circumitus: Then drank our feelings. I feel feminism delivered. (we ate our feelings)
Reybama ([personal profile] circumitus) wrote 2013-09-30 12:57 am (UTC)

“remember me, remember me...”

The actress playing Dido herself despairs upon the crescendo of her aria. While only catching glimpses of her pain, even her voice was almost enough to wrench a small string in your terrible heart.

The man beside you glances over, but you feel yourself cling to the shadows. You’re ridged as always. Unmoving, except for when you had crept towards the edge of your seat to get a closer look over the balcony, listening to the lament with great interest and heartache. An ache that has no rhyme or reason, but shakes you to your bones.

All this time you’ve kept your hands to yourself, crossed over your lap, your body constricted to the blackness that blankets you.

“But ah! Forget my fate.”

Just like you, the man beside you seems to have been equally attentive to the final throes of Dido’s dirge.

At the last note, the orchestra fades. The song ends.

An enthusiastic applause fills the golden amphitheater.

You hear a voice next to your ear, whispering. “We should leave before everyone else starts... to, um...” His words fade as he turns his head to you.

Your eyes are wide, and you’ve been shaking. Have you been shaking this entire time? Yes, yes you have. You’re terrified, because something inside of you is coming to life the moment that Dido crumbled to her death. Why? Why is this? What is happening to you?

more i would, but death invades me;

There’s a woman’s voice in your head, and it isn’t Dido’s song. It’s the voice of someone kind and nurturing and she knows you well. A memory, playing before you with the same great corporeality of the opera you’ve been so captive to. In the memory, you see a woman. Blonde, green-eyed, beautiful. She is kind, and you think you love her. But it is your nature to hurt the things you love. And in that moment you feel it, your fingers wrapping around her throat. Tightening. She’s saying something to you.

“It’s okay, Fiona.”

Who is Fiona?


You hear a snap, and the woman’s face and voice fades.

death is now a welcome guest...

With the wild ovation below and the cast on stage taking a final bow, the man next to you moves in. He takes your hand this time, his fingers folding over yours, which had been clutching the arm of your seat until your knuckles whiten.

Cautiously he whispers your name. You jump at the sound of it.

And it’s strange, because your eyes are burning. You feel something wet streaming down your face, from your eyes, and you don’t know why. You’ve never felt this before.

Sliding his fingers up your forearm, the man helps you back onto your feet, supporting your strangely trembling self.

“Come on...” he says to you, soft and careful when he does. “Let’s go.”

Drying your eyes with the crimson scarf around your neck, you nod, and say nothing.

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