PINK

23

a/n - I would recommend listening to the song mentioned before reading because for me, it really intensifies the scene if you know what it sounds like (: but do whatever you please.

-

'The mind of a crazy man

at work.'

Like electric shocks, both Iara and Dante jolt at the sudden noise that booms from behind them. Following it, an operatic voice hovers around the room, it gets louder the more they concentrate on it. Dante immediately recognises the song. 'I Pagliacci: Vesti la giubba' composed by Ruggiero Leoncavallo. His face drains in colour and becomes blanch while his eyes widen with fear.

"What's wrong? What is he doing?" Iara questions frantically, the music so boisterous it gives her a headache, pounding at the base of her skull.

Dante knows exactly what the maniac is doing.

The singer cries, Stephen pairs his own deep weeps with the song. A loud banging sound shudders across the atmosphere. Iara feels her heart palpitate against her frail ribs cage, who are all too familiar with the fearful volts. Iara feels Dante's pressure on her shoulders tighten.

"You have to leave, now." He says, tone stern and detached. But Iara swings her head from side to side.

"No, no, no. I can't just leave you here. Let's go together." She argues, but she already knows how he will refuse her offer.

"Go Iara, leave while you still can please." Dante begs, voice laden with worry and need. Iara takes a step backwards and Dante's hands slip off her shoulders; that spot feels cold now, with the absence of his touch. He waves her away and tears sting at her eyes.

The slams of the next room make her flinch uncontrollably. A harsh and violent scent brushes it's way past her, making her feel sick. Iara's hand flys up to her mouth as she tries to block the invasive smell. Rotten flesh fills the room making it thick and hard to breath.

Iara steps out the door and is relieved of the red light, but Dante's figure still swims in it. She longs for him to leave with her, she still can't wrap her head around why he can't. Dante's left hand reaches into his back pocket and pulls out something glistening and metallic.

"What is that?" She asks, making her way back into the room, before Dante walks up to her and blocks the entrance.

"Go, please." He whispers. His pastel eyes are clouded with shimmering tears, that drop down his blushed cheeks. The music crescendos and sends chills down both their tired spines.

"Why did you cheat on me? Why? Why? Why? Why?" Stephen's muffled voice cries over the blaring operatic song.

Dante's eyes broaden and are alert. He apologies to Iara before picking her up, and carrying her across to the front door. She kicks her legs and tries to push herself off but to no avail.

He opens the door and is hit with a cold breeze. His hairs stand on end and his bare skin sends little pricks of pain across his arm. He gently drops her before running back into the house and locking the door.

"No!" Iara protests, slamming both fists against the wooden door. Not knowing what Dante is doing makes her mind flutter with all the terrible possibilities. She runs around to the side of the house, and from her mental map of the interior, here should be where Stephen is. She crouches down below the window sill, not wanting to be noticed. The song is on repeat and still is as loud as ever on the outside.

"Fucking arsehole! You bitch, you ungrateful slut whore!" She can hear him yell presumably to the dead corpse of Addy. Iara can only imagine the carnage in that room; Addy's hair splayed on the hard concrete ground, with the dried and fresh blood of the victims hanging onto the slate walls.

Stephen's insults halt, the music is the only thing she can hear. Iara raises herself slightly to peek in the room, curious about the sudden silence. Her vision is greeted with crimson splattered onto the windows and walls; a bloody mallet and saw rest atop an aged wooden table where Addy's cadaver precariously lays upon. The mere sight nearly makes Iara vomit, but she instead cries silently, tears slip out of her eyes discreetly. A low humming envelops her hearing as she notices a layer of shiny and thick flies crawling on the glass, their tiny legs scurrying along the transparent surface.

Turning her attention back to the man, she notices Dante's figure in the doorway. Iara lets out a tiny yelp as her hands fly to her agape mouth. Her mind fizzes with the reasons as to why he would be there. Stephen's hands lift into the air angrily and she can hear him question Dante's presence.

Dante's lips move but she can't make out what he says. Stephen rushes to Dante's side but hastily hustles back toward the wooden table. Iara tries to take a closer look without being spotted, and as she does her eyes catch a flashing glimpse of warm colours. Her eyebrows knit together in confusion and worry. Dante's eyes enlarge when he notices Iara. His hands gesture for her to move away but Stephen spins around with vigour and his facial expression shifts into a malevolent one.

Iara's breath hitches as her face burns like a fire; heart sinking to the bottom of her heaving chest. Stephen's hard-skinned and blood stained fingers wrap around the axe's dirty handle and with one move he drives the axe towards her; it spins like the record being played by the gramophone in the room, smashing it's way through the blemished glass sending shards every which way. The flies buzz away with a hurry, some more weighty than others. Iara closes her eyes, and waits for the axe to lodge itself into her skull, but it doesn't; instead it becomes fixed in the shabby wooden fence behind her.

Her heart slows to a terrifying speed. It reminds her of the movies where the actor always takes their time before harming their victim to give them enough time to escape, but in reality, time is irrelevant.

She gets to her feet, still feeling the slowness of everything, such shock and surprise play with her judgement. As she runs to the front of the house her feet feel like they are being weighed down as her legs are like strips of led. It gives her a gliding sensation.

And out the corner of her eye, grey smoke pillows up into the titian sky. She stops dead in her tracks, breathing measured and heart rate unhurried, and sees the flames that engulf the other half of the house. They prance around the roof tiling and spill out of the kitchen windows. She doesn't hear a thing.

Nothing.

The deafening silence paired with the sensory overload makes her feel stilled. Yes, the house is crumbling under the boiling flames and the music still rings in the air, but it's so much that it becomes nothing. Just silence.