"Crow on the cradle, the white on the black...

[Christine Daye]

((Content warning: suicidal thoughts and flashbacks of assault))

...somebody's baby is not coming back..."

There are a hundred and one ways to die in a theatre, and Christine counted every one. From the fall from the balcony, to smash one's brains out on the stalls below, to the explosive, burning power of the gaslights. The ropes that hung from the rigging, the heavy counterbalances that held aloft the scenery. Even the poison put down for the rats, the lead in the greasepaint.

"...hush now my little one... now don't you weep..."

They whispered to her as she roamed the deserted theatre, in the dark hours when the staff had gone home. They called to her, weaving a seductive song of release.

She imagined what it would be like, dancing a tantarella from the rigging, the rope around her delicate throat, silencing her forever. The swandive from the gods, the exquisite moment of flying before the final crash, fortissimo. The beautiful screams that she would make as the flames enveloped her. Like a lover. Oh, God. Like a lover.

"...I'll sing you a song that will send you to sleep... "

She caressed the ropes, the lights, the walls, as she sang, wandering the theatre. A lost soul, bloody tears streaming unheeded down her cheeks.

"...with rings on her fingers... and bells on her toes... and a shadow above her... wherever she goes..."

Memories. So many memories, so many, spinning in her mind so that she did not know which were hers, or hers, fevered imaginings, dark dreams of blood and pain and fear.

... the sound of footsteps behind her... the pain as her face was slammed into the rough wood of the table... the flare of panic, of fear..."...not again... oh God... not again... "

She walked the edge of the balcony, blind, tempting fate.

"... bring me a gun and I'll shoot that bird dead..."

She climbed the rigging, held on the catwalks by the thinnest of ropes.

... his breath on her neck... her screams... the gag... the straps... the knives... his voice... impassive... cold... "You want to be cured, don't you? Sing... one note... just one... and this can end..." "...this problem will be alleviated..."

She didn't recognise that face reflected in the shadowed glass of the lights. Gaunt, hollow. The woman she knew, gone. Fallen from grace.

"... your mama and papa... they'll scrimp and they'll save... build you a coffin and dig you a grave... "

Her voice echoed in the deserted theatre, anguished, beautiful. The song of Lucifer, as he fell.

...the whip struck... again... again... again... the scalpel cut... "... I love you... ", "...sing...", "...again... perfect this time..." ...blood.... pain... struggling in his hold... terror... tears.... begging... "...please... pleasepleaseplease..."

And under it all, the agony and ecstasy of the music. Shrieking and wailing like the souls of the damned. The music that held her in thrall, despite everything. The music that forbade her anything, save its service. Denied her an end to the agony in her heart.

"...your life is mine..." ...his hand in her hair... "...slut..."
... the scent of roses... "...no... no... no... nonononononoNO!" ... screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming and...

She stood in the centre of the stage and sang with all the ecstatic power of her inhuman voice.

"...sang the crow on the cradle... sang the crow on the cradle... "