Voice Of A Troubled Angel

Chapter One: The Man in the House on the Hill

   He watches over everything from a high perch where no one can see him. He is invisible to the visible world he looks at for hours.

    The man in the house on the hill is lonely, but he will not admit it to himself. The town does not know he is there. He chooses solitude, so in other words, he was lying in the bed he made. He felt he had no right to change the fate thrust upon him, and as it was not a terrible fate, did not care enough to try to change it. If loneliness is the price he must pay for his gifts, it was a small price.

    But the man is lying to himself. He will not admit this either, but deep down, he felt he would rather have just one person than his many gifts.

    He sighed, and moved away from his glass wall.

     His hair was a dark black, blacker than the night. His eyes were a dull greenish hazel, which occasionally shifted to gold when he felt something other than his usual dullness, or when something was strong enough to brighten his spirit. His skin was deathly pale from spending years indoors, only venturing out at night, or in the late afternoon to buy necessities or mail things for his work. His hands, peeking out from the sleeves of a black shirt were bony and callused, tapered with long, slender fingers; musician's hands. Half of his face was perfect. Handsome to the point of being beautiful. Straight, thin, perfectly designed lips. A defined jaw, sharp chin, and a single flawless eyebrow. The other side of his face was hidden in shadow, and covered by a mask of perfection. His appearance was unknown to everyone he had ever encountered. The man didn't have friends, after all. He believed if they saw his face, they would run anyway, so it would be better for both parties to have never interacted to begin with. Anyone he had to speak to heard only his melodic, deep, enthralling voice, and never bothered to see the man behind it, the man who hid in shadows and only spoke to them.

    The man who had gruesome secrets.

     He walked slowly down the mahogany staircase of his home, heading for his office, which was more of a music room than an office. It contained more instruments than stationery supplies or technology.

    If he had cared about his loneliness, every time he walked through his house, he might have developed a loathing that could only grow for it's size. Who needed an eight bedroom house with two living rooms, four baths, a study, an office, a music room, and a pool when there was just one man living there alone, who never had guests or visitors or family? But instead, this man just saw a house where he could play at all hours without disturbing anyone, and with enough space so that he could avoid going deaf by hearing himself.

   He entered his 'office' and sat down at the grand piano situated in the middle of the room. It was a beautiful instrument, thirty years old, imported from France, made with the wood of German trees, and ivory keys made of real ivory from the tusks of elephants in Africa. Next to his blood red Stradivarius, the piano was his favorite instrument to compose on. Of course his organ was more than tolerable as well.

    Just as his fingers hovered over the black and white keys, poised to play, his phone rang.

   Sighing once more, he shook his head. If he ignored whoever it was, they would go away. And he could count the number of people who had his phone number on his fingers and still have digits left. Of all those people, he was not in the mood to talk to any of them.

    He opened the opera he had been working on. It didn't have a name, but he could never find names for anything he wrote. He sent them in to companies and theatres and producers and once they bought his compositions, they named them.

   This particular opera was the most challenging he had ever written. It had taken him ten years just to write two acts. He would constantly sit down and write a few bars and then become frustrated and throw the thing across the room or shred a copy of it. Then he put the original away for a month, or sometimes a year or two, and take it out again and repeat the irritating process. He never felt like he needed a muse for any of his previous works, but for this one... he was angry with it for being so difficult. He hated it and loved it. It was the only thing he loved, and one of the many things on the long list of things he hated. Whether he hated it because of the challenge or the fact that it was ridiculous, he didn't know. He just hated the damn thing with an intense, insurmountable loathing, and loved it as if it was what kept him alive. Which it might have been, since if not for this, he might have died of boredom a long time ago. This was the only thing that made him feel like he had a purpose, after all.

   Sighing once more - our nonchalant friend seems to be fond of sighing, does he not? - he picked up a pencil and rolled it between his fingers, wondering what to write. What was there to write? Damn this infuriating thing, if it was anything less than a masterpiece when he had finished with it he'd either burn it, shoot himself, or both. Probably both. He did not have very much patience.

    He was ignoring the other fact that his issue with it might have been caused by his lack of socialization. He was writing about the defects, horrors, and mannerisms of humanity when the only human he knew well or had been around was himself. How was he to write about people when he was not familiar with the subject!

    Breathing in and out, trying to calm himself, attempting to cool the rage within, he closed his eyes and thought of his prior works, his most favored of the the great collection he had written. The echo of the specific song's melody rang through his conscious. He would be able to finish this dastardly opera just as he had his other plays and songs. It might just take him a little longer.

    The pencil snapped in half in his strong fingers as his phone rang yet again. Damn people. Damn them all for being irritating busybodies who called at the worst possible times; it was as if every human had a built in alarm that told them when others would be busy, and when the most opportune time would arise to interupt aforementioned busy people.

  He got up and strode to the desk, grimacing, eyebrows knit.

   He recognized the number flashing across the screen. Khan. What on earth could he want?

   His long fingers wrapped tightly around the landline, and he had to tell himself to loosen his hold lest he break or crack the plastic. It wouldn't be the first time he'd broken something important in a blind rage.

   He picked up and very calmly said in his hypnotic voice, masking the inner fire raging within his troubled mind, troubled heart, and both troubled and lonely soul, "Yes? This is Erik Stanton speaking, may I help you with something?"

   "Hello Erik, remember me? I've been trying to reach you for two weeks, don't you ever answer you're phone any more?"

    Erik hung up the line before Khan could finish his sentence. He knew the man would call back and keep calling back, now that he knew Erik was still alive and residing in the same place. And he would probably get whatever he wanted from him in the end, but he still wanted to hang up.

    Erik Stanton ignored the ringing phone and went back to his piano. He had all day to answer. Right now he just thought of the perfect note to add to his current scale. Damn his phone.