Marie and her sin

It took a week for Marie to realize the pain of losing her voice. Worse, if the entire world curses you for it.

Marie was in certain trouble. Although accustomed to tiptoeing through glass shards, she now walked in a land cluttered with explosive. The situation was cumbersome.

It is important to state that she adapted in good pace. One day, Marie tried ringing out her vocal cords. Nothing escaped. Not after applying more power, nor drinking a glass of chilly water, as though a fire burnt in her throat. This day, for an hour or two, Marie wept. As an adult - a proud citizen of the kingdom, the shame was immense.

Then, Marie brushed off the matter. Like kicking a pebble to the side, spitting on the ground, or passing by a starving child in the slums. There wasn't much in her power, except hoping that tomorrow would be different. It wasn't. When Marie understood this fact, she eyed the rugged rope used to tie the loose ends of her life. Also, the half-broken table in her flat.

Grabbing the rope by the tip, Marie coiled it around her neck three times. Because her friends refused to pull on it - to her discomfort - she had to tighten the grip herself. A reddish hue of pain trailed the outlines of her neck, she stopped the attempt to catch her breath.

Thus, Marie understood the many difficulties of suicide. She didn't want to live without her voice, neither had she enough courage to end her life. This worn-spot rope was the unique item linking Marie to life, because to her knowledge, she had died yesterday. She couldn't make any money, and she couldn't find a trace of glee.

Thinking was a bother.

Later that day, Marie chose to go outside. Her flat was beginning to feel like a tiny jail. The kingdom's streets were bustling, a golden sunlight casted over crowds of children. It didn't mean the world was prosperous, but rather, that Marie lived in a lavish part of the capital. She stomped on crumpled cigarettes, weaved in the mazy alleys. Gray dominated the other colors. Banners of red and silver sometime stole the spotlight.

In an hour or so, Marie stopped her steps to look skyward. Ash. Falling like snow; on her hair and lips. Ahead, a towering building, similar to stray lumps of wood glued together, and its eccentric frontage. Flowers were strewn all over the sight, stroking the ground or ties in dainty bouquets.

Marie walked forward. She circled on the right, avoiding the main entrance - a door in carved, sheeny copper. On the side, an unassuming, dusty-infested door, contrasted by a golden ring bell. Marie pressed twice on the dangling piece, until she heard a sharp click. A figure peeked its head through the half-opened gateway.

"Marie?"

It was a husky voice, and it sounded like comfort. The figure was a man, a head taller than Marie. His ginger strands of hair was tied in two thick braids that ended at shoulder-height, a loose white shirt fluttered over black trousers. With a rugged set of handsome features, he lacked any wrinkles on the forehead or cheek.

Marie didn't greet the man. She couldn't. Confronted by a blank expression and furrowed brows, the man cocked his head.

"What's going on? You missed practice yesterday."

His confusion was understandable. The lead singer, missing from practice, was a nail-biting piece of information. As Marie stood motionless, her strange behavior worsened. She threw herself into the gap, walking past the man. The room was barely one; a narrow square, filled with the smell of sweat and dust. Pairs of desks and chairs hugged the sides, supporting uneven piles of papers and black ink in wooden bowls. A single flickering light brightened the space.

In clumsy steps, Marie advanced through the corridor layout. Her actions brought no words out of the man. He lagged a meter behind with an observing gaze. After a desk grabbed her interest, she sat down, grabbed a blank sheet and tipped a pen in the ink. In graceful handwriting, Marie formed words on the canvas.

'Millrow'

It was the man's name. Millrow's expression darkened at each of Marie's stroke.

'I can't talk anymore.'

The paper displayed this message in bold, smooth letters. Marie stood up, holding the sheet against her chest. She lacked any of her usual charm.

Millrow's eyes widened. Despite reading the sentence multiple times, he couldn't grasp any meaning. His reaction prompted Marie to execute the motion another time, writing a new sentence.

'I lost my voice yesterday. I'm mute.'

The second was enough for Millrow to understand. A wire snapped. His sense of reason failed, collapsed to the ground. He grabbed Marie's wrist with an iron grip, thrashed her body into one of the desk. A muffled noise escaped her lips.

"Is this a bad joke?" Millrow yelled, distorting the space around his mouth. He spat insults, curses, and a few punches at Marie, yet couldn't swell her cheek. Kicking her ankle and pulling her hair, Millrow stopped at the sight of Marie shaky arms shielding her body. A pathetic turtle shell.

Seeing this gap, Marie limped on the floor towards the sheet, until she bled on it. She tried scrambling a coherent set of red letters with her tore fingertip, and brandished the paper forward.

'Please stop.'

Millrow scoffed. "If you promise me to never do that again."

Marie was lost. She wasn't lying, yet her words were taken as an insult. The pain blurred her judgement.

"Well?"

In the end, to alleviate her discomfort, Marie chose to nod. The most reliable option of all, using her knowledge of Millrow's personality. With an agreeable face, the man left through another door at the corridor's end. A minute passed, where Marie observed the blueish bruises scattered on her body. It hurt, but she had gotten through worse.

