Marionette

Hello peoples... yet another piece of English coursework, in which I was given a 2000 word limit to write a story. Be prepared for a slightly twisted storyline...

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As he stared into her eyes – her dark, mysterious, yet eerily empty eyes – he knew, long before he saw the blood seeping out of the knife wound in her heart onto her crimson gown, that she had left the world; she had left him; and I watched on, knowing that her blood was on my hands.

Marvello knelt beside her, and placed his hand upon her cold cheek – it had shocked him, to say the least, when he had found his fiancé lying lifeless on the stage floor, with a diamond-encrusted knife, bloody from the cruel deed it had performed, thrown callously to her side. But, as his father entered the theatre, his son’s distress was far from his mind; being the theatre owner, he was bothered most by the fact that his beautiful stage was now awash with crimson – and his headlining act, Belle de Morté, now lay dead in her own blood, with just hours until her performance was to commence.

I saw all this from the stage wing, and I now must bear it all upon my conscience. Still, none of this can truly be my fault – I was just following orders from my master.

“Lucifer!” I heard Marvello’s voice resound around the still empty theatre, and noticed that he now had his hand upon his father’s shoulder. “We must cancel tonight’s performance!”

“Nonsense!” was the reply, though it sounded unconfident and strained. “I could lose hundreds of pounds – thousands, even!”

“Forget the money!” Marvello shouted, tears cascading from his eyes. “My fiancé… my Belle…”

“My main act, gone…” Lucifer muttered, oblivious to his son’s comments. “So who shall perform now? It is not possible to find someone at such short notice… maybe I should cancel the performance…”

“I perform.”

I couldn’t help myself; looking back, it may not have been the right moment – but it felt ideal at the time.

A bleary-eyed Marvello stared at his father in disbelief, his expression questioning the sanity of the man he had known all his life. “Can you not forget the stage for one moment?” he asked, choking on his own bitter sorrow. “The finest, most talented, most beautiful woman I ever knew – the woman to whom I was engaged to be married – is dead! My first and only true love; murdered! Have you no compassion?”

But his words went upon deaf ears; Lucifer had, in fact, paid no attention to his son’s passionate words. I was the centre of his attention; I held it firmly, with an iron fist – and, as he drew nearer to me, I enjoyed the captivating control I had over him.

“You perform?” was the first question that came to his hopeful lips. “What do you do?”

“I am an illusionist, Sir.”

“An Illusionist?” he repeated, in a diminished tone.

“A stage illusionist,” I replied, as I watched the hope evaporate from his face.

“Ha! What a fine sight that would be!” Lucifer continued in a sarcastic, angered voice. “These people are paying to see a grand opera performance – from the famous Belle de Morté, no less! And you expect to dazzle them with petty tricks?” I laughed as his anger mounted, only fueling his great annoyance.

“And yet you have none others to take her place,” I pointed out to him, enjoying his anger. “Such is life…” I expected him to spit in my face, punch me, kick me, hurt me in any way possible – but nothing happened. As quickly as it had come, his anger had left, and he appeared calm and collected.

“Fine,” he told me. “But you will be working at a fraction of the price I was paying Belle!”

“Naturally,” I replied, coolly. With no apparent answer, other than a small grunt, he turned and walked away from the bloodbath. Only to Marvello did it occur that I may have something to do with the death of Belle – and yet he was too shocked with his father’s dismissal of her murder to give it much thought. And so I left the stage, to prepare for the night’s performance.

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I don’t experience stage fright. I entered the stage, striding confidently into the spotlight that was fixated at the centre of the stage – the stage that had, just hours ago, been covered in blood – ignoring the hundreds of people who sat expectantly in the audience.  Once I had stood in the sight of the perplexed audience in total silence for many minutes – counting each slow second that went by – I reached in to my pocket, pulled out a mound of soil, and placed it upon the ground. I watched, as the viewers became more confused by my actions. I then turned away, ignoring my discontented audience; until, suddenly, a small stem started to sprout from the soil.

The murmur soon disappeared, as they realised what was happening – the stem was growing before their very eyes! I smiled manically as the stem extended, then branches formed. Slowly at first, then gradually faster, leaves started to grow form the branches; then, after just minutes, the tree stopped growing – and the audience gasped in amazement.

The tree, as I had planned, now held succulent blackberries from every branch – my viewers were surprised by the impossibility of this, and soon became questioning.
“Now see here!” one man shouted arrogantly from the audience. “Blackberries don’t grow on trees! This must be fake!” I merely smiled at his condemning evidence, and turned to him.

