An opera. Lost in the annals of time. An incredible art of utter and complete perfection in every standard. How has such an art been forgotten is beyond my personal comprehension. Every note, every long drawn word which piece by piece builds the master piece into one, ambitious crescendo. I dance today, for the first time since I was a child, to an Opera from a lost age. Dear mother, I say, look at what I have become, would you be so proud? The ecstasy from which I gain with this proclaimed heresy of music is beyond description, and every careful step I take along its side feels like a constant growing act of defiance, yet it matters not, for my mind is at rest. Were you ever civil, dear mother? Did you care for elegance, as I? For when I run my hand over the velvet of this cloth not mine, I feel a forbidden luxury – One you never appreciated to give to brother and I. It is beautiful here, as I look passed the glass pane into the valley of iron – It is an exception to the unified misery, would you care for it? Every wall, every floor, every item of vanity, feels like an addiction here, something of an adoration. Every last direction is painted in the beautiful crimson, a shade for which I lust.

I see the light here, mother. Perched above the insignificant mass which builds our brothers and sisters. Standing here, I am god, for I witness beauty beyond that of the farthest reaches of mankind. The insects of existence squirm beneath my graced gaze as I appreciate the image, burned into my memory forever as if a photograph. Still, the music plays on, and still, for just a moment I’ve tasted what perfection might feel like. I am an exception, dear mother, I have surpassed the human condition. What lays its head beyond the mindless existence you paved for I? Superiority, mother, I have discovered a superiority unmatched. I have within my power, the ability to rest the minds of the unfavorable. As I sit here, perched atop the mighty world, I find myself unimpressed with the luxuries of this forbidden place. There is one pleasure here for me, one honest adoration. For when I remove the covering from my malicious hands, and slide the tips of callused fingers across the texture of skin, I am subdued by temptation.

The feel of sharpened metals against such a soft and fragile substance is beyond material ecstasy, mother. As the Opera sings, my touch is warmed by a seemingly endless flow of warm narcotic. Red in the light, it seeps from the ever important neck of a corrupt man, and softens my grip on his collar. As my nimble dagger completes its glide beneath this insignificant creatures jaw, I run its sensually warm surface over my cheek, and leave my cursed ivory skin stained, but it has such a beauty to it, mother. Mother why could you not have gone so peacefully as the art I have committed today? You could have served me such a pleasure, yet you rebelled against the cold steel of my armored hands. You should be jealous, Mother, for when I had perished you, I fell towards a feeling of failure, but today, I dance to this man’s forbidden fruit. An opera.


Mishka Bonderenko