aureleeeeeee.
here's some more original fiction. my assignment in creative writing was a 1000 word short story. this is 1156. oh well. comments, constructive criticism? it's a prequel to the last one i posted. a very condensed sort of prequel. :D
On the night of January 27th, 1792, Lisette Celeste was stabbed to death and left in the theatre, beside the bloody piano. On January 27th, 2009, Aurele Rainier witnessed her death. It was a horrible affair, full of screaming and crying, awful sounds each time the knife struck skin and painted the room red. He was used to it, though. In fact, it was the second one this month, and it was all just a part of life.
--
Aurele could very distinctly remember the first time he had seen someone who wasn’t really there. When he was four years old, he had seen a little boy on the stairs outside of their house and talked to him for nearly an hour before his mother had discovered him. That was before she got sick, and before she even came close to understanding what her son was capable of.
He wasn’t strange. He wasn’t different. He was completely normal. He just had a few more friends than the other little boys that he played with.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that something was wrong. His friends weren’t aging with him, weren’t going to school or playing in groups on the playground. He witnessed his first death with he was nine years old, standing hand in hand with his mother on the street corner.
The bus was too fast. The boy wasn’t fast enough. There was a terrible scream, the shrieking of brakes and squealing of tires. The blood was everywhere. Aurele blinked, and it was gone. His mother tugged on his hand. “Come on, Aurele. Let’s go.”
When Aurele was twelve years old, he met Lisette Anne Celeste and decided that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She had dark brown hair that fell down her back in soft curls, tied back with a clean white bow. Her eyes were a curious shade of blue, so light that it was almost impossible to see, and her skin was pure and delicate like porcelain. From the time that he met her, she seemed much older than her small body appeared. She never spoke to him, but he always understood.
Whenever Aurele wanted to play, all he had to do was to go to the theatre on the third street over from his house and stand near the ticket box. Lisette was always there, always wearing the same beautiful blue and white dress, and if he was particularly convincing that day, she might take a walk with him or come and play somewhere else.
As Aurele went into first and second grade, Lisette stayed the same, just like the rest and always stood by the ticket box. Aurele told his mother about her, but she told him that it was nothing but an imaginary friend. When she got too sick to get out of bed, Aurele stopped telling her. Instead, he lay awake and night and wondered about the dark curls and the clean white bow.
It didn’t happen until much later. Aurele was in high school, his mother was dead, and most of his classmates had decided that he was a freak. Imaginary friends at seventeen weren’t exactly normal. He still returned to the theatre every day, back to the ticked box to sit down on the sidewalk and talk to his best friend.
On January 27th, 2009, Aurele was late.
Night had fallen, and the streets were dark, illuminated at ends and junctions with flickering street lamps. Lisette wasn’t standing by the ticket box. Aurele sat down and waited.
The sound of piano music drifted out from inside, and Aurele tipped his head back, closed his eyes to listen. There hadn’t been a working piano in the theatre for years, the soothing sounds of classical music too boring for the modern age’s taste. It was a shame, really, and something he didn’t question as he let the melody calm his mind.
Then he heard her scream.
He knew that it was Lisette. Even though he had never heard her voice until that moment, it had to be her. Before he had time to think about it properly he was on his feet, sneakers sliding slightly against the concrete as he made his way to the door, throwing it the rest of the way open and scrambling inside.
It wasn’t the right theatre. There weren’t any vending machines, any counters or movie posters or hallways leading off to other rooms. It was one big space full of large, red seats, all facing a stage at the very front with velvet curtains swaying just so, as if someone had been there moments before. The old piano didn’t look so old, instead shining under the mysterious glow that took over the entire room. Lisette screamed again, and this time, Aurele saw her.
The curtains rippled again, the space filling with the sounds of panicked screams and harsh footsteps as she emerged, running across the stage and jumping down onto the carpet below. Help me, she screamed, and Aurele stepped closer, eyes wide. Help me. And she looked at him, their eyes locked, but he knew that she couldn’t see him.
The knife struck, a clean blow between her shoulder blades, and her scream was horrible, ringing in his ears, forcing him back. The knife struck again, over and over again, the masked man grinning as he performed his horrible, twisted deed. This is for your father, he said, and with one last plunge of silver into skin, her screams were quieted and his hands were painted red.
She slumped down onto the ground. He followed, and they both flickered as they were on a television that was losing its signal. Once, twice, and then Aurele blinked and the room was back to what he was used to.
He stumbled backwards, and Lisette was there, standing next to the ticket box, her blue and white dress stained with red.
I’m sorry, he said, unable to hold back the sobs suddenly threatening to choke him. His best friend, his Lisette, and he had never known. I’m sorry. And she stared at him with wide eyes as he cried, and he knew that, finally, she understood.
--
Aurele never saw Lisette again, but he knew that seeing her die had served a purpose for him in life. He knew what he had to do. He knew what he had the power to do, and after that night, he saw them everywhere.
The subway became his station, and he would wait there for them to board, eyes lost and empty. He would try his hardest to show them what had happened and console them until they could cross over in peace.
