Bystander

It is wine red. 

The velvet on the walls. It is wine red with a tinge of purple and a hue of wealth. 

The women are dressed in their finest attire; cocktail dresses, with pearls and diamonds that shimmer in the lights of the theatre chandeliers. The men ensured that they match their suit ties to the colour that their prospective partner is wearing. The buzz of chitter chatter below us is loud and the clinking of champagne glasses fills the vast spacious opera house. The intricacies of the architecture exudes the hundreds of years of artistic beauty, while also making sure we understand that we no longer have it in the way we once did. It kind of feels depressingly nostalgic. I’m lucky enough to be sitting in one of the boxes. One of those balcony type things.

The sounds of humanity die down as the lights dim. The darkness blankets the silent faces that are all looking towards the stage with anticipation. The band below the stalls made a scutter of movement as the string instruments raise their bows, and the wind and brass instruments take their first breaths of the set. As the conductor lowered his hand to notify the players of their first note, the curtains on the stage slowly pulled apart. There are a couple of women in majestic costumes. Skirts, with around five layers of fabric, drown the women standing in the middle of the floor. Their dresses are beige but the details are incredibly delicate that the lack of colour doesn’t even matter. Their silhouettes are alluring, with their hair in half-up-half-down braids. They take a breath and begin on a harmonised note. The show has begun.

After around fifteen minutes of the show playing out, the women are still spinning and singing beautifully. I turn to Atticus. His eyes are glued on the stage. I love the show, don’t get me wrong, but I’m starting to get bored. I turn my eyes back to a man who has appeared suddenly in pantaloons, dancing in circles while he sings. His voice is deeper, but there is no real difference to what he is saying. I take a sip of my champagne and listen intently. I’m trying to understand what’s happening, but I wasn’t brought up in an opera-loving house. I’m only really here for Atticus. I flick through the program to find the brief summary of the play. Supposedly, it’s a comedic drama that reflects the love of life. I don’t know, it sounds cliché to me. I’m trying to focus but these seats are really uncomfortable.

I lay my hands over the barrier, and after a few minutes I feel a drip of liquid on my skin. It falls from above me. I wipe it off passively, with my eyes still on a somewhat comical fight on the stage. A little giggle falls from my mouth as the actors pretend to punch each other and bicker like brothers. The show continues. I feel another drip of liquid. I wipe it off again, slightly more frustrated this time. It happens again. This time round, it’s a bigger drip. I take a look at my hand. It’s not water. It’s thicker than water. I wipe it with my other hand to take a deeper look, but it leaves a smear of sheer colour. It looks almost brown. I can feel my eyebrows knit in confusion. I pull my hand to my nose to smell the strange mystery liquid. It smells sweet with a touch of copper. Blood. Atticus isn’t even looking at me while I wave my hand around trying to figure out where the drips are coming from. There’s a small wet patch of dark red on the ceiling above us.

“Psst… Atticus,” I whisper as I gently tap his shoulder. 

He leans into me and pushes his ear closer to my mouth.

“There’s blood falling from the ceiling, look.” I show him my hand and point to the blotch of deep red on the cream painted roof above us.

He looks with a tired expression and a sigh. Atticus rolls his eyes,

 “Just watch the show, Evangeline.”

I do as I’m told. 

I turn my head back to the show. I’m trying my best to put it to the back of my mind. The dripping of the blood speeds up. I can no longer ignore it. I tried to but it’s splashing on me. Its smell fills my nostrils and sticks. It is now falling at the same beat of the song. I look up once again to see the stain on the ceiling is spreading. It’s spreading rather quickly. I turn to Atticus who has such an uncomfortable lack of emotion on his face. I poke at him, trying to get his attention but he is engrossed in the show. A little bit too much. He doesn’t even acknowledge me this time. I look at my pale blue dress. It has splatters of blood on it, which for this setting is not exactly a civilised look. I need some air.

“I’m going to the bathroom. I’ll be back soon,” I informed Atticus, thinking he’d respond to that.

He sits there, staring at the stage with no movement in his expression.

“Okay then,” I mumble with subtle annoyance as I open the door at the back of the box. 

I make my way to the bathroom. My breathing is getting heavier, and quicker. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. There’s thudding in my ears. Hands are shaky. Eyes are wide. Vision is blurry. Breathe. Just breathe. I take a few deep breaths. I focus on my reflection. I think this is a bad dream.. Or maybe a hallucination. I’m unsure what I am thinking. But the contrasting red on my blue dress is still there. It’s still there. I throw cold water on my wrists, I’ve heard it helps regulate the nervous system. Does it? Has it? I close my eyes and list what I can hear, what I feel, and where I am. It’s okay… I’m okay.

