- Tuesday, April 24, 2007

The Phantom's Song of Love

The red-blue flames danced wittingly with bitter moves above ashes and soft brittle wood. They tied their hair, stood inline, and started their masquerading dance. Their gowns, beautiful and attractive, were adorned heavily with glaring sparkling jewels, that blows spectrums all around the near distance whenever they waltzed. Their long spines are poised and ever ready to twist, erected with confidence at an amount devastating enough to drown anything. Masters of dances, they move their hands, tapped their legs, and shook their hips. Their hair spun about, as if capable of dancing independently and dependently at the same time. But all these occurred only when loneliness - the sibling of silence - existed.

The room was dusty. Dust decorated the whole area in varying patterns, sculpting pleasant pictures that catches the eye and arouses irritation. They seemed to possess the excellent art of drawing and painting, and were even exceedingly artistic than Leonardo da Vinci, who was known for his eye-provoking Mona Lisa, Anunciation, the recent most controversial the Last Supper, and so forth. The artist wasn't eternal as the intelligent dust, because no matter how hard others attempted to drive them away, after a while they came rushing back, giggling at the insane stupidity of those who detested their presence.

But these didn't disturbed Oliver; he had lived with them his entire life. Though sixteen of age, he simple sang the tune of solitude. He was thrown into this furnace room by his father, who once asked him a question that had cut his heart, "Why can't you be like other boys?" He stared at his hands, the disfigured skin he couldn't recognize. Often he wondered why he had a father whom he called father. He whispered, to his hands, as if they were his closest friends, "Why is my father like that?" He couldn't hate his father, nor could he find a reason to love the man who made his life possible.

The wind blew against his face, reminding him of the Anthem of Solitude. He whistled along, shook his head to his sides, and then nodded his head. He heard the orchestra championing in his eardrums, soothing his desire of releasing rage. He chuckled and saw before him a multitude of dancers wearing evening gowns of striking golden colors and dark evening coats dancing within the little furnace room. They wore decorated masks as the beauty of the pressing horror came. But, like zombies that adored darkness, the dancers tangoed to the tune of the theme song. G major, then E minor, hitting the G-sharp, forming a E major, with chromatic third apart eventually reaching A and C. Like a choir majestically resounding a thick force of sounds, the music went on.

    See you in December, if you remember,
    All the hells to the abyss, all the pain of past!
    See you in December, I will remember,
    The love for the solitude! The adoration of the hurt!

    Oh how nice to slurp in the grave
    To fondle in the arms of the brave
    Then pulling out the heart of the man
    Until he is nothing but skin so tan

    Ah! The love of death! The taste of death!
    Fill in! Drink in! Slurp it in! Suck in! Taste it!
    Like horror and flirtatious eagerness to lick all of it
    All of death, all of sorrow, all of solitude!

    The skin of the living, food for the dark,
    The lungs of the living, juice to the dark;
    The bladders of the living, wells of fountain to the dark,
    How nice to drink it in! How satisfying to kiss and lick them all!

    Soon you'll be, home with me!
    All the dancers of the December night!
    Sleep with me, Then we'll be,
    Intimate lovers of the sleep so tight!

The melody kept singing, the strings kept slurring and building climax upon climax. The notes haunting and yet soothing its listener, slowly sapping joy out of the victim, but who would realize?

Oliver sang together, with the choir. Such an entertainment couldn't be described, such a joy couldn't be explained! The pain in his heart disappeared into twilight, his past lost its existence, and hollow hummed in his mind.

But then, his father marched into the furnace room without Oliver's notice, and grabbed him. The man stared angrily into his eyes with rage incomprehensible. "Father," the boy smiled. The man couldn't understand his son, and out of anger, tossed his son against the wall, and then screaming, "Why didn't you collect the clothes from Mrs. Andresburg? Do you know that you're a disgrace to our family? Having the look of the dead ghost-like zombie walking around uglily is bad enough to be called my son, and now you're forgetting the tasks I've assigned you? So what do you want now, dog?"

Oliver stared at his father, tasting the blood inside his mouth and smiled, "Oh, Mrs. Andresburg said I look like a piece of shit so she wouldn't dare to give me the clothes! I really look like a piece of shit, huh?" He snapped into a series of laughter, angering his father, but he could care less, since he was as good as a dog that goes around the master's table licking feet for a few crumbs.

His father sighed, with utter disappointment. "Yes, you're a piece of shit not worth to even be called a dog." And the man walked out of the room and locked Oliver inside, without even bringing the boy's dinner. It was nine at night, and Oliver could hear the wolves singing to the theme now, together with him. "After all, I am just a piece of shit not worth to even be called a dog, huh?"

He stood and in his hand his favorite white cloth he had treasured, since that was the only white one he had. Clothes were sent to the furnace room to be burned, because they were too dirty and could never be washed. And Oliver's job was to go around the neighborhood asking for clothes to be burned. But he was tired of doing so much, yet get rejected by his only parent. After all, what's worth it after doing so much, trying to get somebody's attention, and he got in return was just words of insult? Wasn't he worth more?

Maybe not at all, maybe not worth anything at all. Oliver told himself. Maybe I'm just a selfish fool who tries to work so hard for something that was never meant to be mine. So what if I've a name or a father, they never meant anything to me. All they're capable of was injuring me. Maybe I am just an insolent fool who should be reproached and cast aside and not remembered at all. Maybe I am just a stupid boy who has no ability like Thomas, who could sing so well until Father Balini asked him to sing in the church choir; or Henry, who could draw so well, until he became Gerrohrey's apprentice so that he could draw as handsomely as Gerrohrey one day; or Nelson, who could run so fast he was selected to be an athlete. But it's true.

I'm not as nice looking as they. Look at yourself, Oliver. You look like a ghost from hell. At the first sight of you people run away as if they've witnessed a crime scene, or the Phantom of the Opera. Thomas and Henry and Nelson and the others look like chubby cute heavenly angels that God, if He existed, would carry them in His arms and rock them to sleep and sing lullabys for them. But you? You're just a stupid child of the devil who does not even deserve to call God God, and now you're trying so hard to be somebody you're not worth to be a bit like? Who do you think you are anyway?

He walked, thinking to himself, and all of a sudden he tripped and fell, the white cloth in his hands slipped out of his hands and brushed against the charcoal stains, and turned black. Not rising, he stared at the flickering fire and pulled the cloth to himself. He observed the cloth for such a long time he didn't realize midnight had come to haunt him with chatterings he heard so clearly. Finally he rose to his feet and hugged the cloth, pushing it against his little chest.

After all, it has already been stained. It is useless to love it anymore.

Along with the other dirtied clothes, he threw the one he used to love into the furnace and heated it as hot as possible, and there go all the clothes. To the grave! Oh, to the grave! Come shower on these poor souls, little flowers, and petals dance around, make some sound so the love abounds! Hosts of hell chant along, the anthem of the dead let it lose, the twirling of the howling wind blow within, come and come and come! All the worthless love around!

Finally when the song couldn't go on, Oliver heated the furnace seven times hotter and jumped into it, feeling the love of hell sucking him out, and eventually turned into dust and ashes, as if he never existed on earth.

Perhaps being the phantom of the furnace house would haunt the next person who worked there, and the pleasure of drinking other's blood would be his. Praise, oh praise to the living hell of unfathomable desire for love, because through it, only hatred is available for taste - the taste so bitter yet so sweet, so dispelling yet so satisfying.

The love of the night. The song of the night. The desire of the night.

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