Her voice could sink ships like the sirens of old.  It lured even the best of men to their inevitable doom, ringing in their ears, drowning out the cries of their newborns and the heartfelt whispers of their wives.  It cooed and creened like a loving grandmother or a brand new mother, the sound caressing and gentle, swaddling the thoughts and aspirations of all entranced by it.  Like creeping ivy it engulfed any beauty within the mind and destroyed it, strangling the life out of every memory.  They said that she was "blessed" to have such a "lovely voice."  They said that it would "take her places" like Broadway or Chicago; it did take her somewhere.  It took her to Hell, a living, breathing Hell. 

She had a name at one point, a real, true name.  It was an ill-fated name, yet capriciosly virtuous in origin. Her mother named her "Antigone" because she felt the Sophocles' tragic heroine needed a second chance at life.  Her father, loved the way "Antigone" rolled off of his tongue, saying that it sounded like "one of those big church bells." From the second her name escaped through his lips, every gurble from her infant lips sounded sweet in his ears. As the girl grew, every single request or demand was met by her father.  The only thing that could break her charm on her father was her mother's loud, harsh, Brooklyn voice that drowned out the magical lilt of Antigone's young voce.  To Antigone's small ears, it sounded like her parents were fighting with each other, not fighting to break the trance-like state of her father.