Part of the Blackwater Files, a collaborative writing project started by The Chronicler Each story follows various characters participating in an experimental project by the enigmatic Elysium, a company searching for immortality.
In this narrative, follow personal security, Ricki, engaged by Elysium to protect the Blackwater Project from the inside.
Carmen
The theatre is thick with excited bodies, an audience on the brink of hysteria, two men, centre stage, stand in the beam of a searing spotlight. One holds a shotgun at his side, the other in a tuxedo, holds out his arms like they’re going to dance.
Fifteen things happen in the next five seconds.
One, someone dies. Right in front of you. Presumably felled by a rogue shooter at J14. Looks like a Julie from the first row rushing the stage. All bangs and Birkenstocks, she never saw it coming.
Two, a dim recollection descends down upon thee. Your shadow bound black-eyed reverie. The space around you slows to sludge—where time stretches long and beyond.
Three, the pads of your fingertips trace F for the Fuzz, L the Last Resort, O is for Ovum, the spark of creation, V V thank you Very Very much, D is for Dark, a heart like a stone. 4 on the Floor1, and 8 like the Hemispheres cojoined by magic—on your sidearm.
Four, Five, and Six, three feverish patients in the audience convulse, stiffen, and droop, their eyes glazed in inky black.
Seven, you recognize the mercenary in the balcony, Rudy Haalsbinder, known murderman and rival thug. Now their appearance manifests as paranoid fantasy brought here by your own delusions. There's a knot in your stomach confronting the insecurities. You envy Rudy and lust for their power. And here they are taking yours away.
Eight, a flashback: the weight of a heavy finger drawing a looping figure, back and forth across your shoulder blades in infinitum. The room is sticky with CO2. You lie on your stomach, paralyzed, listening to the meandering hum in your father's throat. "I love you forever," he says, "for always."
Nine. Exposed, you fling yourself toward the orchestra pit. Hip sliding across the floor, the squeal of leather catches the brief attention of your stage mates, before you disappear into the woodwinds.
Ten, before the orchestra begins the first movement, the end of a Swedish pop song plays on the PA system, the track fades out and it pisses you off that a producer could be so lazy. Why not give songs a proper ending? Give them the punctuation they deserve. Don't stifle it. Reflexively, you turn to your left and shoot the viola player between the eyes, conveniently forgetting the stakes. You're only trying to make a point and besides violas are bullshit2
Eleven, rolling toward the brass, you line up your raygun to the space where you saw Rudy, but they're not there, confirming your suspicions, it was only emotional subterfuge glinting in the light of your subconscious like a drug store hologram.
Twelve, you've lost sight of the men on stage and the clarinet starts the opening to Dvořák's Water Goblin3, distracting you from your mission and these persons of interest.
Thirteen, the rippling shadow swirls around the feet of the players like unctuous ribbons of pitch. You wade through the strings against some resistance as the harp tessellates in the gaps. A gasp of pressurized gas trumpets through your head, burning your sinuses and bleating desperate complaints. The voices inside are now on the outside, uncontrollable and restless, "L e t m e b a c k i n R i c k i " You lose your balance, splashing into a black pool as the timpani rolls.
Fourteen, on hands and knees you stare at an uncertain reflection. Lips cut and curled, eyes cool and cruel, teeth dripping, your suit slick with rainbows of gasoline—you repel the likeness like a bipolar magnet. There's regret on your tongue. Not regret for your deeds but for your abject detachment. This terrible clarity sticks like a thorn in your paw and you limp toward the fluorescence of the exit, looking for a moment to reorganize.
Fifteen: Carmen occupies your attention. And you feel the tug of the current pull you deeper. Their earnest candor against your dispassion. The unapologetic manipulation, a wicked and willful pleasure. The voices are fading and you get sick with loneliness. Void evacuation. Gutter bowl. Gob stomped. The crushing rock fall of their love. A dull pain turned, unavoidable, uncomfortable and utterly unconfused.
