The Sad Lullaby

												~The Sad Lullaby~
	Meticulous plots filled with devious schemes ravaged Lallum’s mind, arms fully extended to compose a most peculiar piece, the conductor to a ravishing new tale. The strings of the symphony will rupture the very balance of human emotion, being orchestrated into a marvelous crescendo of events that will forever be entwined in the hearts of the listener. A beauty of which can only be understood through the attentiveness of the eyes as a picture is born through the melodic tone of sound.
	Then it came like a dam unable to hold the river at bay as a torrent of ideas began to seep through the cracks. An indescribable craving that surged to the palms of her hand, yearning to express a vision that fruitfully blossomed in her mind, but it was far too early to begin such a tale. Patience was an invaluable key to unlock the doors of her plan, a tool to unravel the minds of the confined. Being early now would only mean allowing hours of planning to be squandered by such impractical ignorance. Early would fill up her empty canvas, making delicate plans turn out of tune. She would need all the space provided if she wished to unveil the beauty to the eyes of the hungering audience.
	Droves of people came piling into the colosseum, like a flock of hungering geese in search of bread. Before long the theatre was consumed by clattering and clamor, eager to witness the performance with anticipation brimming in their eyes. A virtuoso lived to see these moments, a passionate desire to exceed far beyond expectations and unfold to them original creativity from the very tips of her fingertips, but such a desire must be silenced unless to spoil the finale.
	The backstage was of course spiraling with chaos. Like a stampede performers rushed to their pieces for last minute practice while others were bumbling around to set the stage, moving props around while adjusting the lights and audio. There was little time as she quickly fled the stage to get ready, making way to a reserved balcony room at the top level of the theatre.
	Lallum rounded the corner, nearing her destination when she bumped into one of the performers, sending them both crashing to the ground.
	Across the floor from her laid a delicate girl with chocolate, milky brown hair and a small red rose sitting firmly on her right ear. Her eyes were a dark murky blue, like a vast never-ending ocean on the verge of rupturing from the deadly storm that encompassed it. The girl did not respond back to the sudden intrusion, those lifeless eyes of hers fixated directly on Lallum yet seeing far beyond her at the same time as if she did not entirely exist before her.
	“And who might you be” Lallum inquired, trying to break the silence but to no avail, no words coming out as if she was merely a broken-down puppet that served no purpose.
	This peaked her interested as she mounted on top of the girl, pulling the girl’s long strands of hair in the palms of her hand. Lallum perceived some form of reaction but none came from the approach. This only furthered her advance as she leaned in, her lips very close to the girl but stopping before they connected. It was rather dull to tease someone when they hardly noticed your presence.
	“Dear, it is rather boring if you don’t react a little, at least act the part in the very least,” Lallum said, the girl finally taking notice of her but not willing to respond back.
	It wasn’t until the announcer began to blare the name, “Trist,” when the girl got up, pushing her aside as she walked down the hall back down to the theatre backstage.
	To make matters more amusing, the girl who had just left was supposedly the rumored musician that had been spreading among the commoners in town. An ancient relic of the past, a famous musician that had disappeared one night like an echo in a cave, lost to the ears of the outside. Many now sought to glimpse the tune she played with their own ears, to see if the legends were more than a mere fairytale.
	In truth, Lallum came to determine if the musician was the real thing, hoping she would be the one to transcend the artwork of her dreams into a memorable legend for all to see. A piece that had sprouted in her mind for years now, an idea that began to bud and on the verge of blooming. Only time would tell if spring had come, of which the turning season may arrive just on time.
	There was no turning back as she entered the balcony area. It did not take long to assemble the tool, an innovative utensil to express her original artwork style. Many may perceive it as rather untraditional to painting, but many lacked the minds to process such an abstract creation. A piece that held no real meaning, but beyond the depths of the surface does nothing become something much more. Before long the once empty canvas would become brimming with endless life.
	After the setup was complete, Lallum withdrew a small obsidian-like dress from the closet and tossed in on, the sides pushing up against her hips to give her an hourglass figure. Splattered across the dress was an elegant flowery design, petals of pink, red, and orange blurred together as if painted in watercolor. The opaque frills danced from the corner of her feet, scraping the floor as she moved around. A matching pair of high heels were found on a nearby stool as she quickly jammed it on her toes before waltzing outside.
