Roses with Ribbons

Christine

A secret passageway?

I reached my hand out tentatively and stroked the stones creating an archway in the wall. They were smooth, their light grey color contrasting the darkness of the small tunnel. It smelled moist inside, like the tunnel had been there for ages without proper care.

Without telling my feet to, I began down the dim corridor. The stench became damp and I could taste it in my mouth. It grew colder and the narrow hall - my hands could touch the sides next to me - began to descend. The silence was deafening. The noise of the halls was gone, as was the light from where I had entered.

But then, suddenly: music. Very faint, a violin playing pianissimo. My heart skipped a beat and I stumbled over my own feet. I moved faster, my breath coming in small, quiet bursts as I flew down the path.

And then I slammed head-first into something. Something quite hard. I fell back and collapsed onto the ground. In the darkness, I could see stars. Dizzy, I scrambled up to my feet hastily and then, tentatively, walked forward once more. My hands pressed against something cold. Is this the end of it? I let my hands trail down the obstruction. My right hand caught on a strangely shaped object just below and to the right of the center of the wall.

A... a doorknob?

I began turning it and I felt i-

"Raoul, I'm frightened... Don't make me do this..."

I froze.

"Raoul, it scares me, don't put me through this ordeal by fire."

"Who is that?" I whispered into the dark, my hand still clutching the knob. She sounds young, so afraid.

"He'll take me, I know. We'll be parted forever..."

Who is Raoul? Who is 'He'?

"He won't let me go."

I listened for more. My entire body was alert and there was no sound from me, from my soft violinist, or from this mystery maiden. Silence.

And then, after enduring a pause so long my hand began to tingle-

"He won't let you go either," she spoke to me.

"He has found his new Angel of Music, Mademoiselle Joséphine Manet. The Angel of Music will sing songs in your head," she sang.

"Who is this Angel of Music? Please!"

And then it was over. I felt it. I felt her go, leaving behind a burden for me that I didn't even understand.

I was still left with a doorknob in my hand. I shuddered. I began turning it - again- and I felt it twist.

*click*

I let go of the knob and stepped back. The door swung open slowly, making no sound.

I gasped, stepping inside. This room was painted in dark colors. Black curtains were draped all around, shielding no windows, simply a wall. None of this in itself was fascinating. What was, however, was the astounding amount of art.

Paintings, sculptures, trinkets. All of... All of the same girl in the first amazing mural. But no, these still were not what captured my attention.

There were also paintings of... roses. Roses tied with black ribbons.

There were also sculptures of... rings. Rings in all sizes that sparkled in the same way.

There were also trinkets of... music boxes. Music boxes with ballerinas, figurines of the girl, and one, one with a... monkey?

And still, no, these did not have my undivided attention.

What I saw, what I saw that caught my eyes so quickly and so insistently, was a small black wrought iron table. I ignored everything else in the crowded room and approached it, my dirty dress and mussed black hair making me seem quite under-dressed for such a room.

On the table were three items.

The first one: a crimson rose. Tied with a dark, black ribbon. Darker than my hair. Darker than the curtains. Darker than the night. I picked up the flower, sniffed it carefully, stroked the petals, and then dropped it to the floor when I saw the picture frame.

The second one: a gold picture frame with a small black-and-white photograph of... My mouth fell open. Of the woman who was in all these countless paintings, the mural. Inscribed in the frame, below the picture, was a name. Christine.

The third one: an envelope with a skull stamped on to seal it. I opened it carefully, so as not to damage the parchment inside. I pulled out a cream colored paper, from which a small, square photograph the size of my palm fell onto the stone floor. I picked it up, craving to see more of the lady, Mademoiselle Christine. The photograph was not of her. It was of me.

Black spots appeared in front of my eyes: I was going to faint! No, not here!

I shook it off quickly, before I could succumb to the inviting darkness. I opened the letter with shaky hands. It read:

My Dear Joséphine,
I am most pleased with your work. I have long been in search for a new muse. You, my dear, are divine. I will need you at once to sing for my music. Give in to the darkness you cannot fight. Know your Angel of Music is watching.

Your Doting Angel of Music