The Jewelry Casket by Patricia Smallwood
Trigger warning: Gore.
With the music, I awake.
It is like I unfold from myself, away from myself. My skirt is powdered and full: pink tulle which never seems to loose shape. Sometimes I wish it would. Sometimes I wish I could escape this wretched place and dance in a rabid way. Something wild. Something where my soft slippers are covered in dirt and adventure. Run to a place I can let my hair run down my shoulders. Do something, anything, but dance.
And yet, I cannot.
Once again, I am pulled away from these thoughts and into the careful steps of the routine. En pointe en attitude, here I stand—one leg propped above the knee. Un jeté, un rond de jambe. My feet are numb. The ribbons tied over my calves dig into my skin. I cannot look down. I must wear my painted smile and leap and twirl. I must always keep the neck long, stretching it so my jugular bobs against my flesh. I imagine it bursting. Slitting my throat as it is finally free. How can none of the audience see it? My bloody vein lurching like a slug across the dark wood. I want to scream. I am looking at my left hand extended as far as I can reach, my neck leaking gore down my costume, and they applaud. Of course, this is all in my head.
Their hands slap together painfully. It is nearly enough to drag me from the music. Nearly enough for me to hop off this stage and run. But I keep dancing. Dance as sweat beads down my brow and my calves hurt. My shoulders hurt the most. I need to keep them down; it makes the whole scene look relaxed. I am anything but relaxed. My shoulder blades are flexed like wings, the leotard nearly as tight as my slippers. Typically, I can let the music take me away to some calm place, and there was a time when that calm place was this same stage. The applause and the music. My heart would flutter when that song came on—the gentle notes crescendoing into the dramatic reveal. I danced alone, and I loved it. I was the star of the show. The only thing accompanying me were the jewels strewn about, thrown by my adoring fans.
They would leave and sometimes, I would keep dancing. For hours on end. And then the music would stop, and I would sleep. At first, I dreamed of nothing. A vacant abyss, where my thoughts would remain empty and I had no need to worry or think or dance. Some time went by, and I dreamt of the music. In my innocence, I considered this a blessing. After dancing to it for so long, it became my favorite tune. It didn’t take long for the melody to become cacophony. Every note like a scratch on slate, like the piano was made of animal bones instead of ivory. It was then I became fully aware of the balancing act I was playing at. There was no leaving the stage. If I left the stage, it would all come crumbling down, wouldn’t it? Even as my bones grew weary and the scars on my feet became too numerous to count, there was no leaving the stage. There was nothing else my body was meant for. Dance had broken me down, the music had made me dive head first, but what else could I do?
I leave the stage, and I will be dead. I will exist in no one’s memory.
With this realization came the nightmares. The abyss fills with colors and images. In one, I twist my ankle on stage en pointe, and the crowd boos. They throw their roses like spears, but by the time they get to me, all the petals have fallen and it is hundreds of floral knives cutting across my flesh and skinning me alive. In another, finishing my arabesque, the music stops and I am standing—one leg stretched far beyond the other and then my body can’t take it anymore. I crumple like a piece of paper to the stage. In all these dreams, my body was no longer in existence. It becomes something weak and pathetic, like my scarred feet are all I am made up of. But there is no time to awake from these nightmares. The music never stops. Every note became something to fear, is the audience in awe or will they tear me alive piece by piece, their own Christ upon a pedestal, and I dance dance dance, it is a death sentence to stop, an impossibility to stop—I know dance more than I know my breath.
I slept, but I can not know for sure when I awoke.
It is no longer a dance for my soul, it is a dance for you. I have heard this tune many times before, and your face lights up with delight. I used to love to delight you. When the stage felt like glass shards and my body like my own killer, I looked to your face and gathered enough strength to finish the routine. There is no other path for me. I cannot leave this stage, and I learned this from you.
This is my routine. It is no longer the dance. It is pleasing you. You, whom I hate, whom I must love. It is a hate so strong, for it was spawned by love—and this cycle will repeat. I must force myself to love you once more. Perhaps that will take the nightmares away.
This is my routine.
Patricia Smallwood is an Emerson student studying Writing, Literature and Publishing. She was born and raised in Massachusetts and loves to workout, practice witchcraft, and travel. Her favorite genres to write are fantasy, horror, science fiction, and surrealist fiction. Trish has published a dark fantasy trilogy under the pseudonym T. Strange, and is currently working on her fourth book. Her goal is to delight, disturb, and inspire.
