Welcome to Gaia! :: View User's Journal | Gaia Journals

VERdI

Picoult loved coming home from school when he was a child. His innocent eyes were always lit up, backpack on, running home from the bus stop. He couldn't wait to show mommy what he'd learned today, like angles, participles, the legislative branch. That feeling had long since gone, and the only thing really close to that was for the intellectual to come home from his job as a professor at Yale University and check the mail. There was always someone sending something to him, someone who cared. Usually that someone was commercial, but the thought to send a catolouge to HIM really touched him. God, I really need to get a life, Picoult told himself as he rummaged through the day's mail, but the answer was right in front of him. He pushed aside a few Pottery Barn magazines and uncovered a black envolope.
He looked at the front, at the back, at the red wax seal that no one used anymore. This was the first letter that he'd recieved in a while, and he couldn't wait to open it. Being alone really took its toll. Picoult started to look for the return address, but to no avail. He wondered. Who could've sent this? No matter. He opened it and took out the green piece of paper inside and started to read.
"Greetings, citizen! The reason you are reading this letter is because you have been invited to the centenial masquarade! Our host is requesting your presence at the Rose Mansion on Saturday, December 14th. Be sure to bring your mask, as it will be your ticket into the party as will be this invitation." It was signed with an eighth note. Picoult turned it over and read the post script: "PS: DO NOT BE ALARMED." "What?" Picoult said aloud to the empty apartment, not really expecting, or even wanting an answer. He had nothing better to do, so he tacked the note onto his fridge.
The rest of his day went normally, but his mind was still on the letter...who was it from? Why him? Centennial? Where was the Rose Mansion? The thoughts plaguing him were hard to push out of his head, God knew.
The next day, Picoult woke up to go back to Yale, just like every day. Entering the chemisty classroom, he noticed another black envelope on his desk with the same wax seal. He opened it suspiciously, then heard a knock on the door. "Mr. Rosso?" a student asked. "Ah, Asch, come in," Picoult Rosso said to him, putting down the letter. Asch Matin was Picoult's favourite student. He wasn't going to lie. It broke the unspoken teacher's laws, but he favoured Asch. He was just...just...a great student, I suppose. Asch walked over to his professor and asked him, "Mr. Rosso, I didn't understand yesterday's lecture, could you re-explain it to me?" Picoult nodded, then pulled out his periodic table. "Hypothetically it SHOULD be possible to combine any two atoms..." he started.
Asch listened intently throughout the entire lecture, but Picoult's mind was elsewhere: on the letter. In the middle of his lecture, Asch inturrupted him with a request to go to the bathroom. "Of course," Picoult told the student, "but I'm not even half done." Asch nodded. "I know, I know." He ran out of Picoult's classroom to the bathroom near the class. Picoult pried open the black envelope and pulled out the letter, which only had one eighth note on it and the word "ONE". Picoult thought nothing of it, maybe it was a joke? He threw the note and envelope out and waited for Asch to return.
Time passed, and the first bell rang. His class filed in, their teacher still disturbed at Asch's disappearance. It had been two hours, where was that boy? He excused himself to the bathroom and walked down the hallway to the boy's bathroom.
The hallway seemed bigger to him that day. The few feet above his head that reached up to the celing now seemed like a mile. The hall spanned two football fields across and quite a few kilometers long. Why? He shook the thought and entered the bathroom. "Asch?" he called out, looking for his student. He wasn't within immediate sight. The urinals were empty, and all of the stalls were open. Except for one. He looked on the floor and saw Asch's feet and legs underneath the stall. He shimmied under the stall and looked around the small space. When he saw, he had to say "Dear God..."
Asch's head was submurged in the toilet, blood diluting the water. He picked up Asch's neck to see that it had been cut open in a...music note-shaped incision. Around the stall was one word, writtin in Asch's blood: "VERdI". "Verdi...?" Picoult asked himself. "What happened here?" Asch couldn't have that much time to write VERdI all around the stall, covering all of the walls before the cut got to him. The only thing in the stall besides Asch and the toilet and Picoult was a green card, attached to the wall over the toilet. Picoult took it and read:
"Greetings, citizen! The reason you are reading this letter is because I have taken my first victim. Please do not be alarmed, he is but the first. There will be m o r e." It was signed with a sixteenth note this time. Picoult opened the stall door and exited the bathroom, calling out in the hallway "CAN WE GET A JANITOR IN HERE?"
---
The rest of the day went by in a blur. Asch Matin was dead. The note couldn't be an accident, and Asch couldn't have been a suicide. Finally, Picoult dismissed the class. The teacher was the first one out and home.
