(no subject)
The hall is marble and gold. It reflects; it turns everything back. Lets nothing in. The gilt-framed paintings on its wall hang crooked. He settles one straight.
He is in his choir suit, freshly washed and crisp with pressing. The fabric is so clear a white it seems to glow.
Mors stupebit et natura,
Death and nature shall be stunned
Cum resurget creatura,
When mankind arises
Judicanti responsura.
To render account before the judge.The room is empty. The rest of the choir is there, of course, and the audience; but he knows without looking that they are not like him. Not real. Not human. Made of paper-mache. Hollow inside. They're not solid. All the paintings behind them are crooked. He straightens one.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
The written book shall be brought
In quo totum continetur,
In which all is contained
Unde mundus judicetur.
Whereby the world shall be judgedThe paper-mache golden retriever is barking: a discordant noise. It interrupts the music.
"Shut up," says the boy in the crisp white suit, but the dog keeps barking. "I said shut up."
The singing goes on. Everyone around him is singing still, but he's shouting. "Shut your filthy mouth!"
It goes on barking. Whining. A shrill high-pitched squeal of pain; it sounds like a dirty pig. It sounds like nails on a blackboard. It sounds ugly. The singing rises high and sweet around him and he twists his hands
(such a slender thread)
and looks down at the glassy-eyed head lolling between them.
"Didn't I tell you to shut your mouth?" He shakes the dog. The paper-mache body is limp and warm and sticky. "You had to go making a ruckus."
It's stopped barking. He tosses it away and stands to sing again.
But the heads of all the choirboys snap toward him as one. Their eyes are fixed on the crisp white suit.
On the soggy crimson suit.
"Bitch!" This won't wash out, not anytime soon. "The hell you do that for?"
The golden retriever stares silently up at him.
The air feels thinner, now; he tears off the jacket, shuddering away from the dampening cloth. It's stained, now. No use. The cloth lands in a heap in front of a crooked gilt-framed painting, and he pauses to straighten it.
There's a sound from behind him; he whirls. Nothing.
When he turns back the painting is crooked.
He backs away, footstep by slow careful footstep. The floor beneath him is (spongy?) firm marble. Solid.
One foot lands on something soft. It crunches.
Now there's blood (and golden hair) on his shoes and socks. He strips them, then his shirt (there's a smear) and stands barefoot and bare-chested in the shining gold and marble hall, eyes flickering from corner to corner.
"You can't wash it off," says the dead dog, mildly. She lifts her head; it wobbles on her mangled neck. For a moment he thinks the wall is wobbling too. "Look, it's gotten into your skin."
"Shut up."
There's a bucket nearby. He pulls the sponge out and scrubs at his arms, at his chest; then the dog laughs and he realizes the bucket was filled with blood.
"You're not right," says the dog, and her voice sounds familiar. "Better clean up. You're filthy."
He whirls on her with a wordless snarl of rage, and he feels the floor shift beneath him, and one wall sags impossibly. The paintings are crooked.
It's all running together. Walls, ceiling, floor.
That ain't a dog.
The dog (who is made of plastic, or maybe paper-mache) is just part of the glistening gold wall, which is part of the marble floor, which is curving toward him in a cold shining tide, and behind it is
Lacrimosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.
nothing.
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
When the judge takes his seat
Quidquid latet apparebit.
all that is hidden shall appear
Nil inultum remanebit.
Nothing will remain unavenged.Everything in here gleams.
He is in his choir suit, freshly washed and crisp with pressing. The fabric is so clear a white it seems to glow.
Mors stupebit et natura,
Death and nature shall be stunned
Cum resurget creatura,
When mankind arises
Judicanti responsura.
To render account before the judge.The room is empty. The rest of the choir is there, of course, and the audience; but he knows without looking that they are not like him. Not real. Not human. Made of paper-mache. Hollow inside. They're not solid. All the paintings behind them are crooked. He straightens one.
Liber scriptus proferetur,
The written book shall be brought
In quo totum continetur,
In which all is contained
Unde mundus judicetur.
Whereby the world shall be judgedThe paper-mache golden retriever is barking: a discordant noise. It interrupts the music.
"Shut up," says the boy in the crisp white suit, but the dog keeps barking. "I said shut up."
The singing goes on. Everyone around him is singing still, but he's shouting. "Shut your filthy mouth!"
It goes on barking. Whining. A shrill high-pitched squeal of pain; it sounds like a dirty pig. It sounds like nails on a blackboard. It sounds ugly. The singing rises high and sweet around him and he twists his hands
(such a slender thread)
and looks down at the glassy-eyed head lolling between them.
"Didn't I tell you to shut your mouth?" He shakes the dog. The paper-mache body is limp and warm and sticky. "You had to go making a ruckus."
It's stopped barking. He tosses it away and stands to sing again.
But the heads of all the choirboys snap toward him as one. Their eyes are fixed on the crisp white suit.
On the soggy crimson suit.
"Bitch!" This won't wash out, not anytime soon. "The hell you do that for?"
The golden retriever stares silently up at him.
The air feels thinner, now; he tears off the jacket, shuddering away from the dampening cloth. It's stained, now. No use. The cloth lands in a heap in front of a crooked gilt-framed painting, and he pauses to straighten it.
There's a sound from behind him; he whirls. Nothing.
When he turns back the painting is crooked.
He backs away, footstep by slow careful footstep. The floor beneath him is (spongy?) firm marble. Solid.
One foot lands on something soft. It crunches.
Now there's blood (and golden hair) on his shoes and socks. He strips them, then his shirt (there's a smear) and stands barefoot and bare-chested in the shining gold and marble hall, eyes flickering from corner to corner.
"You can't wash it off," says the dead dog, mildly. She lifts her head; it wobbles on her mangled neck. For a moment he thinks the wall is wobbling too. "Look, it's gotten into your skin."
"Shut up."
There's a bucket nearby. He pulls the sponge out and scrubs at his arms, at his chest; then the dog laughs and he realizes the bucket was filled with blood.
"You're not right," says the dog, and her voice sounds familiar. "Better clean up. You're filthy."
He whirls on her with a wordless snarl of rage, and he feels the floor shift beneath him, and one wall sags impossibly. The paintings are crooked.
It's all running together. Walls, ceiling, floor.
That ain't a dog.
The dog (who is made of plastic, or maybe paper-mache) is just part of the glistening gold wall, which is part of the marble floor, which is curving toward him in a cold shining tide, and behind it is
Lacrimosa dies illa,
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.
nothing.
Judex ergo cum sedebit,
When the judge takes his seat
Quidquid latet apparebit.
all that is hidden shall appear
Nil inultum remanebit.
Nothing will remain unavenged.Everything in here gleams.