The Beginning Salivan Vistamar
The echo of Salivan Vistamar’s music still reverberated in Avina’s mind, a haunting symphony of loss and regret. Once synonymous with dark glamour and teenage angst anthems, his name now tasted like ash in her mouth. She’d walked out, fuelled by anger and hurt, never imagining it would be the last time she saw him alive.
Salivan had been a force of nature. He had captivated a generation with his face framed by raven locks and a voice that could summon shadows. But beneath the carefully constructed persona of the Goth rock god lurked a fragile soul prone to excess and insecurity. Their relationship, a whirlwind of passion and volatility, had finally imploded the previous night.
Giso, Avina’s ever-present friend and confidante, had burst into her apartment, his usual jovial demeanour replaced with a chilling pallor.
“Hey, Sal’s on the news,” he’d said casually enough before his eyes widened, and he stammered, “What has he done now?” Avina hadn’t wanted to know. She was still simmering with resentment, picturing Salivan sulking amidst the opulent clutter of his mansion.
“What’s wrong?” she’d asked, still bristling.
Giso’s words landed like a physical blow. “Sal’s dead.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. “What? He was alive when I left him!” The words escaped her lips, a frantic denial. It had been a heated argument, a shouting match fuelled by years of pent-up frustration. But dead? It was impossible.
Giso, his face etched with horror, pointed a trembling finger at the television screen. A sombre news anchor was delivering the details; the grim reality of Salivan Vistamar’s tragic demise played out for the world to see. Accidental drowning. He found it at the bottom of his pool.
The news footage showed the imposing Vistamar mansion, now a crime scene. Yellow tape snaked around the wrought iron gates, keeping back the morbidly curious. Avina felt a cold dread seep into her bones.
“The police want to talk to you,” Giso stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “Saying…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.
Avina knew what he couldn’t say. The police suspected foul play. And she, the last person known to have seen Salivan alive, was now a prime suspect.
Her mind raced, piecing together the fragmented memories of the night before. The argument, his slurred words, the bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand. He had been inconsolable, threatening to spiral into oblivion, as he often did. But this time, he had.
She remembered the anger, the frustration, and the overwhelming desire to escape the suffocating drama surrounding him. She remembered slamming the door behind her, the finality of the sound echoing in her ears. And now, the weight of that decision threatened to crush her.
“Saying what, Giso?” she finally forced herself to ask, her voice barely audible.
He took a deep breath, his eyes filled with pity and fear. “Saying they consider you a person of interest… and they want to know everything that happened last night.”
Everything. She would have to relive the fight, the accusations, the raw, unfiltered pain. She would have to explain to the police, to the world, the complex, destructive love that had bound her to Salivan Vistamar. And she would have to face the agonising truth: that her anger, her departure, might have been the catalyst that sent him spiralling into the darkness, into the cold embrace of the water, forever silencing the voice that had once captivated the world. The dark symphony of his life had ended, and she, Avina, was now centre stage in its tragic finale.
Thank You for Reading
Deborah C. Langley
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