	The hallway grew dark, empty savor a few stragglers by the walls hanging around. Backstage was as busy as ever though, performers trying to glimpse there competitors during their piece. It did not take long before the current act wrapped up, leaving her to take the stage now. She would be going up next to perform an exquisite piece she had been working on for a while now.
	Lallum let out a mischievous grin as she waltzed upon the hard-oak floor, the curtains slowly unraveling to reveal the hidden performance that laid within, beckoning the audience’s attention to her. The lights flickered on, but nothing could shine any brighter than she would today. Each step towards the instrument in the center of the stage sundered the audience, silencing the once chatty crowd as she took a seat by the piano. All became deathly still as she positioned her hands to play, the eyes of the watchers fixated firmly on her, hungering after the lavish beauty twinkling in front of them. Eagerness for an unforgettable play emerged, one of which would be delivered.
	With concise accuracy, an eerie melody blossomed beneath her fingertips, taking them all by surprise. It was a rather peculiar sound, indescribable that left them feeling uneased yet mesmerized all the same. The solemn tune resonated deeply within, evoking emotions of fear and terror that intertwined together, anticipation to know what would happen in the next scene. Entrancing them all into a cage, a nightmare of her own creation, one of which they shall never wake up from. This left her with a slight smirk spreading across her face, for this was merely a prologue of things to come.
	Then her mind began to run astray, wandering towards the true performance that would be arriving. The hidden play they were all ensnared inside, puppets and she the string master dictating the tempo at which the symphony would play. Then she felt it again, the agonizing pain that bloomed in her hand, a desire that flourished from her soul, a feeling to grab ahold of the paintbrush and splatter color upon the empty canvas. This ceaseless hunger sought to consume the prey, to grab ahold and sink her fangs in like a wolf toppling over its food. Such delicate plans required a certain patience, a certain restraint however.
	Within the blur of the audience did the fabled musician stand out. From the enthusiastic crowd was the girl the only one lifeless, unamused by the spectacle. Those dead blue eyes of hers were empty inside, the music unable to reach out to her. In anger, she shifted the tune like a caterpillar undergoing metamorphosis. The nightmare shifting into that of a requiem, a soft lullaby that bled beneath her fingertips, a desperate attempt to transcend the piece to bewilder her, but only irritation sparked as there was only the same facial expression from the girl.
	The last note was left to echo deeply throughout the room. All still and quiet as a mouse until they all stood to cheer and applaud, the girl fading away within the cheerful crowd.
	Lallum couldn’t ask for a better outcome as she stood and bowed low, but frustration still settled in. She had impressed the entire audience but failed to mesmerize the only person who she wanted to hear it the most, her message unable to be conveyed and it became irritable. An encore will surely follow, the pinnacle of the show has yet to arrive, merely a prelude to things coming.
	Lallum left the stage, circumnavigating the back room before stopping face-to-face in front of Trist. It was in this moment her arms reached out to wrap around the girl’s pale cheeks, skin cold to the touch as if bathed in ice. A sudden desire formed, a lust to strangle her on the spot momentarily flashed in her mind, but she resisted. Instead she pressed forward, pinning the girl to the wall to prevent her from moving.
	“Show me something interesting,” Lallum whispered in the girl’s ear, her voice trembling in a plea, a devilish gleam beaming in her eyes, “blossom into the Muse I have been waiting for, or simply wither away.”
	Lallum let go before walking off, not daring to wait for she already knew a response would never form. Rather than waste time she quickly wandered back to the balcony where she left her unfinished act at. It was then that everything would slowly unravel itself, as the large red curtain unraveled and ushered in the muse in white to perform.
	For the last time tonight did the sting from her hand come, a pain coursing through her entire body. She could feel each pulse of her veins, the blood traveling to each side. It was as if it screamed out to her, pleading for an answer of which could not be given. Soon this feeling will be satisfied.
	The grand theatre lights turned on, the musician’s snow white dress sparkling in the light, but by no means did the girl herself dazzle. The dull demeanor extinguished any form of radiance that could dare possibly show, leaving her to be that of a fading candle on the verge of vanquishing. However, even the tiniest of flames can reignite again, wishing more than anything for that passion to fuel the spark needed.
	Soon would come for Lallum’s time to flourish, for the musician taking the stage would not be playing a solo, but a duet, any every duo needs a matching companion.
