The concert hall was filled to the brim, and the crowd was screaming, the way only diehard fans could, chanting her name, calling out. Angel, they cried, we want our Angel. Louder and louder they yelled, an edge of mad desperation echoing from the masses, as if truly worried she may not appear, and the very thought chilled them to the bone, threatening their health, sanity…
And the lights were up! The sound system began to burst alive as the announcer started off the night, while the crowd barely listened, too busy craning their necks, trying to catch a glimpse of their beloved Angel. Where, where, they whispered, anticipation about to boil over, hopeful. The spotlight hit centre stage, and there she was! Appearing suddenly, magically, and the fans screamed out from both relief and joy, calling her name. She answered back, arms thrown out at the audience and they leaped up towards it, eagerly stretching back at her outreaching hand. It was clear to anyone after seeing such displays of affection that this audience would follow Angel to the ends of the universe and back, love shining like stars in their eyes.
Above the stage, looking down from a window opening, a man in the shadows watched the performance. A blissful smile traced his lips when he finally spotted her, still beautiful even from such a distance. His Angel started to sing, and his eyes welled up, shining in happiness. She sounded just the same as ever; pure, unadulterated, perfect— the same voice from back then, glowing amidst the gunshots and powder and the dead, dead, dead.
The war was long and weary, with no end in sight. And there he stood, alone on a barren wasteland. Tripping over the limbs of yet another mutilated body, he looked towards the mocking blue sky and screamed, beyond caring who heard as he poured out a flood of curses towards the heavens. He wanted to claw away at the scarred earth, erase the broken faces of the dead and, most of all, wipe out the stench of blood that suffocated the air, seeping through the pores of his skin and left him filthy inside, unclean. His legs finally gave way, and he crumpled to his knees, punching vehemently towards the ground. It was just too much, and he wanted out. Too tired of seeing, hearing, being…
The crackling sounds of a nearby radio was deafening in the otherwise dead silence, bringing him back to something akin to mental stability. Breathing slowly, deliberate, only vaguely aware of the radio host introducing a new song— he searched vainly inside himself for a shred of calm that may be left. Thoughts turned towards despair and he struggled inside himself, searching, searching, while the radio station held a momentary silence.
Then, someone began to sing.
How to describe such a voice? Ask a fan and they’d be reduced to a gibbering, incoherent fool. Even critics seemed to flounder when trying to describe her voice, as if there were no words in the human language adequate enough to explain that ethereal quality of those sounds she produced. For the man listening on that desolate field however, her voice was as if that of God, of Salvation. Wherever her voice touched, the air became cleansed, anew. And there was Peace at last, a concept he thought to be dead since long ago. It hit him there and then that this woman, this voice with a name he didn’t yet recognize, was the only real thing in this world. And he knew, as sure as he was of the rising sun, that he fell in love the moment she hit the first note. He could never, ever love another being for the rest of his life.
But the war would continue to plague him, long after the actual fighting was over. And his life ended that day the doctors told him that he’ll gradually lose his hearing, induced from over exposure to gunpowder, goddamnitall.
How long, he asked, voice flat, faint.
A pause, hesitation flashing across the doctor’s eyes before answering, slowly, In three months.
It was the third month, and the concert was nearing its end. The man at the window closed his eyes and concentrated solely on Angel’s voice, letting it fill his mind. Already the sound of her voice was becoming faint, as if she were far, far away, even with the speakers blaring just next to him. It wouldn’t be long before her voice disappeared from his world entirely. And that kind of world was no world at all. Not for him.
A glance at his watch told him it was time, and he began to position himself and his sniper, aiming the gun straight towards her heart. Because he was a selfish, selfish man and if he could no longer hear her voice ever again, no one else could either.
People called him Hawk-Eye Howell for a reason, and Hawk-Eye never, ever missed.
The screams of the audience that managed to reach his ear reassured his success, and he pulled out a revolver from his side.
Because a world without Angel wasn’t one worth living.
The gun felt cool on his skin as he pressed the revolver carefully onto his neck, positioned right on top of the jugular, and pulled.
Li Yuann Chua won 2nd prize in the Youth Short Story Contest as part of the Words Alive Literary Festival. She won $75.00 plus publication in the yorkregion.com Pen & Pixel and Words Alive web sites.