He opened the mailbox, expecting nothing but cataloges. Perhaps this eighth note would lay off him for a while? But no. Instead of the L.L. Bean and Kohl's and Old Navy cataloges, there lay a single black envelope. Picoult snached it out and opened it, reading it right there. "Haha, you liked that, citizen? That was my first preformance, Mr...Rosso, was it? Yes, Mr. Rosso. There shall be others, two others, but you should stay alive for the grand finale!! Remember, the Masquarade at Rose Mansion is only two days away! I shall lead you there in good time, though, Mr. Rosso. May God lead you to victoire." There was a single sixteenth note at the bottom of the paper, and on the back, another post script: "PS: DO NOT RIP." "Two...two others?" Picoult said, slinking to the ground. "Two others like Asch?"
He went inside, letting the note slip from his hands and noticed the message light blinking. He pressed it. "You have. Two. New. Messages," the machine said to Picoult in its monotone voice. It beeped, and a familiar voice was heard. "Hey, Picoult! Remember me? N.M.R.--Natasha! College buddies! Well, I'm back in town, so give me a ring! All right? Maybe we could meet up for something-or-other tomorrow after school. Meet me at the coffeehouse, kay? See ya!" The machine beeped, and the next message started playing. "Picoult? It's Sky, Sky Yole. Just wondering what you were doing this Friday. I'm free, and in the New Haven area, so maybe we could meet up. Call me." The message beeped, and the two new victims made themselves clear. Natasha and Sky were about to die.
Or were they?
---
The next day went by surprisingly quickly, even though Picoult was dreading meeting Natasha--or N.M.R., as she was known by her sorority girls--at the coffeehouse. He had no choice. He had to go. The drive to the coffeehouse went quickly as well, but Picoult had something to think about. -It's a funny thing, time,- Picoult thought. - Good things make it go quickly when it's happening, but bad is the inverse. The other is true as well--bad things go quickly when dread is there, but good...awaiting good things makes time go slower. But I'm not a physics teacher. Why am I thinking about this? oh look, I'm already here.- Picoult pulled into a parking space outside and got out of his car. As he passed the front of his BMW to enter the house, he noticed a note on his windsheild: A black envelope. -Should I...?- he wondered. -Is Natasha expendable?- He reached out his hand, then pulled it back. No. He couldn't afford another death on his account. Yes. He needed it, the other note said to not rip it, and leaving it was just the same. He decided to take it and open it for Natasha so he could see her reaction.
Snow hit his head as he opened the door. He strode over to Natasha's table, where she was waiting, waving. There wasn't even a "hello" out of Picoult, just a cut-to-the-chase. "Natasha," he said to his ex-girlfriend, "I need your help." She cocked her head. "Sure, Rossoult, whaddaya want without my hello?" she replied, using Picoult Rosso's college nickname. "Don't call me that. I don't want to relive those days. Now, open this letter, will you?" Picoult requested her. "Sure...but why am I your designated letter opener?" She opened the letter, and read it aloud. "Mr. Rosso, you have made the right choice by taking this. As a reward, I'll tell you something about myself. You don't know me. There. As for your friend here, TWO." Natasha looked up at Mr. Rosso. "It's signed with a sixteenth note." Just as he had feared. "I have to go to the lady's room, please excuse me." Not again. "Fine, go," he said, obviously distraught. Natasha was as good as dead.
Picoult waited for her return, knowing it would never come. He was wrong. Natasha came out of the bathroom in one piece, then sat down at the table and said, "I don't feel well," then commenced to tilt her head to the side. She opened her mouth and started to heave her guts. "What?" Picoult exclaimed. It's not every day you see your ex from college throw up like this. She didn't even stop to breathe. The puke kept on spewing out, like a waterfall from N.M.R.'s mouth. When her stomach didn't have anything else to throw out, she got the dry heaves. Eventually, her body found something to puke up: she started spewing blood right out of her mouth, losing the vital liquid at an alarming rate. She eventually stopped, turned to Picoult, said, "I feel better now," then fainted, head first into her own vomit, displacing quite a bit, including another note. Picoult took the note and turned it around. "VERdI."
---
The EMT came and brought Natasha's drowned body out to the hospital, but it was no use. She was gone. As Picoult walked out, he noticed another envelope on the windsheild. He took it, and opened it with anger. He read it aloud. "Ha, ha, Mr. Rosso! That was my second! Nice show I'm putting on, correct? Well, don't let me keep you waiting for your second date! Go on home and see what I mean! Maybe after my third spectacular you'll see what the Rose Mansion is!" He looked at the bottom to see a half note replacing the other note. "DAMN YOU!" he yelled, and drove home, seeing red.
