PIED PIPER | dazai osamu

11: crashing: a woeful ecstasy.

Every voice of the instrument was singled out in the curve of the Opera room.

Bows of cellos and violins hover in the air, suspended in that millisecond, before slashing down. Reaching a feverish pitch, the Soprano reaching the peak of her tragic hysteria, the glossy glaze of her eyes adding to her febrile tone; the great drums at the back thudding like a crazed heart. You can feel it vibrating in your ribcage, thundering through your diaphragm, rendering you breathless as the music moulded you into their rhythm.

Pulling your gaze to the audience, you're met with rows and rows of primly dressed men and women, their hair frozen in waves with hairspray and gel and whatnot. Some with dreadlocks had theirs adorned with gold and silver bands, while others had their afros pressed down with a red or black headband. Their sharp eyes scrutinized the performance; it was an element of the cultural elites that they always found something to pick upon. Old and young, hands folded on their laps, gorgeous...wealthy. Their dresses were lined with jewels that you couldn't even name; you guessed: emeralds from Amsterdam; blinding diamonds that rivalled that of Duleep Singh; milky pearls that were from an ancestral tree of French royalty; effulgent nacre from Persia, now Iran; bloody jacinth procured from frozen Siberian permafrost...needless to say, you felt incredibly out of place there, with your simple (favourite colour) dress. You nibble on the inside of your cheek—you wanted to see if Dazai had shown up today. He had said, and of course, he would have, but you were just paranoid about the fact that he might have prioritized his scheduled suicide attempts over your show. Finding not a familiar mop of brown hair, you sigh, biting the inside of your cheek, before averting your gaze back to the front, a light melancholy dampening your mood.

The Soprano was no longer the same lady you had seen before. You blink.

The Soprano was now the lady that had sat with you back in Lupins. She greets your gaze. With pinpoint accuracy, her gaze arrows you to your seat, effectively pinning you down to the leather. You swallow the lump in your throat—a feeling of pain creeping over you like a hood, eliciting a sting to bring fearful tears to your eyes. Not again—not again! Her gleaming red eyes do not flicker away. She places a manicured hand on her delicate chest, swelling like a sparrow from her held note, but in your terror-stricken state, you heard nothing; fingers trembling against the arms of the chair, clammy and cold. A sharp inhale that revives the noises all at once like water smashing against the dam gates; the sudden stimulation making you gasp, still looking steadfast into the woman's eyes.

And then, silence.

The applause that erupted from the audience snaps you from your haze, a flash of black overcoming your gaze when you stand up like the rest to give a weak standing ovation. Thunderous and enthusiastic. Whistles and impressed murmurs. But all of it felt muffled behind your burning forehead. You let out a haggard breath—pressing a hand to your chest and feeling the savage heart there crash and rage. A faint ringing noise in your ears. The beads of perspiration felt unpleasant on your forehead, but with a brown napkin in a plastic black bin near the snack table, you crumpled it in your fist and looked upon the chattering bunch.

You were now sure that that woman's ability was to do with creating illusions. It was the only way, right? You finally muster up enough courage to look back at the stage—the Soprano, now no longer sporting a traditional Japanese bun and red eyeliner, looks away as though she had been scorched by your stare, as though finding it that your stare was much harsher that compared to the elites. You sigh, mindlessly grabbing a champagne flute being carried out, but not necessarily drinking it—only swirling the clear light yellow liquid around with a flat line to your lips; flattering the eager men and curious women wanting to know your inspiration behind the composition with a smile that could be described as faded; you teased the rim of the glass with your lips—never drinking, but never abstaining, letting it meet your lips but never past them.