The Prologue

The ballerina in my music box doesn’t smile. She just spins on one toe over and over again to the sharp, repetitive melody. She’s hypnotizing, just watching her, a frozen expression living in a frozen, porcelain world. But she dances like an angel. I usually sit there and watch her for hours, forgetting reality while I’m entranced in her eyes. And when I close the box and the music stops, it feels like the whole world has stopped with it, motionless and muted.

This time was different though. I was watching her one last time, about to leave her behind. And that one last time, the ballerina looked up at me, saddened with cold betrayal flooding her helpless posture. And I had to say goodbye.

My mom died that day. She was taken away from me by the careless hands of a man who lived by the law of alcohol. I haven’t opened my music box ever since.

Just about nine years later now and my ballerina’s features remain a vague memory. I have no way to tell if the ballerina I see in my mind’s eye now is the one I was so in love with as a mere little girl, or just a beautiful statuette I’ve moderated each day passing. But I can still feel her. Every moment gone by I know she’s there, waiting for me inside that sinfully black box to set her and her candy sweet melody free.

Stell. x.