Ascetic in what will come, forgetting what has passed.
Give me the flute and sing, and forget every disease and cure.
For the people are lines, written but with water ripples
-
The night shift was always short on staff. The dimly lit theater overcrowded with paitents, writhing on the thin beds, moaning in pain. The pungent smell of chemicals in the air. The muffled chaos of masked people stalking the streets outside, of glass shattering, flames engulfing, steel sinking into flesh, and the patrol men barking orders to stand down.
The streets fell eerily silent ever since the army arrived, not even the chaos of desperation spared from the open ends of their rifles. At least the chaos was familiar, comforting in a weird way, the knowledge that life still continued on outside these dark sterile halls, in some cruel way. Nowadays, anything louder than the squeaking of a rat is followed by the earbursting sound of a bullet firing without hesitation, then complete silence.
The number of orderlies dwindled tragically, courtesy of those who chose to save their own hide over following their duty, and equal measures of those unlucky bunch bested by the same disease they tried to protect people from.
You still showed up, every night, like clockwork. Retiring to your home at dawn, and waking up in the late hours of dusk. You haven't missed a day, you haven't been seeing the sun as of late, either.
You weren't an orderly, you weren't a nurse, you weren't even someone uncannily adroit a knitting needle. You used to work in the theatre, not part of the tragedian cast, but the background instrumentals.
Of course, you've picked up a couple skills from assisting with trivial tasks here and there. Insignificant task that lessen the load and never puts anyone's life in your hands. Cleaning around the place, tidying equipment, carrying boxes from here to there, until there's nothing left to do but take your usual spot at the side of the stage, and do what you do best.
Fill the void, drive away the silence, blend into the background.
By playing a simple tune. It's what you've always done, plague or without. Nothing exciting or loud, but a quaint melody, suiting for the atmosphere of the night.
Music is medicine for the soul, and in that notion you sincerely believed. It's what drove you to come here each day, despite all the risks. The way you saw it, you didn't have anything better to do, or live for. This theatre is all you've ever known, and mastering this singular instrument came the closest to what you might call a life purpose.
For the first few nights, your music was seen as nothing more than a nuisance—but as the madness of this dire situation spread further and further, the audience began to appreciate the resemblance of normalcy your music provided, tethering them to sanity, even looking forward to your arrival. It offered warmth for the sick, and a comforting goodbye for the dying.
But nothing good, ever lasts.
There came a day where you went on your usual way, only to find your beloved theatre barren, not a sign of life in sight. No paitents and their watchers, not even the warm corpses remained. You haven't been keeping up with the news of the town, for everything important happened under the same sun you've been keen on avoiding. Something big must have happened, you assumed, and no one told you, yet.
You look around the empty room, and pick up a broom. You sweep the floor, stack the abandoned beds away, turn the chandler on, and sit at the edge of the illuminated stage, and play.
No one comes, no audience to witness your art, no soul in sight to grant it meaning.
So you play louder, the notes are more complex and faster, you play until your fingers grow numb and your throat burns. You think that maybe, just maybe, if you do it good enough, someone is bound to show up?
No one comes.
From the corner of your eyes, you see thick mist seeping through the cracks of the walls, pouring out of the colorful stage mural, bleeding out the floors, a fog rivering from beneath the door.
You freeze in your spot, and the silhouette of an orderly forms before your eyes, stepping out of the grey clouds collecting in the middle of the room. But it looks... off, it looks wrong. It's too large, its bird mask made from real bones, wearing a skull with glowing golden eyes.
It smiles, you feel it smile from beneath the mask as the skull shifts.
It's going to die soon, it explains with its whispering voice. A voice that belongs to no woman or man, that no human could produce. "The town will be bombarded," the orderly says, "he won, they'll bury me now."
It takes a step closer, somehow growing larger. You have to crane your neck just to meet its glowing eyes. Mist swarms from around you, black clouds circling you like prey.
"If I wanted to infect you, I would've already done so twelve days ago." The orderly leans down, cornering you in your spot, bird skull almost touching your face. "You were too easy of a target, too naive, too..." the plague pulls away, taking a step back "insignificant."
Your chest ached from holding your breath in, inhaling air heavily, you kept your tight hold around your instrument.
"Don't I deserve a dignified goodbye as well? You've been so kind to my children, rocking them to their graves." The black clouds recede, emptying the stage for you. "I don't have much time left." It explained, "and neither do you."
The army was never a bunch to delay orders, if the bombardment has already been issued then it'll be reenacted first thing in the morning. You look around the empty theatre, you recall the empty streets on your way here, the houses with no lights on.
The people already evacuated while you slept.
You look at your instrument, your sole purpose in life, your only use, and begin anew. The plague takes a seat, kneeling on the ground, content to be the sole recipient of the last medicine you've got to offer, before the tide washes you away.
