Dead of Night
By Queenie Dai | Grade 10 | Scholastic 2024 | Flash Fiction | Honorable Mention
“Really? I step away for a week and you go and screw her of all people?” She hollers, forcefully pulling away from his grip.
“I’ve been tied up with work, I’ve told you this. Why don’t you trust me?” His eyebrows furrow and a sigh releases from his lips.
The Metropolitan Opera House towers over the once loving couple. Five arcs, five doors, five levels. A transparent poster titled “Deadman Walking” hangs over the fifth arc — the current play. Different shapes of see-through glass line the front of the building, allowing a fresh glow from the house. It was a regular Saturday night in the dead of December. Rehearsal of The Nutcracker just ended for the Philharmonic orchestra. Lights crept up the buildings, washing them with a warm glow. A calming ambiance envelops Lincoln Center. In front of the opera house is a miniscule fountain, sputtering out water over and over again, over and over again. In an instant, the air hitches and chokes.
“If you didn’t love me anymore you could’ve just told me!” She screams, throwing her arms up, the case of her platinum Marumatsu flute dangling from her left hand.
“I told you I was busy!” His heavy blue backpack weighs his shoulders down as his arms swing the clarinet case. A wave of cold air lifts her black hair and crawls along her ears. It is unclear whether her dainty face flushes red from the cold, or rather from the anger. She sniffles.
“You have to understand.” He sighs, releasing a cloud of steam. There is a moment of silence as she turns away, trying to hide her mascara-blotched face with tears threatening to freeze her cheeks. Her skin tingles as she feels his hand graze her arm, pulling her back around. His dark brown eyes gleam, and his face carries a luminous intensity. His lips turn upward just enough to form a smile while all the muscles in his jaw seem to relax. He leans down. Her heart skips a beat. She watches him. His eyes glance elsewhere –they follow her– a red-haired, thin-boned girl walking out the door of the opera house.
The fountain beside them continues to run, water going up and down, up and down. At first it’s sadness, then it morphs into confusion, then anger. The anger makes her blood boil and turn and twist. It takes over her and fills her entire body. It takes her flute and smashes it over his head. A hard blow. Time stops, the city slows. In her eyes, he falls slowly and steadily, sluggishly and heavily.
The sound of cracking skull snaps her back to the fast moving city. She freezes. A minute passes. She takes a step back, then two steps, then three, then four. Her body weighs her legs down onto the floor, and her hands collide with the cold concrete. Her head jerks back to the body slumped over the fountain, legs dangling limply on the side, water gushing out. Blood trickles and spreads, staining her newly bought white Air Forces, dyeing the fountain water a deep, velvety crimson. Like a racing tempo, her heartbeat surges, a crescendo of urgency. Gathering up the last of her strength, she pushes herself up, wobbling into a sprint. Within her ears, the siren screams, accompanying the splashing water of the fountain. In her peripheral vision, she catches a glimpse of red hair.