Picoult stormed into his house to see the message light blinking. It was Sky: "Hey, Picoult, I can't do anything tomorrow...maybe today? Gimme a ring, because today's the only time I have left before I leave for the UK again. Call me."
Picoult picked up the phone and it dialed Sky.
"Hello?" She said in her British accent. "
Yeah, Sky?" Picoult said to the other line.
"Ah, Picoult!" Sky exclaimed with joy. "I've been trying to get in touch with you!" Picoult shuddered, thinking of her imminent death.
"Y-yeah, I know," he replied. "Listen, I can't do anything today."
"Aww, why not?"
"Well, one of my friends just died, and this week's just been really hard on me."
"That's an unrealistic excuse, please tell me really why not? Are you seeing another woman, you devil?"
"Another...?" Picoult wondered. "Anyway, that's not an excuse. It's the truth."
"That's too bad. Anyway, I just had the urge to say THREE. I don't know why...do you ever get that?"
Her fate was sealed. "Yeah. Just tell me...tell me you won't be doing anything stupid, all right Sky?"
"What was that for?" she wondered, oblivious. "Anyway, I better be go--" She was cut off midsentance, and all that was heard on the other lines was a British woman named Sky Yole screaming bloody murder--and it probably was. Picoult was about to hang up the phone, when he heard a gruff and somewhat violent, yet extremely polite, voice. "This is much more convenient, isn't it Mr. Rosso?" the voice said.
"You!"
"Yes, me. I'm glad we got the chance to speak like this, man to man. Now, about Saturday's party..."
"You really think I'm going to that?"
"Why wouldn't you? You do realise what you'd be going against, right?"
"...fine."
"That's a good boy. Now, there will be a knock on your door. Inside the box there will be the mask you are to wear. No exceptions. I must know it is you when I see."
"Continue."
"That's really all I wanted to say...oh! One more thing: Verdi."
There was a dial tone on the other side. Picoult screamed, and there was a knock on the door. He went to answer it and noticed a box. He opened it, seeing a glorious orange-and-violet mask inside. He picked it up, not daring scratch or tear it, fearing what the man might do, and noticed something else inside the box: a rosy note in the same handwriting. He picked it up and read. "The Rose Mansion is actually the church near Yale University, I shall see you all there!" It was signed with a whole note. Picoult screamed again.
---
Two days passed. Three sick days for Picoult Rosso. There was plenty of time to think about things for him.
You see, innocence is never gained. It can only be lost. Mr. Rosso is on the last shred of his innocence. There is nothing that can be done. He knows that gone are the study sessions with Asch Matin. Gone are the coffee hours with Natasha Reed. Gone are the long phone conversations with Sky Yole. He can never go back. He can never become old Picoult.
He is now Mr. Rosso.
Mr. Rosso stood in front of the mirror, his tuxedo complementing his flamboyant mask. "This is it..."
He entered his car and drove to the church--or Rose Mansion. Opening the double doors there, he saw that the sanctuary was now adorned with crystal chandeliers, dancing couples and other things that made the once peaceful church into a tense hall from what he sensed as an 1800's hall. As he walked it, he was wisked off of his feet by a woman. "Shall we dance?" she asked Picoult, and commenced to dance to the bolero played by the orchestra.
Around and around Picoult was spun by the woman, her blue-and-yellow mask not faltering in the least. Spin...spin...spin...spin...spin...Picoult was disoriented by the time the music was over. He stood next to the woman and turned to see her mask in clearer detail. "Oh, you want to see my real face?" she said to him, reading his entranced (and somewhat dizzy) face. He nodded, and she took the handle of her mask and pulled up, unmasking a very masculine face and taking off the wig that had appeared to be real hair. The host of the party grabbed Picoult by the arm. "You like my wig?" he said in a noticable voice. "It's Sky's hair." Picoult was to scared to speak. "Look at me," the man said to Picoult. "Look at Verdi." Picoult turned to see Verdi holding a knife to his face. "Four."
One stab and it was over.
The illusion fled, as did Verdi, dropping one last note.
"VERdI."
---
Gone are the days of Picoult Rosso's young run-homes from the bus stop. Gone are the days when his mommy would take him and hug him and listen to him tell her all about the day's lessons. All about eukaryotic cells and the elements of design and about the periodic table. Gone is Picoult's innocence,
and gone is Picoult Rosso.