He can hear his heart -
thump thump -
there it goes again -
thump thump -
beating harder and harder as a blanket of silence rises slowly from the very floors of the great ballroom. Hushed voices fade away from amidst seated guests and bystanders along the walls, falling through the shadows like winter mists; and like the tide, finishing at the edge of the stage at the very mention of her name.
“G. Ane!” calls his guest host, a beautiful young model and singer by the podium, raising her arms for an applause from the audience.
Thump thump -
there, again -
panic -
Tiero clenches his fists into a knot of balls, shaking violently in a dark corner backstage, staring at the very stairs in front of him as silhouettes of people – indistinct at first – climbing softly up, their familiar faces revealed under the stage’s golden lights one by one.
Tei Shakan, senior editor of H&S Publishings Ltd., a woman Tiero had known almost half his life. Family friend of his mother’s, a stern and warmhearted woman. Not too far behind her emerges Hanne Tahn, Tei’s trusted colleague who has been in the industry almost as long as she has – silver haired and soft of disposition – famous for his Midas touch.
Tiero can almost hear his breath slipping away from his heart at the sight of the third and last person, her fragile hand embracing Hanne’s outstretched arm; like a dance, he leads her ever so slightly to the podium where he and Tei stand at the edge of the spotlight, just enough to simply disappear into the shadows and away from the hungry cameras of the media.
And the air grows still.
No. This is wrong.
Tiero stands rigid. It is an image all too familiar in his mind; like a dream that is ever too enticing and all the more fleeting. He watches her movements with eyes wide open, the sway of her dark ebony hair, how they rest beautifully still on her shoulders, and her face void of emotion. Her voice is soft and husky, as it always was, and speaks her words with a gentle kind of conviction, if not unpretentiously humble.
“For all of this and more, I thank you from the bottom of my heart,” speaks the woman, pausing for a moment of breath. Tiero can feel whispers and questions spreaing through the audience, a wave of murmurs engulfing every corner of the room like a rising storm, hungry for blood.
Stop. Please, stop.
Tiero begins to run mindlessly toward the stage center entrance, panic rising from every pulse in his body.
No, this is wrong.
Tiero runs along the backstage alley, jumping through zigzagging cables and crew members, sliding under a row of metal frames and pass the switchboard tables, heavy of monitors and computer screens, blinking eerily in the dark. He can see crew members moving toward him bewilderedly and his radio, buzzing with questions from the floor manager and the switchboard members, Moeya’s voice shouting at him with words he can no longer understand.
Tiero runs to the stairs of the backstage entrance, those very flight of stairs that will lead him to the back of the gigantic screen. He slips on the way, his fingers frantically scampering for support whilst a group of crewman race quickly behind him, screaming in hushed voices of questions that no longer matter to him.
No, for the love of God! No!
But he stops midway the short flight of stairs, his very life drained out of him, and arms of nameless faces grabbing to pull him up to his feet – his shaking feet – that can no longer sustain him. He slumps heavily on Moeya’s shoulder as he hears that very soft voice on stage speak out with such tender resolve:
“My name is Sia. I am G. Ane.”