When the door opened once more, a bottle flew in-between the gap. Marie's reflexes saved her from another injury. She grabbed it with her fingertips - a round, elongated flask, containing a reddish liquid. The surface was oily, slipping out of her grip. Marie bit on the tip, shattering glass in her mouth. A fire lit up in her throat, and the liquid slid down. Seconds of agony passed; then, a white hue emerged from Marie's body. Former cuts and bruises dimmed, leaving behind faint black lines. They were permanent scars; nonetheless, it was better than shards of glass poking the skin. The white light dimmed down, the pain didn't.

Morris flashed a bleak expression. As though barrels of copper pieces had burnt into ash. He clicked his tongue.

"The spectators are coming in. Get up."

While it was true that Marie was feeling tired, the stronger truth was that she needed to make money. With an empty repertoire of options, only nodding remained.

"Good. We've got 5 minutes." Morris said, slamming the door shut.

Marie lingered alone, strewn on the floor like an old rag. The worse of situations. Morris didn't; actually, close to nobody would believe her condition. This world wouldn't. It couldn't. Mutism was a crime worth gifting a limb or two to the kingdom, if not your head. Then again, without a voice, there isn't any loss in cutting such a head.

There was a mirror, framed in a sequence of colorful gems and silver drawings. Using a nearby chair, Marie stood up. She breathed, closed her eyes, stretched her sore legs. Her mental state became steady once more, enough to catch a glimpse of the reflection. She eyed a roughed-up woman, disheveled white fell on her face in thin bangs. A pair of light blue eyes returned a blank look. Ghastly, truly. Terrifying, maybe.

Marie was used to such sights. In this setup, she thought that her appearance was pretty. Using her nails as a make-shift comb, the unkept bangs, curling away from any semblance of order, straightened. Each time Marie stroked her hair, the mirror displayed a better image. Her stiff body had thousands of tiny cuts that hit from all sides, but her appearance was presentable. Marie had no charm because of her eyes. This blank look appealed to no one, it ruined an otherwise fine figure.

Her clothes remained to be changed. Tattered, peeling off like paint, Marie felt pity for the fabric. She managed to walk to the entrance, weaving in the half-opened door. Outside, a soft breeze stroked her skin. The cold hurt like a whip. Barefoot on the grass, Marie walked to the back of the building, a hidden spot stuck between two dead trees. The remaining living foliage crumpled into powder when she stepped on it. Marie took out her clothes, folding them into a ball. Her naked body shivered alone, she hugged herself to counter the cold.

It was then that Marie understood her blunder. She tried calling out a spatial box, however, the task wasn't easy without a voice. Her set of spare clothes became trapped forever, leaving Marie exposed to nature. This problem wasn't meant to happen, because nobody expected a mute to appear. Shame swirled within Marie. She ran inside of the building, stumbling on roots or rocks. In one of the desk, ironed clothes were folded in harmony. They weren't Marie's, but she didn't have the luxury to worry about stealing.

Before advancing through the next door, Marie paused in front of another mirror. There was an hourglass figure, dressed in black stockings, a black skirt, a cream-colored shirt that exposed her collarbone. For the perfecting touches, brown boots and a black bowtie. Also, a dangling crystal earring. Marie's appearance was stunning. Not enough to hide the artless smile on her face, however. Every glance Marie took at herself, she thought less of it.

Marie was conflicted. The door vibrated and shielded her from deafening noises. Clanking beers, laughs, and curses seemed to fly through the other side. She was used to this spectacle; as singer, there was nothing that Marie could offer without her voice. A sliver of hope hit the back of her mind.

Maybe, here, her voice would surge back.

A light push was enough for the door to make way. Marie walked forward to a crescent shaped scene. It was a circular room, where people clustered around a dozen or so wooden tables. The potent scents of alcohol and cigarette danced in the air. Marie loathed them. Dressed in neat black attires, waiters bolted from table to table, balancing towers of plates and silverware. A single yellow ceiling lamp lit up the surroundings.

The chaos shut down. Everyone eyed Marie, peered at her attire, her distinct hair color. Then, they threw shouts at the woman. It was a collective frenzy.

A circle beast. Marie viewed herself as such. These stares were like needles to her soul. The crowd expected a word. A minute passed where Marie stood motionless. She froze, fidgeting sheets of papers behind her back, gazing at the floor.

"Sing us the hero's ballad!"

"Marie!"

Pleas and cries reverbed on the walls. Marie's ears were irking. After some time, she brandished the sheets above her chest. Sentences were written.

'Hello everyone.'

She switched to a different sheet. The room was silent, people squinted their eyes at the scene.

'Since yesterday, I am mute.'

Like a beehive, noises were beginning to buzz. Marie flipped to the final sheet, her eyes stuck to the floor.

'I'm sorry.'

For seconds, many had trouble understanding Marie's words. They looked at each other in confusion. Then, all turned to a corner of the room. Morris, leaning against a wall, slammed his fist against it. A scarlet hue spread across his face.

"Marie! What are you doing?" He shouted with hints of playfulness. However, Marie never budged.

At this moment, her head was empty. Neither sounds nor thoughts, it was a single blank space. Black, everywhere. Useless and meaningless; that was her life. As a reflex, Marie branded forward her paper sheet. She kept apologizing for nothing.