“But of course!” I told him. “It is an illusion. It must be fake! Why don’t you come up to my stage, and show the audience how ‘fake’ these blackberries are?” Encouraged by his peers sitting nearby, he stood up, and walked slowly to the stage. The audience grew silent as he approached me, and took a blackberry from the tree. After seconds, a look of bewilderment spread across his face.

“It’s real!” he shouted. “I don’t believe it – it can’t be…”

“Please,” I asked him, “take your seat back in the audience. I have another trick to perform.” I followed him with my eyes as he ran back to his seat, seemingly afraid of what I had done – and he was not alone. The viewers seemed on edge, not knowing what would come next; and so I gave them the shock of their lives.

From the side of the stage, I rolled on a long wooden box. People stared at it, wondering what it held inside. Not wanting to tease their imagination any longer, I threw off the lid – revealing the body of Belle, still dressed in her blood-stained gown.

Screams came from the audience – men stood up, ready to charge on stage; and Marvello, observing the performance from the stage wing, stormed on in a rage of anger and disbelief. I waited for him to draw near to me, then I held out my hand.
Suddenly, the audience fell silent, and Marvello stopped in his tracks.

“What you see before you,” I shouted out into the theatre, “is the body of Belle de Morté – killed just hours ago. But let us not be drowned in the facts here – this is a performance: I am here to show you an act of magic.”

“If you will, Marvello,” I asked quietly, so only he could here. Still frozen by my magic, he could not reply – so I released him from the charm. He swung his arm at me, aiming for my face – but I caught his hand, and forced it upon her chest. He screamed out in anger, in rebellion, hating me for disrespecting his love like this. What he did not realise was that my plan was coming to a head; my performance almost done; moments later, I removed his arm.

Her eyes opened, and she gasped for air. I released the audience from their charm, and relished the reaction: silence. Not a word. Only the deep breaths of Belle could be heard, and the joyful tears of Marvello.

Then, an outburst came from the audience. Shouting, screaming, cursing of all kinds – and I watched on, bemused by their anger.

“The Devil! He’s the incarnate!” one woman shouted.

“Someone stop him! Don’t let him get away!”  Lucifer bellowed above the commotion, running towards the stage. I laughed loudly as they came to me, and glared into the audience. Then, as they grabbed out for me, I threw a small sphere to the ground; once again, the foolish people were perplexed by it – that is, until it began to belch out black smoke into the theatre. Shouting in surprise, the people ran away from the smoke, fearing it – and so, my smokescreen had served its purpose; I ran away, through the stage door, into the cold city streets.

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I waited; waited, for hours on end, until the theatre was once again empty. I then re-entered through the stage door – the same door through which I had left only hours ago - and sat in the empty balcony, looking out onto the stage. He would be back – it was only a matter of time before Marvello came looking for me.

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“I knew I would find you here!”

The desperate voice resounded throughout the theatre; five days had passed, and – as I had suspected – Marvello once again stood before me. Once again, his eyes were red and sore, and he appeared to be physically exhausted.

“Please, you must help me!” he started. “Belle…”

“Is dead.” I said, finishing the sentence before he had the chance.

“But how…?”

“I brought her back to the living – I knew she could only survive for five days.”

“Then you must know how to bring her back!” he cried, falling to his knees in front of me. “Please – I must be with her! I beg of you!” Finally, the plan had come to its glorious end – I reached into my pocket, and pulled out the diamond-encrusted knife, still bloody from the murder I had committed.

“Take this,” I told him, “And you can be with her once more.” He stared at me, tears falling form his eyes. He knew what his fate was to be.

“Quickly now,” I said, quietly, “She’s waiting for you.” And, with a final glance at me, he plunged the knife into his saddened heart.

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I stood upon Belle’s grave, in the dead of night. The wind blew strongly around me, and the trees waved their branches ferociously in the gale. I did not notice any other sound than this – if there was any, I was oblivious to it – I was focussed solely on repaying my debt to the master I had served for so many years.

One hundred pounds. The notes fell from my hands to her grave, landing softly next to her headstone.

Two hundred pounds. Her plan had been so perfect, and I had executed it with such ease; how did she know that her plan would be a success?

Three hundred pounds; my debt to her paid off in full. My master – the beautiful Belle de Morté – had won the bet against me. She had managed to entice him to the brink of suicide, even in death – if only with a little assistance from myself. She truly was worthy to be my master.

In life, she had controlled Marvello like a marionette – and, in death, she had pulled his heartstrings; she made him follow her to the afterlife.