The Devil and The Angel played for me:
In
the first quarter of the night when crickets chirp their hind legs, frogs croak
their deep, guttural sounds, and the soothing whispers of birds who mirror
piccolos. The time in which evil peruses and wanders searching for those to
perturb. Nigh no semblances of light in the vicinity, only the shadows of the lost
and pestering souls that have yet to cross the mortal realm. He who wonders at
the cursed hour is destined to face horrors and surprises no man will ever
believe could be witnessed. So was my misfortune of meandering through
corridors, unable to grasp sleep, writing away into my journal this uneventful
and dastardly moment. Oh, how wrong can one person be?
Not
soon after finishing the entry a figure prostates onto my windowsill,
illuminated vaguely by the subtle reflections of the full moon, humbling itself
with a deep vow. Another figure reveals itself from the darkest corner of my
living quarters, assertive in nature and giving no lenience to being
respectful. These two entities watched with their piercing eyes, not gauging
but waiting for something or someone. Dare I defy such strangers with
threatening auras? Nay. My body could only paralyze itself, lying motionless as
my eyes followed their every gesture, movement, and expression—if they had any.
The
stunning fear must have driven me to madness for the unmistakable hisses of a
whistle—nay, a pipping flute—was covering my ears. Staccato, tenuto, pianissimo,
forte. A piece unknown to mine ears clearly stating this was angelical in
nature, far greater than that of a regular musician. This entity grew wing,
alluring and reflecting the light from the moon. It was odd considering the
attire: a white peplos contrasting and clashing, yet still blending, with a
dark skin; no footwear; and the features and physique of a Greek statue, sculpted by Michelangelo himself.
My
ears dare fool me once again but with the harsh and melodic bowing of a string
instrument—a viola, perhaps more of a fiddle. Legato, adagio, melancholic,
trilling. Yet another piece mine ears could not identify, more malevolent in
nature, still in higher quality than any amateur musician. This being grew
horns, curling and flashing with an ember-like pulse. It wore, regardless of
the obscurity, an inverse to the other with a dark, black peplos unsynchronized
with its pale complexion; no footwear; and the features and physique of Nordic
deity.
None
spoke, much less I, for our silence spoke for us. The overabundance of sounds
reverberating against my walls, having me listen to a concerto of unimaginable
proportions whilst my body lays in fear and repugnance. My ears were in
corporeal dissonance with the rest as my mind grew to feel pleasure from
these incredible musicians. I have been both cursed and blessed. Curse, for I
can never find such piece again and blessed, for being chosen. I can never live
a normal life: I thank and vex thee.