Con ArtistMature

In 1772, a traumatized pyromaniac employs a young woman to assist him in his manipulation of the English public through music.

JANUARY 11, 1772.

The dark, loud music of a piano echoes through the near-empty home, bouncing off the walls and repeating itself ominously. The only pieces of furniture seen are the essentials; a kitchen table and oven in one room, a small bed in the other. Each piece, though, has been obviously charred and abused by flames. The whole house has a dreary color scheme, filled with grays, blacks, and faded browns.

The music intensifies, becoming quicker and higher--the person playing is of great skill. A few sour notes work their way in, then more. The whole piece is now flawed. Everything stops for just a split-second, then--

CUT to EDMUND LOGAN grunting angrily, accompanied by a bang on his piano. The instrument emits a groan of distress: the familiar sound of keys being pounded on mindlessly.

Edmund sits in his music room, nothing around him but his similarly-charred piano and writing desk. A single candle burns in front of him, barely lighting his face; his eyes are completely swallowed by shadow, though Edmund's anger is clearly apparent in them.

Before him, laid messily on the piano, is the apparent first draft of an opera. The first few lines are scrawled messily on the paper, ink blots and crossed-out words littering the page.

Edmund covers his face with his hands and rubs his eyes tiredly. Then, restlessly, he props his chin on his hand while he stares at the page in front of him. With an angry grunt, he lifts the failed project to the candle and sets it on fire. The flames slowly spread, blackening the paper and turning it to ash. Edmund's face lights up at the sight of the feeding embers.

His apparent joy is interrupted by a leisurely knock on the door. His angry facial expression intensifies as he gets up and stalks through the house and to the door.

Edmund reaches it and pulls it open, revealing a postman dressed in period uniform.

POSTMAN: Letter for you, Mr. Logan.

EDMUND, nodding, his brow furrowed: Thank you.

Clearly annoyed, he takes the letter from the man and closes the door in his face.

The End

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