The Ballroom

This is the moment you've all be waiting for. The car crash, the spectacle. Blood and viscera, metal and glass, screams of flesh and machinery. All you asked for, She has delivered. She glides through the spectacle like a modern ghost, a wisp of infinity. You get what you paid for, and what you paid for is horror.

This is the ballroom and it is all there ever was. The oldest grandest ballroom in the city. The chandelier which had proudly hung glittering and enormous in the centre is a smattering of a shards on the marble floor. The ceiling has caved in all that remained was plaster and brick. The husk of machinery had pierced through the dome from above and destroyed all that was below. You asked for this. She has no shame, no regrets. What did you expect?

Sarah sat in her apartment, white leather sofa, cotton pyjamas, the rolling news cycle repeatedly displaying flashing images of carnage. Walter sits on her lap, a purring throw pillow nestled next to her feet curled up beside her. Dark fingers gathering and releasing tufts of fur in one hand, a glass of deep red burgundy resting in her other. The goblet hovering near her cheek. Her down-turned eyes reflecting the tragedy, her forehead smooth, her mouth a crescent grimace. Black headphones resting in her ears, the tape-recorder attached resting on her lap embedded in folds of pale cotton.

"What can I do to help?" Her voice was higher than she was accustomed to, it sounded disconnected. Sarah recognised the polite emptiness in her tone. She had asked that question so many times and it had lost all meaning. She wasn't trying to help. Sarah didn't want to help anybody. Everyone had disappointed her and dampened her belief in humanity which had been carefully constructed through her childhood. Her journey toward maturity had been a gradual understanding that people were not inherently good. People were in fact selfish and destructive and adulthood was a rite of passage that taught people their selfishness had no consequence. More specifically, that any consequences could be ignored with enough selfishness.

"Kill them all." The low voice had responded.
Sarah had not responded, there had been a long crackling as the tape continued to record and the silence was committed to memory. She recalled the unchanged expression on the man's face and the matter of fact tone. Sarah recalled revulsion growing in the pit of her stomach. It coiled through her insides and made it uncomfortable for her to sit still. She had wanted to move, to leave, to remove herself from the moment that was unfolding. She had sat perfectly still holding his unblinking gaze.

"I don't care how." The voice continued after the interminable silence. "I want them dead." The voice cut through the low buzzing.

The helicopter had crashed into the ballroom at quarter past ten in the evening. There had been an award ceremony taking place, the Institute of Financial Leaders had arranged it to award the 'leading lights' in the industry. The ballroom had been set up with a stage, a large red curtain hung behind it with podium glowing under spotlights. There had been an arrangement of tables with centrepieces which looked like weeping willows.

Sarah had shifted in her seat as the man had stared at her, "I understand." She had walked away at that point. The tape became a cacophony of screeching chair legs and her handbag rattling. She walked away and the noise turned into random conversations melding into a singular hum of voices.

The news reporter with the perfectly styled hair and navy blue jacket dictated the details of the images being shown. Thus far the death toll was unknown.

Sarah could hear a piercing vibrating noise angrily buzzing against the kitchen counter behind her. She removed her hand from her cat's warm fur and fumbled for the tape-recorder, her thumb depressed the rewind button as she started the tape from the beginning once again.

"-any need for introductions." The lower voice had said coolly. He hadn't shook her hand, he had barely acknowledged her as he sat down. Sarah had felt uneasy from the moment he had appeared. The meeting had lasted less than five minutes. He had been in control the entire time and she had been beholden to his request. To his intense stare. To his request.

"And you do whatever I ask?" He had sounded almost curious as Sarah had settled in the seat opposite him at the bar near the docks. He had a pint glass of golden beer in front of him untouched and speckled with condensation. Sarah had not ordered a drink. She hadn't been sure about the nature of the meeting.

"My associate will be responsible for putting your request into action." Sarah sounded coy, almost flirtatious on the tape. She could hear the light playful tone in her voice as she toyed with the idea of charming this blunt and unnerving man. He hadn't reciprocated and Sarah recalled feeling embarrassed as he had rudely ignored her attempts at being personable.

Had Sarah known that Her interpretation of the request had been to crash a helicopter into the middle of the Quadrangle would this have changed the way she handled the situation? Should Sarah have handed the tape across as was the usual order of business? Why did she keep this tape and simply paraphrase the conversation? What if something had been missed?

Sarah stared at a terrified patron of the awards ceremony, tracks of mascara on her cheeks, hair with dust and frayed edges, frantically describing the carnage to the reporter. Sarah's eyes lost focus and rather than a victim or a survivor, Sarah saw her associate talking through the television. Was it actually her? The grey eyes, the sunken cheeks, the slash of deep red across her neck. 

"Kill them all." 

Why would anyone want this? Sarah wondered as the phone on the kitchen counter continued to buzz incessantly against the smooth surface. She had simply been the messenger. The conveyor belt carrying the request to the instigator. The woman that had no name. The woman responsible for the helicopter dropping from the sky but not for the death and the carnage.

"Are you the trigger or the bullet?" Sarah had been asked once.
"Who is holding the gun here?" Sarah had responded.
"They are." The proverbial 'they', the one that gives the order.
"Then it doesn't matter what part of it I say I am." Sarah had said smoothly.

Sarah stared at the television screen, the voice of the client playing on repeat in her ears. They didn't know how people had survived or how many people had died. Sarah closed her eyes to block out the images on the screen.

"I understand." Her mechanical voice smoothly advised. What had she expected?