Dance in Chains

It is easier to number what doesn't bother you about this than what does. First, you are alive. Or so you think. Second, there is something in the air that tells you that you have nothing to fear. Yet, there is something in your brain that only screams one thing:

Run.

You stand still. The wallpapered walls loom over you. A blackened chandelier hangs from the vaulted ceiling tentatively, threatening to fall at your feet at any moment. You feel cold metal cuffs entrapping your ankles. The chain on them is long. Slowly, you move. The chains that bond you to the wall cede. You can walk. The anklets are heavy and it is difficult to. You don't know where you are. You know your name. You know where you come from. However, you don't know anything else.

The room you stand in is empty except for you and the chains. The wallpaper on the wall is peeling, dull. You feel like you've been in this room before. The roughness of the wallpaper beneath your fingertips is familiar. The Victorian pattern it follows. The way the corners flimsy outward.

A floorboard creaks. It does not come from the room you are in. You are standing on soft red carpet. It feels funny between your toes. You look down at what you are clothed in. It is a tattered white dress, all stained in dirt and blood. Your shoulders are exposed. It is a very pretty dress, almost as nice as something you would wear to a wedding. Maybe you were going to a wedding. Maybe you were the bride. You don't remember.

You are suddenly brusquely aware that you should be screaming. You should be resisting. This sense is prickling in your skin.

Yet you feel at home. Even though the wanting to run is slowly overcoming your feet, you know that something stronger than the chains is bonding you to this room.

The floorboard creaks again. You recoil. Your nails dig deep into your palms. The lock on the door rattles.

You trudge yourself against the wall, dragging the heavy anklets along with you. You stare coldly at the door, daring whoever was on the other side to cross the threshold.

The door continues flailing, whining under the pressure. Your eyes shoot icy daggers at it. You grip the railing behind you, fight with the anklets. And then, you are still. You are so still the wind threatens to rock you. No sounds escape you.

Another wail, this time not from the door. There is a wail, a disembodied wail flaring directly into your ears. You do not move. Your eyes are open, unblinking.

The figure on the other side of the door is slowly causing it to cave in. You can see the hinges, one by one, become loosened. No matter how much you wish, how much you hope; no wish, no prayer, is going to save you.

When the barrier between the figure and you crumbles, you inhale sharply. You can see the outline of it. Coldness wraps around you like a lulling blanket, fooling you. However, you don't know that. The figure does. It is using it against you. But you don't know that, either.

Instead, you decide to lose yourself in hollow paradise. The hollowness that is its eyes. And you don't care about anything, you don't care that you are in chains. The figure walks closer and closer to you, threatening to envelop you into its creeping embrace, to take you with it. You don't move. Your eyes do not leave its. Its eyes look at you curiously, asking many questions which you don't know the answers to.

How did you get here?

Who brought you?

Why are you in chains?

Why are your clothes stained and damaged beyond repair?

Fruitlessly, you attempt to open your mouth. It feels so heavy you can't find the strength to. Then you realize that one of its steely fingers is holding your jaw shut. It does not want you to speak.

You don't fight back. This is not like you. You want to push it away, but you find yourself unable to move a muscle as it slinks even closer.

It motions with a narrow and pale finger for you to follow it out the door. You hesitate. You do not want to leave the room. You do not want to leave the familiarity of it, the peeling paper and the creaking chandelier. You know that you depend on something more.

However, the figure becomes angry, distressed. You inch away. It silently manipulates you. It caresses your cheek, rewards you with a bony smile. Whispering in your ear; vacant, wordy promises. You don't want to believe it. It can sense this.

It is at your level now. You have no choice but to look into its dim eyes. Just with that, you don't speak. Instead, you defiantly stare back, refusing to follow instructions. It has no choice.

Its head is pressed against your forehead and you feel yourself crack. You don't scream.

It stands up. You stand up with it. Its fingers grasp your forearm and you feel the chill to your bones.

You feel yourself weakening.

Its soothing lullaby slowly invites you to go to sleep. It doesn't lose its grip on you. As it moves closer towards the broken door, the chains holding you back retreats, retreat, retreat, until the only thing left from them are the scars. Your eyes are suddenly enamored with its sight. You want it to take you. The chains aren't holding you back anymore.

Its other arm swathes around you. You want it to continue. You want it to end. You just want it to desperately take you.

It is pulling you. Faster and harder and harsher. More desperately.

You are about to cross. This is what you want.

The figure begins to sing a quiet, gentle melody, and your eyes flutter close.

And then Death cuts in your silent dance.