A month later, he first saw him. A face easily recognized from the news and paper clippings, eyes lost and empty just like the rest. It was hard to miss the way he stared, and Aurele smiled.
On the night of January 27th, 1792, Lisette Celeste was stabbed to death and left in the theatre, beside the bloody piano. On January 27th, 2009, Aurele Rainier witnessed her death. It was a horrible affair, full of screaming and crying, awful sounds each time the knife struck skin and painted the room red. He was used to it, though. In fact, it was the second one this month, and it was all just a part of life.
--
Aurele could very distinctly remember the first time he had seen someone who wasn’t really there. When he was four years old, he had seen a little boy on the stairs outside of their house and talked to him for nearly an hour before his mother had discovered him. That was before she got sick, and before she even came close to understanding what her son was capable of.
He wasn’t strange. He wasn’t different. He was completely normal. He just had a few more friends than the other little boys that he played with.
It didn’t take long for him to realize that something was wrong. His friends weren’t aging with him, weren’t going to school or playing in groups on the playground. He witnessed his first death with he was nine years old, standing hand in hand with his mother on the street corner.
The bus was too fast. The boy wasn’t fast enough. There was a terrible scream, the shrieking of brakes and squealing of tires. The blood was everywhere. Aurele blinked, and it was gone. His mother tugged on his hand. “Come on, Aurele. Let’s go.”
When Aurele was twelve years old, he met Lisette Anne Celeste and decided that she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. She had dark brown hair that fell down her back in soft curls, tied back with a clean white bow. Her eyes were a curious shade of blue, so light that it was almost impossible to see, and her skin was pure and delicate like porcelain. From the time that he met her, she seemed much older than her small body appeared. She never spoke to him, but he always understood.
Whenever Aurele wanted to play, all he had to do was to go to the theatre on the third street over from his house and stand near the ticket box. Lisette was always there, always wearing the same beautiful blue and white dress, and if he was particularly convincing that day, she might take a walk with him or come and play somewhere else.
As Aurele went into first and second grade, Lisette stayed the same, just like the rest and always stood by the ticket box. Aurele told his mother about her, but she told him that it was nothing but an imaginary friend. When she got too sick to get out of bed, Aurele stopped telling her. Instead, he lay awake and night and wondered about the dark curls and the clean white bow.
It didn’t happen until much later. Aurele was in high school, his mother was dead, and most of his classmates had decided that he was a freak. Imaginary friends at seventeen weren’t exactly normal. He still returned to the theatre every day, back to the ticked box to sit down on the sidewalk and talk to his best friend.
On January 27th, 2009, Aurele was late.
Night had fallen, and the streets were dark, illuminated at ends and junctions with flickering street lamps. Lisette wasn’t standing by the ticket box. Aurele sat down and waited.
The sound of piano music drifted out from inside, and Aurele tipped his head back, closed his eyes to listen. There hadn’t been a working piano in the theatre for years, the soothing sounds of classical music too boring for the modern age’s taste. It was a shame, really, and something he didn’t question as he let the melody calm his mind.
Then he heard her scream.
He knew that it was Lisette. Even though he had never heard her voice until that moment, it had to be her. Before he had time to think about it properly he was on his feet, sneakers sliding slightly against the concrete as he made his way to the door, throwing it the rest of the way open and scrambling inside.
It wasn’t the right theatre. There weren’t any vending machines, any counters or movie posters or hallways leading off to other rooms. It was one big space full of large, red seats, all facing a stage at the very front with velvet curtains swaying just so, as if someone had been there moments before. The old piano didn’t look so old, instead shining under the mysterious glow that took over the entire room. Lisette screamed again, and this time, Aurele saw her.
The curtains rippled again, the space filling with the sounds of panicked screams and harsh footsteps as she emerged, running across the stage and jumping down onto the carpet below. Help me, she screamed, and Aurele stepped closer, eyes wide. Help me. And she looked at him, their eyes locked, but he knew that she couldn’t see him.
The knife struck, a clean blow between her shoulder blades, and her scream was horrible, ringing in his ears, forcing him back. The knife struck again, over and over again, the masked man grinning as he performed his horrible, twisted deed. This is for your father, he said, and with one last plunge of silver into skin, her screams were quieted and his hands were painted red.
She slumped down onto the ground. He followed, and they both flickered as they were on a television that was losing its signal. Once, twice, and then Aurele blinked and the room was back to what he was used to.
He stumbled backwards, and Lisette was there, standing next to the ticket box, her blue and white dress stained with red.
I’m sorry, he said, unable to hold back the sobs suddenly threatening to choke him. His best friend, his Lisette, and he had never known. I’m sorry. And she stared at him with wide eyes as he cried, and he knew that, finally, she understood.
--
Aurele never saw Lisette again, but he knew that seeing her die had served a purpose for him in life. He knew what he had to do. He knew what he had the power to do, and after that night, he saw them everywhere.
The subway became his station, and he would wait there for them to board, eyes lost and empty. He would try his hardest to show them what had happened and console them until they could cross over in peace.
A month later, he first saw him. A face easily recognized from the news and paper clippings, eyes lost and empty just like the rest. It was hard to miss the way he stared, and Aurele smiled.