I pat down my dress, tilt my head to make sure I look put together again and make my way through the hallway. The roofs are rounded, with yellow lights reflecting on the marble gargoyles that perch on the corners of the stairwells. I get back to the mahogany door of the box, and let myself in. I give Atticus a quick over-the-shoulder hug… again, no reaction. The show is now building up to, what I assume is, the climax. The music is becoming more ominous. It’s transferred into a minor key, leaving a strange feeling of impending… what’s the saying… doom?

I sit in my seat and the blood has become a stream. It’s splashing on me heavier now, my arms are covered in red. The songs continue. I look around the theatre, focusing on every face I see. No heads have turned to the flow of blood falling heavily down to the first floor. 

Why is no one looking? 

Why is no one confused? 

Why is no one trying to stop it?

In the background of the belting coming from the actresses on stage, I can hear a scream. It’s a child’s scream. I get out of my seat and look down. I can’t see anyone screaming. No one else is hearing it. Do they hear it? Do they see the blood? Am I going crazy? There’s multiple screams and cries now. My breathing is getting heavier again. I’m panicking. Panicking. Spiralling. I bend over the parapet, frantically looking back and forth at the stalls to see if there’s something going on. The heads below me, somehow still stuck looking in the direction of the stage, are painted with a thick, dark red. The once beautiful hairstyles are no longer pretty and done up. They’re doused wet with the warm liquid. I feel a drip on my head. I touch it with my trembling hand, and look in horror. It’s on me. The blood is on me. Not just a splash anymore, a whole spill of blood is on me. My eyes are shielded by a film of salty water. I take a gulp and slowly tilt my head to see the ceiling. The patch of blood has seeped to cover half the roof of the theatre. The screams get louder as I look. Squinting my eyes to see through the darkness of the dim lighting in the seating area, I can see faces. 

I see faces.

So many of them.

I see faces.

Screaming.

I see faces. 

Crying.

I see faces.

Pleading for mercy.

The more I stare with my eyes wide and jaw open, the more faces I see. The blood continues to spread at a concerningly rapid pace. With every ounce of blood spread, three more faces pop out. There’s faces of men. There's faces of women. There’s faces of children. It doesn’t take long for the blood to begin flooding the stalls. I can’t do this anymore.

“Atticus! Aren’t you seeing this? It’s unbearable!”

He isn’t hearing me. Maybe he does, but he isn’t responding to me. 

His clothes are stained with the blood of the faces.

I grab his shoulders and shake him.

His eyes stay on the show.

The smell of smoke coats my lungs, and when I look up, I can see flames. The flames are behind the faces. The faces are acting as a barrier to the fire spreading down to us. The faces are not allowing the flames to touch us. The faces are saving us. The silhouettes of figures being incinerated by the blaze are haunting. The screams are louder than ever, drowning out the music. It drowns out the band. It drowns out the voices. No one is helping. I scream into the crowds for help. 

Everyone turns their heads towards me in unison. Atticus finally looked at me as well. He looked as emotionless as before but I grabbed his shoulders and looked into his eyes.

“Atticus, please, we need to help them! Atticus, can you… hear… m…” My voice trails off as I scan his face, petrified.

His eyes are black. Completely black. I’ve never seen him like this before. 

I stumble back, my lips trembling in disbelief. My back hits the wall and I turn my head to the crowd, hesitating to move my eyes from the man, or the monster that looks like a man, in front of me. Once I find the courage, I focus on some of the faces that are staring. Black eyes. Black eyes everywhere. Black eyes staring at me. I yell into the abyss of cold glares, hoping that there’s at least one person that can see what I see.

“Do any of you see this? The blood is filling this place up! There’s blood all over you. How can you sit here and not see this?” I cry, with a mix of tears and watered down blood covering my cheeks, lips and neck.

As I am crying to the crowds, a hand grabs my mouth and restrains me to my seat. I don’t know who it is. I can’t see them. They don’t speak. I struggle for a few minutes, but I feel defeated. The music is still going, but the cries and screams are louder than ever. Now that I’m silent, everyone turns their head back to the show. The actor and actress are now singing to each other. One falls and her eyes go stiff. The other cries while he wraps his arms around her in embrace. The screams have become quiet and the blood has simmered down to just dripping once again. The actor’s song comes to an end and the curtains close. Everyone in the stalls stands, claps, and praises the show. They are all standing in a theatre flooded in blood. Their hands are red.

I am stuck in my chair. Now, I’m the only one with a devastating thousand mile stare.

It is wine red. 

The velvet on the walls. It is wine red with a tinge of blood and a hue of death.