MARCH SADNESS - A Symphony of Sorrow

[pumpkinhollow]

SYMPHONY OF SORROW

If the Audience Would Please Take Their Seats

You find yourself at the theatre.

You may be asking how you got here, why you are here, when did you arrive. But none of that matters, does it? Nothing matters. Whether you are shocked at yourself for thinking so or whether you have known that nothing matters for years on end does not matter either. Whatever meaning there was to be had in any of this escapes you now. Who you were and what you wanted, what you valued and stood for, it all seems now like such a hazy dream. Out of reach.

There is a ticket in your hand. It tells you where to go. You follow it dutifully. Ticket stubs are exchanged for playbills. A schedule of performances. Whatever. You numbly proceed to where you belong. Performers and stage crew to their places, orchestra to the pit, workers to their positions. All with the knowledge that there can be only pain.

A four-armed conductor in moth-eaten robes raises his baton, and there is music.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

You deserve this.

Observer’s Overture

First Movement in E Minor

adagio, con dolore
PP

Lights down on the chorus, who sits in the stands. They are playing the role of the audience. Ad lib spoken word between chorus members seated near one another. Soft music begins to swell eerily.

Lights up on the stage. A performance begins, apparently in media res, where the chorus is meant to observe.

vacillante, improvvisato
cresc. P

The performers on stage play out their acts, appearing fearful. The chorus ad libs quiet uncertainty from the stands. Some of them will look down at their playbill and find their own name on the schedule of acts to come. There is a brief description on the page of the act that is scheduled for them. It is clear by the state of the ones already on stage that this isn’t something they have a choice in.

Chorus members attempt to rise from their seats, but cannot. Not yet. Foreshadowing to a later movement. For now, they must endure the overture.

Opera Infernale

Second Movement in Various Keys
( A medley of vignettes, performed in various styles)

chorale concerto a tutti, con affetto

F

Various chorus members rise between songs and make their way to the green room, where they are costumed. They have some time to talk with other incoming acts. They will find themselves and their loved ones being prepared for their acts.

segue

Those who performed before stop in the green room again. They look drained. A fate which awaits the incoming acts.

segue

On the stage, each act is a musical recreation of trauma. A worst fear, a most painful moment, an act of cruelty, a time of hardship. The styles will vary accordingly. If the other players in a given tale are present, they will receive their role without question. If a cast member has no fellow performers from their own world present, an understudy will be chosen to play any other roles from those that they are close to. Everyone is off book. Vocal quality is adjusted to match the conductor’s standards. Staff ensures there are no interruptions. The show must go on.

CODA: Für Nimona
A Coda in A Minor

There is a stranger in the green room, unmoving. Pale glowing eyes peer out from an ungulate-shaped void perched atop a high end suit. Antlers leer overhead. He is waiting for someone. Staff take no notice of him.

Ensemble's Lament

Third Movement in G Minor

bocca chiusa
PPP

There are other places to be besides the stage. Other roles to play.

pesante

Behind the stage, the stage crew toil under Baritone, the stage manager and the Viscount of Suffering. There is a pipe organ built into the man’s chest, and the bell of a horn where his heart ought to be. It shows. He is as cruel as he is miserable. He runs a tight ship.

declamando, letando

There are others in the pit, if they have the musical skill for it. And while this part of the performance is managed by a kinder sort, the Contessa of False Comforts is not so named for no reason.

The opera is long. There are no intermissions. The orchestra plays until their lungs ache and their fingers bleed, while Sonata assures them that it will all be over soon. Surely she cannot be lying. Surely there must be an end…

freddo, pietoso

Just outside the auditorium, there is work for the chorus serving food and drinks, taking ticket stubs for the endless stream of audience members, cleaning messes, or all other manner of soulless work. Perhaps these ensemble members simply did not interest the Conductor. Or it could be that they were made more miserable elsewhere.

Reprise - Observer’s Overture

Fourth Movement in E Major

impetuoso
FF It would seem that once a chorus member’s concerto is complete, they are free to move about the premises. At least until they are scheduled in a supporting role for another soloist. This means a chance to explore--- or escape.

presto repente, bellicoso
cresc.

