Background

Elara Voss. The woman that killed me. I bore witness to the slow unraveling of who she is and endured it out of the respect I held for her mother, Lydia. I don't know how Elara's childhood looked like, but I have no doubt Ly gave her all she needed. Elara was never lacking in love, but it seemed to not have an effect on her. Perhaps, she was just vile since she was born. Elara entered my life in June 77', when she was signed into my lessons in NYC. A bright girl of British and Italian descent, with big dreams and wealthy parents who immersed her in cultured hobbies. It made her to be a rather adorable talented professional, but the lack of childishness was almost haunting. At first, it was innocent. Elara had a spark I have not seen in years. Ly's grace in pint sized package and irresistible charm and vocal range of her father, which made her presence undeniable. Politely loud child that loved to debate art, recite lines from Italian librettos, and she would nail complex scenes despite her age, making rehearsals feel like performances. We truly thought we had a future star on our hands, but I kept feeling something was amiss... Little flickers of self doubt and self loathing, not so rare in this branch, but something darker was lurking under it. A desperate hunger for validation and vow to be star, like her mom was. During her early teens, it became more obvious. Praises and critiques only started to land if she was compared to her mother. It left me bewildered, because she would tend to add her own artistic rendition to pieces and unless the past rendition of her mothers would be mentioned, she would not stop. She would then hang her head low, collect herself and then just mimic Lydia's performances. On a stage, thanks to my help, she looked like a living reflection of Lydia, just much younger. And I couldn't do anything else but to pity her, because without her echo, once the curtain dropped, she was nothing. This problem escalated by her late teens, when the...boy she has been seeing made her believe she could be something more then replica of Lydia. The demand for roles never played by her mother started. I was against it, but she would argue with me relentlessly. Disobeying and breaking into fits, where she would be nothing more then a pathetic crying mess blabbering in Italian. She reminded me of her mother, back in our Juilliard days. Wild thrive to reach for the skies, but Lydia flew like a tern, effortless and elegant even when winds blew hard. And Elara? Like a snared hawk, beating her wings against a cage of her own delusion. My pity for her frayed when she tried to use her newly gained adulthood to break our contract, running away when I denied. She had few smaller plays in no name theaters, few acting gigs, but that was it. Just wasting her talent. She came crawling back, finally docile. We started anew with bigger roles I got her into after pulling strings. I noticed she had exponential talent in roles that required portrayal of heavy emotions. The feelings of sorrow and rage she could evoke in publicum was evident, and as her voice grew, I knew it was time progress her higher. Risky move, but her portray of Floria Tosca could be our breakthrough. Same as it was for her mother. She knew what was at stake, and it showed. Her behavior from before returned. Snappy, breaking for no reason under my guidance. I must admit, I might have been harsh few times, but I always did it for her. Late rehearsals just for her so no one else would witness her outbursts. But all my suffering was worth it, as her performance absolutely won the crowd and we were offered extended run. And how did she thank me for her success? I found her in the alley behind the theatre hours after the performance, chain smoking to smother another of her breakdowns. Normally I'd leave her to it, but that night the celebratory gin said otherwise. I offered her the bottle, laid a hand on her shoulder and spoke gently to her. But her fuss turned into a rage and the bottle cracked against my temple. I dropped, and she did not stop bashing even after I no longer felt the impacts. In her version, a self defense against a monster who abused her for years. In mine, a victim paying with his life for her own self sabotage. With those lying, frantic eyes she begged her boyfriend to dispose of my body like I was nothing more but trash, and went on a run from what she is. But I am a reminder of that, of what she has done. And even a year later, when she hid in Louisville beneath the protection of a false religion of her new colleague, living under the name Tosca as if to salt my wounds, I kept observing. Even now, as the world comes to its end, throwing undead at her through cracks in reality; as each bash sends her further into her descent; as each new cracked skull reminds her of me; as starvation finally forces her leave the safety of the forests in search of civilization, I keep observing. I will not miss her finale.