespassed into this theatre and that this place might belong to him. “I am sorry to intrude on your theatre. I only wanted to escape the rain.”

Lavinia gestured towards her tangled clothes, now feeling ashamed to stand near this man. However, he did not look away from her face; instead, he raised his hand high above his head. She followed his pointing finger until she was again gazing at the crying angels. 

“You should add some colour to them. The theatre needs vibrancy around it, a golden rush of beauty to outline the performers.”  

“They do not deserve it, for the colours in this space should remain on only the performers, lighting you up in a spectacle only worthy of Gods," he argued.

“You are far too romantic.”

“And you are far too idealistic.” 

She huffed softly, but the fondness was absent. It showed in his smile as he folded his arms, evidently not retreating from their feud. 

“Do not shut your eye to the beauty that can be found in the monotone and dull, for that is all many of us humans know.” Her mouth parted in silent reverie to hear him talk of something real. “It is all we can work with in our fantasies. That is where true romance, with no false intentions and fake confessions, can be found.”

The wind that seeped through the decaying theatre drowned out the memory of these two souls, their words forgotten when they passed, remembered only by the broken angels above. They almost laughed at the recollection of a time so simple, before hands of death strangled the life out of these characters. It is a shame, truly, that the hands that killed them belonged to the other. 

And so, the angels continued their sobbing, their wails blending with the gusts of wind, creating a melody that was both repulsive and strangely comforting in its familiarity, causing the theatre to crumble around them, hiding its ears from the truth found in a melancholic song. One that had not been sung for over a century and would likely never be sung again. 

By Melissa M. Sharp