—Symphony No. 25 in G Minor
Soundtrack #2: The Remorse of Orestes
A seductive dagger tightened in my grip. I wasn’t sure how to go about this. Would she notice my bitter eyes? A thorn, having crawled from the underbrush, broke the skin on my bare sole, leaving behind a bloodstained wake through the abandoned forest: my personal thread of Ariadne, wound through the Cretan labyrinth. No feral Minotaur awaits me at the end though; the monster is the man with a dagger in his hand.
I knew she would be here, though. She always performed the sacrificial rites in private. There, through the clearing in the olive trees. I admired her reflection in the silky blood of the ram: pure, exquisite beauty. The scent of the anointing oils and damp earth clouded my mind. I approached. She must not notice my advance. My pace quickened, falling into a deadly quiet as I closed in. I was only a lunge away now. “Laudamia!” I cried. She abruptly turned on her heels and gazed at my raised dagger, shimmering in the sun’s radiance. No more words. I plunged the dagger deep in her chest.
In the distance, I heard earsplitting shrieks approaching, flying through the air at a rate unimaginable. Before my eyes could leave Laudamia’s leaking chest, I was surrounded by three thread-bare, winged women. Their wild hair was wreathed with serpents, and their eyes dripped with blood. Their very screams ripped at my flesh, burning my innermost marrows. I knew these figures well, the Erinyes, the Furies, born from the viscid ichor of Uranus’ castration, the chthonic deities of vengeance. They pointed furiously at my dagger buried in her chest, deafening me with their roars from Hades. “ORESTES,” they screeched. I grabbed my ears with the intention of ripping them off. The snakes, wound through their savage hair, spit dark venom onto my naked skin. I ran, following the scarlet footprints left on the pale forest floor. Burning with witchcraft from the underworld itself, I fell over in desperation, the Furies circling my body.
Something caught my attention in the corner of my eye: a gilded rectangle surrounding this sinister depiction. I was abruptly torn away from the painting. I noticed my other museum-goers had already egressed. The white walls, dotted with other depictions, a Manet, a Goya, seemed unusually plain. The unadorned bench where I sat suddenly seemed rather uncomfortable. I glanced back at the painting, not hoping to relive the scene rendered on the large canvas. The colors were deep with reds and blacks; fury, fear, and death were illustrated accurately on the ancient faces. I stood up in the empty room, the aroma of antiquity swirling around my head. Wringing my hands, I walked silently into the next room, Mozart’s 25th playing quietly in the background.
