Eleanor Rooney

An Angel’s Trumpet
Eleanor Rooney

I watch as a woman, dressed from head to toe in black, tugs at the unraveling rope, pulling it to the ground in one swift motion. A black baseball cap hides her electric blue curls. The woman has revealed the cheering crowd below me. The sounds of their screams only add to the tight feeling steadily growing in my stomach. Hundreds of seats hug the stage, each one decadently coated in sheets of red velvet. The lights that illuminate thin passages between clumps of seating dim, and it feels as if the lights above grow brighter, their rays of man-made sun beating me mercilessly. The gaudy golden trim shimmers, casting a hazy glow upon the ornate wallpaper. “Can these naive viewers sense my nervousness?” I wonder to myself. I am resisting the urge to scratch at my legs, irritated by the uncomfortable sensation of my itchy tool skirt. I focus on the smell of must and wood that comes with an old theater. Modern auditoriums do not hold the same charm that this one does. This isn’t my first time dancing upon the creaky stage of “Teatro La Fenice,” but somehow a whole new feeling races through my shaking body, this is different.

The orchestra silently clutches their instruments, waiting for the conductor’s cue. They ready their bows and their mallets, anticipating the musical journey they must embark on. And just as the mysterious melody of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” begins to echo throughout the room, I start to dance. It is an unconscious decision, like a higher power is pulling at strings, directing my each and every move. Typically the anxiety of a ballet has faded by now, but the looming darkness follows me still. My tight stomach lurches as I leap, a thick layer of sweat covers my forehead. With each twirl, my head spins faster, like a herd of road-runners racing through my brain. I’ve done this a thousand times before, why must I struggle? My vision is that of a bat; I continue despite a pounding ache striking my head with each swell. My heart beats rapidly, it just might burst through my chest. I have to stop, I cannot dance any longer. Just as I freeze mid-stage, an old man rises from his seat. 

He climbs to the stage, the crowd is silent. His sturdy rubber boots squeak with each step he takes. He does not look like the others, he wears a patchy brown coat. His hair is gray and thin, like pine needles that fall from a Christmas tree. It’s as if my sweat has melted away, my skin is dry and flaky, itchier than any skirt I’ve ever worn. The man’s gaze is piercing, it almost hurts. My knees wobble, I’m losing my balance. I reach to grab the man as I fall, but I pass right through him, like fog on a chilly autumn night. I hit the ground. The stage screams beneath me much like the crowd, horrified. The man towers above me, softly muttering, he is inaudible. I gasp for air, but as quickly as it is coming to me, it leaves. I feel my energy quickly draining, as slowly and painfully as an oil spill. I muster words, “Please, help.” The man does not move; he only smiles.

Author's Note: This piece was inspired by a conversation I had with a friend about poisonous flowers which is also where the name comes from; angel’s trumpet is a kind of lethal flower which has some obscure side effects that I incorporated into the story.