D'Amor Sull'Ali Rosee

My own name.

The strong winds tussled her heavy blond locks, as she stood over the edge of the rooftop, looking down to the world and far into the horizon, where the city's baroque skyline disappeared into the thick gray clouds.

Originally, she had come up to think, but now, that she clutched her coat around her arms, her thoughts would not go in order, comprising almost solely of random memories, attempts at logic, and despair.

The snow had melted, leaving puddles of dirt and rainwater into the crevices of the roof, which stained her delicate boots. When she reached the rail, holding the intricate pieces of the ceiling together, she followed all the way to the back, coming to rest against Apollo's golden lyre. She bent and hid behind one of the statues, not realising how her toes were already into the air.

The void below felt to suck her towards the ground and she stretched a paniced hand to support herself against its pull. However, when the initial terror was over, she stuck out her head, like a curious little mouse, almost pondering on the idea. One step, then another and she was already halfway to swinging over the edge. Back and forth, back and forth...she repeated the rythmic motion for a few moments, concentrating on the feeling that clenched right below her chest, whenever she bent too far. Maybe that's all it would feel like. Or she would be able to sense the harsh stones of the street.

She shook her head. What was she even considering? Was she out of her mind? She...she couldn't do this to them. To Maman, to Raoul. Perhaps to even Monsieur Khan and Erik. She guessed he would have known the feeling. The temptation of leaning a tad more forward.

More afraid of herself, than for herself, she forcefully stepped down from the rail and convinced herself to walk forcefully to the centre of the roof. Far from the edge and its allure. She had to go back down.

On her way to the house, she rowed in bitter silence, until her mind roamed back to the time she'd heard that entrancing melody ,almost evaporating from the still waters.

"That is the siren, my dear. It warns against intruders," Erik shrugged, not caring to look up from his newspaper.

She stopped rowing and dragged the paddles inside of the wooden nutshell. Closing her eyes and stretcing her ears, focusing on the soft swaying of the boat. The siren would eventually come for her. And she was once again told of the mechanism's favourite tactics.

Its song would ring, softly as a whisper, slowly rising, both in volume and beauty. If she inched her face close to the surface, a pair of slender, wet yet warm female palms would circle her thin neck and pull her underneath the cold waters. Then, the pain would take less than a minute. The water would flood her lungs, sending burning spasms all over her small body, but finally numbing her mind. Silencing her thoughts for once and for all.

No...no, no, no...that mindset was all wrong... She knew. She did. Yet still she stayed for a moment longer, half avoiding, half wishing for the song to sound. After being greeted only by silence, she cursed lowly and slipped the paddles back into the water, going back to rowing rythmically.

She opened the door and a new set of impulses came flooding back at her. Scissors, rope, flame, poison...take your pick. Erik had a collection of murderous weapons she knew sufficiently little about to get herself injured.

You don't want to do it, you don't want to do it...she kept whispering to herself and occupied her mind with every tiny task at hand; She picked out her favourite mug, took some of her dresses out of her wardrobe, gathered her everyday belongings and brought them all to the couch. Then she spring-cleaned the entire appartement, avoiding the door of the Louis-Philippe room like Pandora's box.

She didn't even realise she was crying while organising the mess he called a room. His desk, the other desk in the corner, the shirts of the past few days inside the laundry basket, the organ...she came across the infamous opera. Carefully, as if picking up a child, she took it in her hands, almost weighting it, curious enought to flip through the curled pages. Too intimate, too soon. She set it back down, next to her belongings in the living room.