At night, on the roof, pointing at planets, moonshade in Carmen's hair, ship lights in your eyes, you imagine the scene. Denim overalls and a tube top, they giggle at your seriousness—poke you in the ribs. The pulse of the pounce engages your tendons. There's a vestige of maniacal menace stitched into the fabric of your muscle tissue. The draw is overwhelming yet you withdraw. Bound. Jammed. Their fingers in yours, it's a breathless moment absent of gravity. And you spin with them weightless and wondering where you've been, what you've seen and what it all means? C'est folie à deux4. You writhe like mink, all tongues and tails, a serpentine spiral of sex and madness and omniscient lucidity to the end.
"In your dreams," they sing the first three notes of Brahms’ Lullaby.
"Guten Abend, gute Nacht," you echo, gently stroking their nose with the barrel of your gun.
A thumb on your touchstone, 8 is for Black, the beard of a pirate, 4 is for Alkaline, a bitter taste, D is the path of Destruction, double V for the Watchful Eye, O for Oh God No, common last words, L is the Lonesome Whistle, and F is the for the grand Finale, a tempest on the lake as Dvořák's Water Goblin emerges from the shadowy depths.
"Four on the floor" is a rhythmic pattern often used in dance music, characterized by a steady, uniform beat on each quarter note of a measure. This style is marked by the consistent beat of the bass drum on every beat of a 4/4 measure, creating a simple and driving rhythm that has become synonymous with various genres of dance music. Originating in disco in the 1970s, this pattern quickly became a staple in house, techno, and other electronic dance music forms. The "four on the floor" beat is not just a musical pattern; it's a call to the dance floor, a universal language that unites people under the banner of rhythm and movement. Its repetitive and hypnotic nature is key to its ability to energize and engage audiences, making it a foundational element in the structure of dance music.
In the orchestral landscape, the viola has long lingered as an ambiguous and arguably superfluous presence. Overshadowed by the violin and cello, its role seems redundant, with its tonal range merely bridging the gap between these more prominent instruments. The viola’s voice, neither distinct nor powerful, often gets lost in the orchestral mix, failing to leave a memorable imprint on the listener. This lack of audibility is exacerbated by a solo repertoire that is noticeably scant compared to the rich collections of the violin and cello, suggesting an inherent limitation in its appeal and versatility. Historically, the viola has been a secondary choice for those unable to master the violin, a bias that, while seemingly unjust to some, has nonetheless contributed to its diminished status. In an era where orchestral efficiency and impact are paramount, the viola's indistinct role raises the question of its necessity. Could not the nuanced interplay of violins and cellos suffice, rendering the viola a mere vestigial element in the modern orchestra?
In Antonín Dvořák's symphonic poem "The Water Goblin," the music narrates a Czech folk tale from Karel Jaromír Erben's collection. The story depicts a water goblin who, living at the bottom of a lake, ensnares a young village girl to be his bride. She longs to visit her mother, and he reluctantly permits it under the condition of secrecy about their life. However, she breaks this promise, leading to tragic consequences: the goblin, in revenge, drowns their child in the lake, followed by the girl herself. Dvořák's composition vividly portrays this tale, encapsulating the eerie atmosphere, emotional depth, and the dramatic unfolding of events through its evocative orchestration.
Folie à deux, also known as shared psychotic disorder, is a psychiatric condition characterized by the transfer of delusional beliefs and sometimes hallucinations from one individual to another. This rare phenomenon typically occurs between individuals who have a close emotional bond, such as family members or partners. The underlying mechanism involves a complex interaction of emotional dependence, isolation, and stress, leading to the convergence of mental states. Folie à deux challenges our understanding of individual versus shared psychopathology, raising intriguing questions about the nature of belief, perception, and the human mind's susceptibility to influence within intimate relationships.
I finally got around to reading all of your blackwater entries and I wish I hadn't waited so long. Your style of writing is hypnotic. You paint such beautiful, surreal scenes with your writing. The pace of the story is masterful, speeding up and slowing down at all the right parts. I lost count of how many times I had to look up words that you used that I had never heard before, leaving me astonished to say the least. Rikki is such a unique character, I love everything about your blackwater stories!
Great writing! Loved the interplay between the orchestra and the violence. Lol, violas.