	This would be the epilogue of the chapter. A performance of which would transcend into a requiem. It would be at the peak of the performance where she would release the trigger and splatter crimson upon the lifeless dress the girl wore, leaving the memory of the finale stained in the audience’s eyes. Every good story needs a memorable death after all.
	Trist took a seat upon the wooden bench, her hands turning to the keys. A momentary brink of silence came followed by a soft tune that sparked. Joy dissipated, happiness eradicated, only sadness remained for the sound alone changed the attitude entirely of all who could hear and it was simply marvelous. No longer was the empty vessel dormant before her, but rather a canvas that was already full. She alone stood beneath the light, distinguished from the audience as she poured the remaining bit of her soul into the piece.
	Lallum found herself enchanted, bemused and mesmerized all the same. The girl had a side no one could possibly imagine, and for that reason alone did she become irritated. The music the girl created was mesmerizing, those lifeless eyes of the girl exploded into an array of color, unable to be called lifeless anymore.
	It was like watching a flower being suffocated by the dancing snowflakes, a chill like death entangling onto the stems until the burden proved insurmountable, wilting away until they became an empty vessel of their former selves. However; when Trist took the stage everything spiraled into a new prospect, a new reality before formed. For even a decaying flower can bloom once more, its petals branching out to reveal all the hidden beauty and potential that dwelled inside, a place where the eyes were unable to see prior.
	Lallum had found her hands trembling, unable to control them any longer. Her fingers denied her conscious, unwilling to pull the trigger. This was the peak of the performance and such an eloquent ending would never be given. Staining a crimson red upon a canvas composed of a living masterpiece would only vandalize the artwork. Any chance to completing her own creation would never be fulfilled, the image she foresaw overshadowed by a piece far better than mere imagination could dream of.
	The performance drew to an enclosure, but the audience merely awkwardly stood and clapped, unable to process whether they should like the piece or rather pity it. Many in fact just remained seated and did not react at all. Despite the audience ignorance, there was more to the music than mere sound, more importance to the piece that sparked its beauty.
 Lallum nearly leapt out of the door to make her way backstage. There she found Trist’s white dress fluttering out of the exit of which she stumbled upon boxes and shoving actors aside to make it to the girl in time.
	Lallum burst through the door and grabbed ahold of the girl’s arm, forcefully shoving her against the wall as she gazed into her eyes. Once again there was an empty, never-ending sea of a raging storm, an endless abyss of the all-consuming sea. No longer did color flare inside of those eyes of hers, a flame extinguished by the torrent of rain washing it away. It was frustrating to see, frustrating to know that the flower had begun to wilt and didn’t dare bloom in front of her eyes no more.
	“Why do you hesitate,” Trist’s voice came out no louder than a whisper, but just enough to momentarily startle her, “don’t you seek to finish your performance?”
	“I already-,” she was quickly cut off by the sudden interjection.
	“A musician half-heartedly pouring her soul into the piece no longer has the right to claim that was the sound they wished others to hear,” spoke the girl, “why do you hesitate?”
	Lallum had found herself unable to reply, instead reaching for the gun by the side of her hip and pressing it firmly to the girl’s head, but suddenly stopped. She did not have the willpower to press the trigger. Why did she hesitate? It was not like she had any attachment to the girl, no semblance of sympathy nor mercy, so why could she not pull the trigger? Rather, it was the frustration that bothered her, a canvas left empty if she were to pull it now. A type of frustration that ravaged the mind, keeping you walking backwards with your eyes facing forward.
	“Why are you so afraid?” Trist said, “will you let your dream wither away before it had even begun?”
	There was another period of empty silence this time, Lallum trading places as she became the mute unable to respond back. It was only after a long, seemingly never-ending minute of nothingness when Trist pushed her aside as if brushing off a leaf swaying with the autumn wind as she walked away from the theatre walls.
	Then she stopped to turn around, making direct eye contact with her, “if you were to be a flower, then you would be a sunflower, always chasing the sun. Remember that.”
	A month had dragged on from that day, Lallum finding herself indulging all of her time attending a variety of performances. None of the musicians were quite like Trist, the same passion filled eyes not quite the same. She found herself attending each and every one of Trist’s performances, a feeling of genuine amazement every time she listened to the pieces, always being lulled in like a moth drawn to the light.
