A short something-or-other inspired by the sax-and-baritone part through the end of Jager's Third Suite Waltz. I suggest you look it up; it's an interesting piece.

As per usual, open to critique.

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They were in a dream; there was no other way to explain it. No—a nightmare.

They were waltzing: ‘they’ being she and her lover. But something was wrong; where it was, she could not place. Whether it was in the music, or in his face, or the way he was holding her…. The steps weren’t emerging as effortlessly as they should have been. They were too fast—no, wait, too slow now—they were stumbling and blundering and her feet, liquefied and melting.

One two three, one two…three? She spoke the words silently. Yes, there was something wrong in the music. The rhythm was awkward, and so was she. Falling over herself, scared, she realized that she and her partner were the only ones on the grand dance floor.

He chuckled at her expression, muttering ‘stupid’ under his breath. It echoed mockingly around the room’s drab, atramentous walls before exploding in her ears, louder and so much more painful than when she heard it in his throat’s vibrations. Her eardrums were shattered, they must have been. But the waltz, or the music reminiscent of the waltz, returned, and a shiver ripped through her. She was a mannequin, surrendering as he sadistically dragged her across the dance floor.

She now highly doubted that the waltz would ever end, and was beginning not to care. Breathless, she only leaned into his shoulder, confused as to her confusion and angry about her anger. The music echoed and surrounded and taunted and she gave up; she relaxed into his grasp and his patronizing chuckles.

Quickly, the other discrepancies she sought were recognized. His hands, one clasping her and the other her hip, were gentle as usual, but their touch was empty. Turning her head to seek the refuge of his infinite blue eyes, she found just that, in the worst way: an infinite, hard abyss. The eyes that usually reflected the same love she had for him mimicked his touch, and the concrete reflection in his eyes revealed her frantic stare, her pale countenance, her gaping mouth.

The knowledge of her visible alarm only escalated it, and her heels clattered across the floor, losing the time she had nearly found. The hourglass was in zero gravity now. This dancer had been separated from her dance and

A swift shove as the music swirled—her extravagant skirt doing likewise—and attacked, and the two parted, fury playing across both their faces. The reverberations of her shoes on the tile transformed, triumphant, now.

But—he grabbed at her shoulder as she turned to run, missing by millimeters, nearly collapsing with the force of his attempt.

Another swipe; successful, this time. With her facing away from him, he wrapped an arm around her neck. She struggled, she turned, but too late to stop his advance extemporaneously.

But—ducking out of his arms, she again made an effort to escape the ball room, growing closer to its ornate, golden doors than before.

His rage was abundant as he rushed toward her, but she, throwing anxious glances over her shoulder, heaved the door open, slipping through, and to the side of the exit. He brushed past her, oblivious to her bordering location, and she trailed him, keeping a close yet careful proximity.

As he peeked over his shoulder, warily but hastily, she secreted herself among walls and extraneous furniture of the manor. His expedition accelerated and she found it increasingly difficult to take cover as it did.

They finally confronted each other in the foyer of the manor. All notions of near-civilized fighting abandoned, fists arced past each other. Screams shattered the halls, until lastly—

A gunshot. Neither had expected it but it rang all the same, soon followed by one last suspended scream, a dark chuckle, and departing footsteps.