Memento Mori

On one tormented afternoon, when torrents of rain, gales of wind, and nimbostratus clouds surrounded Gretvaile, a mysterious figure made of dust and shadows approached the great doors of the Gretavaile Ronds Complex. The figure watched people pass, hardly considering the identities of each and of which it may mimic for the sake of the evening. It crouched patiently in the corner for nearly four hours, taking brief notice of a hoard of black birds heading left overhead before a dingy taxi came to the curb. Out stepped a young, fashionable man dressed in black and blue, a cane under one arm and a top hat dangling from one finger. The man had stepped out into a deep puddle, soaking his navy socks and filling his loafers with water from the drain clogged with the ever-present Autumn leaves.

As the man roughly shook out his right foot and cursed at the innocent city under the arched doorway of the Gretavaile Ronds Complex, the figure crept closer and closer through the shadows of the shrubbery on its many skeletal legs. Despite the many hours spent lying in wait, no one had exited nor entered the complex since the figure arrived, and so, despite crouching in the corner, there was no one to mimic until this very moment. The unsuspecting man placed a hand to his forehead in anger as he raised his shoe and examined it in the light drafting through the glass doors of the complex.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his head, as though someone had taken an ice pick from Antarctica and chipped away at his brain while he had been distracted with his sopping shoe. Just as quickly as that pain had come, the man felt his senses draining away and fell back into the meticulously trimmed bushes, unaware of the creature who stood beside his unconscious body. The figure, now in the murky, liquidated form of a wealthy businessman from Vienna, picked up the cane and top hat with dissipating confusion over their functions and entered the apartment complex.

The complex was admirable, gold lined every trim in intricate swirls, and every carpet was a smooth, vibrant red. Despite no one entering or exiting, the lobby was full of men, women, three dogs, and a single cat resting comfortably atop the corner piano. The figure passed through the circular vestibule towards the elevator. However, after three minutes of confusion and glances from the small crowd on their cushions, it turned towards the polished wooden stairs. Due to the figure's all too attentive actions, it looked very strange to the spectators. The figure carefully considered every movement, kicking out one leg, placing it down, and kicking out the other. The stairs were the most difficult. The figure had not yet learned to regulate its balance, so whenever it lifted one of its new shanks, it could not seem to maintain its equilibrium and fell awkwardly against the wall, rattling the golden picture frames of past patrons.

Halfway up the stairwell, the figure found a way to maneuver its body to rely on the wall for stable support while raising its leg high above the stair and slamming it back down. These stomps were audible down below in the lobby, where lounging tenants looked around and raised their brows with curiosity at the strange din they deemed thunder. Once the figure had come 4/5ths of the way, it had adjusted well enough to its new form to walk upright without the assistance of the wall. It still walked with unnaturally raised knees.

The figure continued to the 13th and final floor, where it stepped out into the corridor lined with gold-plated apartments. It slunk its way to the end of the hall to a door labeled “13.” The figure, acquainted with the concept of knocking, twisted the knob and entered the apartment. Contrary to the luxury and splendor of the apartment complex, this apartment was remarkably dull and dark.

Standing in the entryway was a woman in a silken claret robe carrying a diminutive porcelain statue. She did not seem especially surprised by the peculiar figure, who had come into her home unbidden, and instead turned and tossed the statue onto the ottoman, where it bounced off and shattered on the tile. The woman continued past the shards and splinters to the balcony, where she threw open the doors and let in the rushing wind. Her face was sprayed with rainfall and her hair, short as it was, billowed about her face so that she continuously wiped it away as she faced the figure again.

“Come out onto the balcony. I'll get you a drink,” she said and stepped out onto the wet cement despite her bare feet.

The figure followed silently and stood at the opposite end of the balcony from the woman, who seemed to have prepared her wine and stemware in advance. She took them from the marble melt table and offered the figure a glass. The figure stood still, staring across the busy street at a tall firm that belonged to a newspaper company, the Scandalmonger Company, as everyone called them. The woman did not seem offended.

“I didn’t think you’d drink it,” she said frankly, “I was only being a little courteous. My drinking buddy has gone away on business, you see. He’s the one who owns the apartment just next door. Apartment 11, that balcony there. I have the 13th floor of the 13th apartment-not very lucky for me, I think.”

The figure said nothing, exclusively watching as a black bird flew through the rain and landed in a small crevice of the newspaper firm and let out an enormous, wretched caw. The woman blinked and continued.

“What a strong little bird. You can hear its call across the street through all this wailing wind and rain. I'm an opera singer, Sir-do you dislike being called that? I call everyone Sir and Ma'am. My mother taught me I should. I think that bird would be a remarkable opera singer with some training, don't you?”

The figure said nothing. In the distance, a bell cried out. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Done.

“What terrible luck. Three more chimes left,” the woman took a large glug of her wine to finish off the glass before she swept her hair back and emptied the bottle. “If I had known, I would have saved some. No wonder I feel clear-headed, though I’m not a terrible drunk.”

The figure said nothing. In the distance, the bell pealed again. One ring. Two rings. Three rings. Done.

The woman chuckled and pulled out a cigarette, “You don’t mind, do you? My doctor told me I ought to quit this habit, but I don’t think it matters much now. Shame about the rain. I hope my lighter lights,” the woman pulled an angel engraved cigarette lighter from her pocket, “Pretty, isn’t it? It was a gift from my drinking buddy. He tossed it over from his balcony one day.” By some supernatural miracle, despite the violent squall, the cigarette lit with a sudden flash that dimmed a heartbeat later.

The figure said nothing.

“I never had a choice. I told my mother I wanted to sing one snowy day. I was five years old, but here I am today. Popular, the talk of the town, my performances packed with strangers desperate to hear my voice. Perhaps I inspired some poor child to go into the opera business. Do you think they would laugh at me now? Seeing me drown myself in drinks and cigarettes?"

When the figure maintained its silence, the woman scoffed.

“See that black bird there? I’d love to seize its wings and fly far, far away. Farther than London, farther than France, farther than the North Pole. Farther than the sun, farther than Mars, and whatever else is out there. The problem is that I would miss it too much-the Aerial Opera House. Even that little black bird has a predator. Knowing my mother, she would find an eagle's wings to steal to chase me and drag me back to the stage. I would love to watch a show for once rather than be the show. It is much less enjoyable on the stage.”

The figure continued to say nothing. The woman took another puff of her cigarette, blowing a fragile flurry into the chilly night air, and sighed with relief as she watched it disperse.

The clock chimed once.

"Oh dear,” the woman closed her eyes, “It's two o’clock already.”

The clock tolled once more.

“I was certain o'clock was meant to be lucky. Something about being on the dot that makes you feel so nice and on time...” The woman smiled wistfully, “What a waste of 23 years…”

For the first time that night, the figure spoke. “Memento Mori, my dear,” it said in a vain attempt at kindness. Its voice was like a quiet sough, “You must die.”

“Memento Mori,” the woman agreed in weary amusement, “Goodbye, you kind quietus.”

The following year, after the crowds of critics and reporters, police, and nosy onlookers had ceased to gather around the Gretavaile Ronds Complex, an eagle flew through the gray clouds just below the dim blue sky. It passed over the slick streets, puddles, taxis, and their passengers until it arrived at a particular opera house. It flew through the open doorway, unminded by the gallery of concertgoers. The eagle effortlessly found its way to the upper level of the audience hall and perched itself between two porcelain statues on a little ridge near the domed ceiling. The eagle observed the stage with curious eyes and, for the first time in this life or the last, watched the opera.

-The End