Those attempting to escape will be met with resistance, however. Guarding the doors are shades, creations of the Conductor who can wear the faces of those held dear by those that look upon them. Escape, more likely, will come from within.

Members of the chorus who attempt to do battle with the Conductor, however, will find themselves up against something far more dangerous. Figures of glass, in all different shapes. Some abstract and solid, some hollow and human-like, and everywhere in between. Perhaps some chorus members will find one to be familiar.

The Hero will need an ensemble of her own to make it through and strike at the Conductor. Perhaps a resistance can be formed in a hidden location near the green room.

Homeward Aria

Fifth and Final Movement in C Major

tiempo di fanfara, vittorioso
F

When a dagger of Aster is driven into the heart of Prince Efrain of Sorrow’s Song, at last, the illusion fades. The members of the chorus relinquish their roles and find themselves on the summit of Crane’s Ridge.

It will be an arduous journey home, but it can be done with the solace that there is one less Demon Prince to trouble Pumpkin Hollow. Music in a joyful major key swells, then decrescendos.

enfatico, mancando poco a poco

| CONTENT WARNINGS: altered states of consciousness, entrapment, grief, depression, mood control, loss of bodily autonomy |

Comments

[tehilim127_1]

"Your own fault," she repeats slowly. "Okay, but that's worse. You do get that that's worse?"

[abhorrently]

"How is it worse? It's the truth. I caused the situation. I reaped the consequences."

And it's the bare minimum of what she deserved.

[tehilim127_1]

"Yeah. That feels worse. Cause you feel like a fool for bringing it on yourself, or guilty, or ashamed. Or all three. On top of going through the thing itself. So, worse."

A beat.

"In my experience, anyway."

[abhorrently]

For a moment, she cannot speak. Feels that knife edge in her back again. In the scar. In her head, radiating outward as a bloody sun. And yet, and yet, she makes herself breathe -

(her grip is tightening, but the riverbanks hold, she remembers who this is, she remembers where she is)

And when her voice comes back, it's softer.

"I was remembering what happened as it happened. I...had only guessed at it before. Now I have confirmation. That's...that's how I lost my memory."

[tehilim127_1]

"Oh," breathes Zivia, and bites her lips. "Oh, hell. I didn't know."

And it's an active effort to keep from saying anything any closer to I'm sorry.

[abhorrently]

"How could you? How could anyone?"

Breathe in. Breathe out. Try to focus, to see a path forward that's not wrapping herself up in a dozen robes and screaming until her voice gives out, something that's not putting out someone's eyes to say and now you will see no more.

(And yet, a subtle curve to her shoulders, trying to fold in on herself.)

"It felt like I was watching myself at the same time that I was there. Seeing myself fight even though I knew I was fated to lose." She shakes her head, keeping her tone neutral. "Kind of pathetic, when you know the ending already. When you know it has to happen a certain way, for everything after."

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia opens her mouth, closes it, tries again.

"Pathetic?"

[abhorrently]

"Yeah. It's not like I didn't have it coming."

She clicks her tongue, shakes her head.

"And it's not like I didn't know that it would inevitably be my turn on stage."

[tehilim127_1]

"I ..."

She takes a long breath.

"I'd like to think you wouldn't say that, if it were me up there."

[abhorrently]

That actually gets her to turn around in her seat, visibly perplexed by the statement.

"What? Why would I ever say that about you?"

[tehilim127_1]

"Why would you say that about anyone? Including you?"

[abhorrently]

"With me, it's the truth." She shrugs, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm not a good person, but back then, I was so much worse. Arrogant, conceited...what happened was just a touch of what I deserved. No one needs to view that as anything more."

Is it better or worse that she's calm about this? Calm in the way a patient under sedation is calm, removed from reality just enough to not react.

"It wouldn't make sense to say it about anyone else."

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia's calm too: calm in the way a hostage negotiator is calm, too aware of reality to let her own reactions get in the way of what she needs to do.

"Maybe you did deserve to be killed, at the time," she says, just as steadily as though the very idea doesn't revolt her. "I can't speak to that. Though I certainly didn't see any due process of law determining it, but regardless. That doesn't mean you deserved to be made to relive it, or to have it splashed in front of everybody on stage. And it certainly doesn't mean anybody should hold you in contempt for being hurt."

