Mia Tamondong (9) l STAFF REPORTER
The rain beats steadily on her skin, threatening to wear her away completely. The hunger in her stomach fades to a dull ache, the steadiness of the pain numbing her entirely. She grasps at her clothes, fighting the urge to rip off the cloth, the only remnants of a life no longer hers.
Her limbs shake violently, and she hopes— prays —for relief. For a moment, no matter how brief, she believes she’s found it.
A manor sits at the top of the hill. Brick stacked upon brick, ancient enough to be knocked away by the slightest breeze. Ivy trails the walls, painting the structure a blur of green. It should have been lost amongst the depths of the forest, if it weren’t for the warm glow emanating from within.
She does not remember approaching the door. She doesn’t remember the sound of knuckles on wood, only the strange warmth that came from within.
The hum of music flooded her senses. She savours the melodic tune, but there are no instruments in sight. No violin, no flute, nothing of the sort. However, she couldn’t dwell on this long, as something else had captured her interest.
The walls seemed so close a minute ago, but now, the exit is barely in sight. Despite its grandeur, a ballroom as large as this could not fit in a manor of this size. A canopy of stars float overhead, the ceiling nowhere to be found. Glass, she tries to convince herself, but the constellations are much too easy to see. She blames the fatigue, claims a trick of the eye, and moves on.
Bodies move around her endlessly, despite this, she never collides with a single one. They glide around her, never halting, never making a mistake, each in tune. Gentlemen adorned with steam-pressed suits weave through the crowd as fluid as water, silver trays resting upon their hands. As one walked by, he stopped, offering her a tall glass filled with bubbling drink. Champagne, she thinks, and takes the flute gratefully. The fluid goes down her throat easily, unfamiliar yet pleasant, and the longer she spends inside, the less her skin feels frost-bitten.
Abruptly, they all come to a stop. Encircling her, they stay still, like marble figures in a museum. Sculpted only to be still and look pretty. Only then does she notice their skin. The pale blue hue, thin as parchment. One stands in front of her, hand outstretched, as beautiful and unsettling as the others. A wilted rose stands in place of a pocket square, thriving even in death.
“May I have your name?” he asks, the words like honey on his tongue. He smiles, but there is no warmth behind his eyes.
She begins to answer, her mouth forming words, but the sound never leaves her lips. Whatever she was before, whoever she was, was washed away in the same rain that brought her here. Rather than waiting for an answer, he takes her hand, bringing the both of them to a steady sway. She expects her hand to ripple through his, like a reflection disturbed by the slightest breeze, but his touch is real and warm.
As she begins to find comfort in the stranger, he speeds up his pace. Limbs gliding across the floor, she’s dipped, hair gracing the tiles below. At this moment the ache in her stomach began to fade, and the dull pain in her feet subsided.
She waited for the song to conclude, the grand finale in this paradise she called reality. She dreaded the inevitable slow of footsteps that meant it was time to part with her stranger… but it never came.
Ballad upon ballad, partner upon partner, she danced until her feet bled. Pain seeped through her body, all sharp and real, but she didn’t feel alarmed. She wasn’t scared or worried, or in any way stressed. If anything, she felt alive.
Wind combed through her hair as she spun, cloth catching in the air. The rags she wears become a coveted dress, her drenched hair seems as beautiful as ever, and her bloody feet grace over the porcelain tile.
I’ll stay the night, and leave when the sun rises, she tells herself, but hours drag on and the stars continue to litter the candle-lit sky. Rosy cheeks pale to white, her feet throb unceasingly, but she cannot feel it. All that is left is the adrenaline, the promise to begin anew.
A new thought crosses her mind.
The ballroom promises repetition, certainty, and it is so very cold outside. Besides, what is living but surviving? She ignores her instincts, the screaming at the back of her mind, and chooses to stay here in an endless dance.