	Then ensued the frustration and irritation that dwelled deeply in the dark corners of her heart, a pain that came like a raging storm crackling with lightning. Being a Virtuoso meant being at the very top, achieving far greater heights than dreams could reach, so why is it that she had begun to falter from her course? Every day she practiced and excelled thoroughly, but each piece lacked a certain enthusiasm. Passion deprived with each stroke of the keys, every dash of the paintbrush sapping away her spirit. Any hopes to achieve the limelight and be far ahead of the other competitors now seemed to be a distant dream, an echo of a goal far out of reach.
	Frustration enclosed around her and transcended into an obsession, constantly trying to consumer her entirely. The predator had now become the prey as she no longer was able to control her own will. It was maddening to admit that perhaps she had simply become a fragment of her former self, to recognize losing her edge to become a dull sword clashing against sharpened blades.
	Still Lallum eagerly watched, listening intently to each beat, the tune exploding into an array of color from beneath the girl’s fingertips. Such beauty that took time to cultivate and carve, whittling it into the perfect shape, yet the girl managed to weave together the piece so meticulously. The girl became a mirror that reflected aspirations, a reality of which seemed so far out of her reach
	Pulling the trigger would have been all too easy, but each time the gun was drawn did she realize the passion being drained away. She did not possess the strength to see that shining star fade away, no willpower to bring to life the artwork previously envisioned in her mind. Pulling the trigger now would mean shattering the shards of the aspirations she wished to achieve, reduced to merely fragments of endless potential scattered across the floor to never become whole again. All she could do was watch from afar as the light slowly shone brighter as she became a shadow lost for the eyes to see.
	The time slowly began to drag onwards as she stood by in the corner of the shadows merely watching, observing carefully with no clear vision in mind. It wasn’t until the final day of December did Lallum herself cast aside the shadows that she clung onto for so long to step out and chase Trist at the end of a performance outside of the theatre they attended. Darkened clouds had tumbled in that day, trinkets of snow waltzing down from the heavens above to blanket the earth in a thick bed of ice. Northern winds crept in, softly caressing the side of her cheeks, freezing her from head to toe.
	“You still find yourself hesitating,” Trist said, her voice echoing down the alleyway as her face became rosy red like a plump tomato from the rigid storm, “You aspire for the past, walking backwards while your eyes are still gazing to the future of what you wish would become the reality.”
	Lallum did not dare respond back, no words able to befall her lips as if the sound dissolved as soon as it had come. She could only desperately bring out her gun that stood by her hips and place it upon the girl’s forehead but her fingers remained disobedient as she was unable to press the trigger. The image that continuously blossomed in her mind had withered away, the stem snapped in half to be replaced by the buds of a new sprouting flower. A desire that flourished from her heart began to bloom, a passion to deliver a message to the girl in front of her.
	Trist smiled softly as if reading her mind. She leaned in and pressed her soft tender lips next to hers. The weather may have been frigid but her whole body was purged from the coldness as warmth filled every inch of her. Strength fled her body, her gun falling to the side as she caved in to the desires. All thoughts withered away until only the two remained. Their eyes locked on, but Trist’s shone no life, cold and dead like an empty vessel devoid of all thoughts, blue eyes that looked sad as if becoming two large teardrops.
	And then echoed death’s waltz that danced in the alleyway, a crescendo of events that unraveled in the blink of an eye. The gun that was by her side had been pulled to her chest, Trist becoming the messenger of death himself. Seeping from her hips was a river of crimson that stained the obsidian dress, drenching the cloth in blood.
	Lallum topped down to the ground, falling on top of the blanket of snow. The once white crystalline flacks becoming drenched with blood that trickled out of her body and dripped to the empty white canvas below, a thick sheet of ice with blood running through the cracks to form a rose around her corpse.
	It was from this moment did she finally become able to see the reality that was previously blinded to her. Lallum finally realized that she was merely a mirage that bloomed from the mind of Trist to recapture the past. Simply an illusion that the girl had been desperately clinging onto, fragments of her endless imagination that had been reduced to tiny shards across the pavement. Frustration was like a hammer that shattered this imagination as it simply became too much to tolerate any longer.
	Lallum was merely just a fictional girl who symbolized Trist’s stained past, a girl who strived to deliver a message but a message that was never sent to the people she wanted to hear it the most. Each failure led to a frustration that ate away the passion she once had. While the fictional Lallum chased after the passion of the eyes she once had, Trist was merely the living reality of her failure to do so.