[abhorrently]

She's quiet for a time after that, turning the statements over in her head. She wants to argue, wants someone to see it her way, wants someone else to feel the sickening curl in their stomach that says good, that feels like some measure of justice has been done. Why then, even from those that recoil from her in horror, has she not been able to find it? The words that could lance Zivia through are in her throat - and yet. Those are not the ones that come out.

"...I have no right to complain about any of it."

Make her dance through it, again and again. Put it on display to let everyone know how she was broken. Let whatever they see be their amusement, their satisfaction. It's all paying the price, isn't it? It's part of carrying all of it with her, wherever she goes. Things will happen. Endure.

[tehilim127_1]

"Well, first of all that's blasphemy," says Zivia in faintly wry tones -- but only faintly; this is a serious matter. "But second of all, you're not complaining. I'm complaining. You've been treated abominably here and I'm not okay with that. Whatever you've done. That's all."

[abhorrently]

Someone more clever would have something to say, would know how to respond. How to deflect Zivia, reassure her in tones that sounded like agreement but really weren't at the core. But all her charisma and all her intelligence feel so, so far - stabbed open like her head and left to drain out. So instead she just looks away, feeling everything rolling around in her mind like so many marbles.

Until finally words come out, brittle ones.

"I...don't know what you want from me."

[tehilim127_1]

"Sorry. I don't mean to push you."

She almost stops there; hesitates, then continues.

"I guess what I want from you ... and this isn't something you owe me, just to be clear. But what I want from you is to accept that I'm gonna feel bad about the wretched shit you've been through. Even if you feel like you deserved it. Because you're my friend, but also because I'd feel bad for anyone in that situation, and you're part of anyone."

[abhorrently]

Still, she keeps her gaze away, resisting the urge to look back at the mirror. It makes talking easier, though Fever knows she's seen like she was earlier. Like she's under one of those lights, that wound on her abdomen reopened, and everyone peering in.

"I do accept it. I just...I wish you hadn't seen it."

Or anyone. Anyone seeing her pain, her misery, her clinging onto life by shreds. Or any of this, her trying to squeeze her way out of this corner because she doesn't know what's prickling hot and cold in her chest, why this particular feeling has slithered out of hiding for her.

[tehilim127_1]

"Yeah." A long sigh. "I get that. Is there ... I don't know, can I help?"

[abhorrently]

It's hard to maintain this balance, when she's been good at being a support in the past. Held hands while others spoke their pain, listened and let them know that they weren't just speaking to nothing. But it's still hard to ask in return, to extend a hand outwards and ask it to be held.

"...why do you say it's blasphemy, when I say I don't have the right of complaint?"

[tehilim127_1]

"Oh," and that faint wry tone is back, "that was ... I don't mean literally blasphemy, but my people have a long and storied history of complaining, and we don't like the idea that you shouldn't. I mean, there are gonna be situations where you don't have the right to do anything about it, and where you can't expect anyone else to do anything about it either. And maybe other people will get mad or sarcastic about it if you aren't tactful about who you complain to -- and they're allowed to do that too. But ..."

She pauses, to pick the right words. "But it's like, almost an article of faith with us, that everyone basically always has the right to yell 'hey, this sucks' when something in their life sucks. Doesn't mean you're demanding anything change for you. Just means you get to complain."

[abhorrently]

Fever nods, listening to the explanation, but she hasn't lost the furrow in her brow. It makes logical sense, what Zivia is saying. There's a rhyme and reason to it, and reasonable that you can't do anything about it, that others might get upset. But...

"Where do you draw the line? Where do you say enough? When has someone done enough that their right to complain is drowned out under the weight of all the voices they silenced?"

What gives her voice the right to speak, when so many others lament their fate?

[tehilim127_1]

Zivia frowns, more in thought than disapproval, trying to give the question serious consideration.

"I don't know. I don't think it works like that."

[abhorrently]

"Why not?"

There is something genuinely confused in her question - that reminder that for all she manages in the day to day, Fever's still at a loss for so much that others take for granted to know.

[tehilim127_1]

"Well, why would it?"

Zivia, on the other hand, doesn't sound so much confused as deliberately leading.

"Pain isn't a math problem. You don't cancel it out by putting more on the other side."