• The Opera Lively Serial Novel Project - Chapter 10

    Chapter 10

    “Please, Father!” John begged, running to help Linda.

    “IDIOT, FOOL!” The bald man screamed, his face red with rage. He
    dropped the whip and stepped over the gasping girl. “My son,” he
    sneered, slowly advancing on John.

    “Father, I—” John whimpered, as his father slapped him. Tears started
    to build in his eyes when he saw what his father was waiting for. The
    look he gave him was an invitation, as if he were saying, “You want her,
    try to take her.” John wouldn’t challenge him, though. He never
    challenged his father. Grabbing Linda by her hair, the older man turned
    away.

    Linda gave John a pleading look as she was taken from his room, but he
    didn’t meet her eyes. No one was going to save her.

    Finally, at her room, the grey-eyed man kicked the door open, pulled
    her in, and locked the door behind them. Throwing her towards the bed,
    he laughed as she collided with the bedpost. She slid to the ground,
    blood dripping from her hairline. Alone in a room with a murderer, Linda
    didn’t move, only watched. Come on, what are you waiting for, she
    thought tiredly.

    The bald man approached her, a smile on his lips. Before she could
    ready herself, he yanked her up by the shoulders and pushed her down on
    the bed. Climbing on top of her, he closed his hands around her throat
    and crushed with all his strength. Gasping and choking, Linda clawed at
    him. She kicked and flailed, but he was too heavy to move even an inch.

    Her vision began to blur and her ears popped. Her throat was on fire
    and her head ached. She was going to die, she thought, panic setting in.
    Her friends, her protective brother, her sweet manager, her lover who
    didn’t even know he was to be a father—none of them would ever know what
    happened to her. Her baby.

    Then she felt pressure, pressure from his knee. It was resting
    painfully on her stomach. Linda’s panic was replaced with cold hatred,
    and she forced herself to focus. Her thoughts were slow as the world
    started to darken, but she knew he might still have it on him.

    “That’s right. Try to fight it,” he mocked as her thrashes became less
    and less accurate; she wasn’t hitting him at all any more. “Time to di—”

    He stopped as he felt something slide from his pocket. Realization
    donned on him, but it was too late. He looked down at the sharp pain in
    his chest.

    * * *

    John stood still, every muscle tense. He was soaked in sweat and his
    stomach was knotted. He tried to swallow, tried to take deep breaths,
    but the painful lump in his throat hindered him.

    Then he heard them: his father's laugh, a crash, whimpering, and then
    nothing. For a long time there was nothing. He waited for his father to
    come and tell him it was done, that she was gone. He never did. Finally,
    he couldn’t stand it anymore.

    “Father?” John knocked softly at the locked door. Something wasn’t
    right. “Father!” He pounded on the door. The silence frightened him.

    Running back to his room, John scrambled to find another key. Key in
    hand he ran back, but slowed as he neared the door. He could hardly
    bring himself to open it, unsure of what he’d find. He let the door
    creak open, and froze.

    His father lay on the white bed, now stained red with blood, the knife
    he had taken from Linda piercing his heart. Linda lay next to him,
    barely conscious.

    “What have you done?” John grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her off
    the bed. She groaned at the impact. “What have you DONE?”

    Crazed, he lunged forward and pulled the knife from his father’s chest.
    “My little opera singer.” He cried hoarsely in her ear. “My
    nightingale. Sing something for me, sing…sing something from Anna
    Bolena,” he whispered, cradling her in his arms. He watched the surprise
    and pain flash in her beautiful eyes as he buried the knife in her back.
    He watched the spark leave them.

    Laying her down, gently removing the knife, he stood breathing hard.
    “Don’t worry, father. I won’t disappoint you.” He had to clean up and
    prepare; there was going to be a telecast of Tosca at the Memorial. His
    father wouldn’t want him to miss it.
    This article was originally published in forum thread: The Opera Lively Serial Novel Project started by Amfortas View original post


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