XANDER

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

Dante Alighieri's hell welcomed him with the souls of what I call the 'neutrals' they didn't do any good nor any evil so they were damned to a place which wasn't really hell and wasn't too much of heaven either for the rest of eternity—The Shores of Acheron… the river of pain where they were tormented by insects and maggots that drank their tears and blood. They didn't do anything evil during their life time… but neither did they do good, thus the suffering. The creepy crawlies trying to have access to their blood and tears was supposed to be their conscience, stinging them for their reluctance.

My hell, on the other hand, welcomes me with the smell of rubbing alcohol and cleaning ammonia. White walls enclose around the 'innocents'—most of them children younger than me about to face suffering none of them deserved.

Hospitals are supposed to make people feel better… They make me feel sick. I've never been admitted into one but I've spent my life in one.

I sat waiting, back in the lobby that used to be so familiar to me while picking at the upholstered seat that was a sickly orange at a weak attempt of making the halls of Florence Nightingale Pediatric Hospital a bit more cheery. I took in the scent of ammonia and sickness that reminded me so much of all the days we'd spent there seven years ago. The eerie feeling that came from idly watching the stark white wall run endlessly down hall after hall almost sent a shiver down my spine. The last time we were here, seven long years ago proved that you could go against the odds… that you were a miracle girl. The last time we were here was when you were nine and pronounced clear of cancer. But the moment we stepped into it again, I was resolved to not knowing what to expect.

It started the way things always do—normal. We were fooling around at the park since we hadn't been hanging out. You were busy practicing for your lead role in Swan Lake. Things were back to the way they were before all the everyday ballet sessions—just you, me and a strong longing for gelato now that your company had its last show the night before. We sat under the old orange blossom tree that we sat under since elementary. It was barren now since winter was right around the corner but orange blossom smells, probably from memory tickled my nose. I looked around to take in what seemed to be a beautiful day then at you as you sat beside me and skillfully tied up your pointe shoes. Then, you got up and skillfully knotted your messy brown curls into a loose bun.

"See, this is why you should've gone to my recital last night… I was just dying to see you there." You said as you started stretching.

Ah, typical Arielle Hart and your death and dying puns.

"Well, sor-ry for getting a bad cold. You know how mom and dad are about me and my health now that I've got a lot of big games lined up for me… But honestly I just found that as a good excuse to review Inferno." I answered, smirking a bit, "I think reading about nine circles of suffering appeals to me more than watching swans fall in love… Sorry, Ari."

You pouted at me first then laughed—that kind of laidback laugh that made you tip your head back and release a clear, bell-like laugh. "Ah, Mr. Death and Destruction. Your sins are forgiven… Don't expect yourself to fall into some circle of hell now."

"I don't think hell has a circle for poor sick boys who missed their best friends' ballet recital." I answered, smiling. "But this seems nice. A recital just for me."

"Don't push it." You said, rolling your eyes. Then you smiled and handed me your iPod and their pink ballet-slipper shaped speakers.

I scanned through the many playlists you had of boring old Romantic-era composers, not really seeing anything to my interest. "Which one do I play?"

You shrugged, "Play anything. I can dance to anything on that thing.

"Even if I used it to play the Dougie? Booty Music?" I smirked despite knowing you'd literally kill anyone who put music that wasn't Tchaikowsky or Beethoven on your MP3.

You put your hands on your hips and glared at me with your brilliant green eyes.

Shaking my head, I randomly flipped through the music and clicked on a piece entitled 'The Swan'

Your legs started moving deftly and fluidly across the grass. Your pointe shoes made the effect of you floating seem more and more realistic. Pirouetting, you smirked, "Wow, 'The Swan' I see my morbid nature is rubbing off on you."

I watched you dance a few more measure, seeing every move you made was hit with such precision and the lines your body formed seemed to be accentuated by the soft glow of the afternoon sun.

I could almost read sadness oozing out of your dance moves—your eyes. You were amazing at hiding your feelings but your eyes were always an open book. The green in your eyes shifted shades as fast as you shifted moods and now, it was that deep melancholic green that you rarely had.

"Morbid? What's so morbid about some song about a swan?"

You continued dancing for a bit, raising your hands above your head as gracefully as your legs moved. "Well, it's got a story to tell…"

"And that story is?" I asked, leaning back against the trunk of the tree.

You thought for a while, not stopping your dance. "Well… ever heard of a swan song?"

"Swan song… Swan song…" I recalled, trying to rack my meager vocabulary of theater terms. "A—Last performance?"

"Exactly." You said as you did another pirouette. "Well, that term originated from actual swans. See, swans get a bit tipsy or something before they die… It makes them look like they're dancing. So, the term swan song is derived from the little dance they do before they eventually, well… die."

"Ah… So… this song?"

"It portrays how graceful a swan's death is." You took a few deep breaths as you did a few leaps. "How dramatic it is…" Then, you lifted your leg for an arabesque. "How peaceful it is…" Then, even with the precision that your arabesque had, you fell, something you didn't do much.

I got up, chuckling a bit, to help you up. "You okay there?

"Yeah, I'm good." You smiled, getting up and brushing yourself off. "Must've lost my balance somewhere back there… Well, at least I fell right when the music stopped."

"It was great, really."

You snorted. "The dancing or the falling?"

"I'd say dancing but come to think of it, your fall was equally as beautiful. Celebratory gelato?"

"You always know when to offer Italian ice cream do you?"

"Well, Italian ice cream heals the worst of falls… Cmon. My treat."

We went to Mr. Falucci's—a little store across the park owned by a nice old Italian grandpa. He'd always thought we were his favorite customers since we first went there when we were younger.

"Buongiorno, Nonno Falucci." You smiled, the words bubbling right out of your mouth—no one would have ever thought you didn't have an ounce of Italian blood while I on the other hand was part Italian who knew only toddler words.

"Ah! Buongiorno, Arielle! Bellisima like always." The old man smiled. "Cioccolato or mascarpone?"

"Entrami, Nonno." You answered with a smile as he nodded, scooping some gelato into cones.

You put a 5 dollar bill on the counter and I frown and grab your hand. "Hey, my treat." I said, pulling out a 5 from my wallet and replacing yours.

"Ah, Alexander." Mr. Falucci smiled. "Still no luck with belissima, no?"

"Not even gonna try, Mr. Falucci." I smiled, knowing he'd been teasing us since we were kids. He smiled and shook his head as he handed us the ice cream.

"Grazie, Nonno." You said, giving the old man a sweet smile before we walked out of the store.

We walked back to the park, laughing and just talking about the usual things. The bitchy girls in your ballet class, your morbid puns, my current reading obsessions…

Your laugh filled what seemed to be a lifeless autumn stricken park with such excitement as your eyes went glow-in-the-dark green. Then, as your sweater's sleeve moved a bit as you kept talking, I saw a bruise blossoming on your forearm.

"What happened to that?" I asked, pointing at it.

"Hm." You shrugged 'Must've bashed it somewhere in ballet."

I shook my head, remembering what a klutz you were.

"Cmon, Ari. You know ballet's brutal and all. And I have been trying to tell you again and again that you have to be careful! You get hurt a lot, y'know. And we both know you're a klutz AND we also know that I've been telling you this again and again and again and you're probably tired of just listening to me ramble off about your safety but—" then, I realized you weren't following me anymore. "Uh—Arielle?"

I turned around and saw you a few feet away, your gelato fell and made a little chocolate puddle on the ground and I rushed to you as I saw you pale. I held my hands out just in time to catch you as you fell unconscious in my arms.