Both the fill and key lights came
alive above the majestic stage not long after, followed closely by the
backlights catching the polished black lid of the Steinway concert grand. Two
footlights along the platform’s edge kept just enough glow for safe footing,
the soft colours creating shallow shades along the stage as Francisco approached
the centre of the podium.
Hypnotised eyes traced his every
move, the way his breath fogged beneath the intense backlights as he took his
designated seat at the grand piano. With his slender fingers hovering above the
black and white keys, a moment of absolute silence hung in the air. Then, as he
flexed his wrists once, in E‑flat minor, he struck the first chord of Samuel Barber’s
Sonata.
The action of the hammer danced
beneath the enthralling sound, the immediate mechanical click lost beneath the
sonata’s brutality, and notes shattered into the air in dissonant clusters that
lingered too long, bending back from somewhere high in the deepening shadows
where the stage lightning could not reach.
When the Adagio’s slow ostinato
began, his fingers pressed softer, sinking deep into the weighted keys, and the
haunting melody bent again, before collapsing into the opening of the finale.
His hands moved faster now, crossing and twisting in all directions as the grand
piano growled and shrieked in four different tones, creating a hauntingly
beautiful harmony.
Then… silence. The striking notes
came to an end as thousands breathed out as one, gasping, captivated by the melancholy
sonata and lost in its remarkable and tender melodies that ended far too soon,
far too suddenly.
And the world tilted on its axis.
Francisco lifted his hands off
the keys, and the cameras pulled back and tilted the frame so that they captured
a distorted version of the concert hall and the thousands of attendees, who
secured seats at great expense to witness the craft of his otherworldly artistry
as a famed pianist, whose renown stretched far and wide, across the globe. A
living legend, a black sheep in the dwindling industry slowly losing its soul,
bringing back the golden days of the classics with his talents.
But as the cameras lingered on his
inverted form, recording the chiselled features of his face under the dimness
and shrewd angle, he carried a secret so great that should the word spread, he
might never recover from it, and the ladder be ripped out from under him before
he even reached the top.
Greeting the audience, bowing
just low enough to make it look like he cared about them, he raised his head
and let his eyes settle on the clapping audience clad in elegant costumes made
from the finest fabric to ever exist. But it was not those superficial details
that caught his attention this very second.
As the sea of bewitched attendees
fought to meet his gaze, the stage lights gradually switched on, and his eyes
settled on a young woman who wasn’t supposed to be there. Garbed in a black evening
dress, she wore a smile on her china face, one that grew wider by the second
until it turned into a grotesque rictus – something in between a grin and a
scream cut short. Too short, in his opinion.
When he straightened his spine,
she was gone, and in place of her remained an empty seat with white lilies on
top, and from the petals dripped fresh blood. A smirk tugged at his lips as he
saw the crimson liquid, reliving the moment his muse sacrificed her body and
soul for him, going so far as to become his – truly his – just to
see him grow into his full potential, or rather, die thinking her selfless
contribution added something to this mundane world.
But she wasn’t the only one who
had these unhealthy ideas, not the only muse he had and would continue to have
for as long as his secret remained hidden from plain sight.
People of all sexes and walks of
life sought him out, some as genuine fans of what he represented or thought
he did, while others were slaves to their sexual desires, hankering for his
flesh as if it were the forbidden fruit itself, unable to resist the sweetness.
But what was so bad about Eden’s fruit? Wasn’t it the beginning of humanity as it
is, or perhaps, the moment humanity’s story began to unravel because it fell
apart first?
Without the darkness we each
carry deep in the chambers of our blackened hearts, what purpose would light
serve? In the end, light was created as a response to this vast darkness and
the weight of that morbidity within it, hiding in plain sight but never truly
seen, not until it was brought back into our lives one way or the other –
sometimes – on purpose, even.
And just as light needed darkness to thrive, a harmless and
necessary agreement, so too was the pact Francisco made with his victims. He
gave them what they wanted in return for something far greater, turning each
one of them into his muses and keeping them alive in his memories and celebrated
magnum opuses. Such was indeed the secret he carried, and not a single day
passed without him honouring them, as he relived their final sacrifices each
night before stepping onto yet another sold-out stage.
With the cheers reaching a disturbing crescendo and the concert hall trembling beneath the weight of the audience’s fervent applause, Francisco slipped away from the podium, and his shrewd, upside-down shadow stretched long and restless into the growing darkness beyond the stage lights.
