Sarcophagus

Here is a girl.
Or rather, a sculpture of a girl,
Carefully chiseled by experience itself
And sanded down to precision over the course of many years
From a distance she looks human.
Her clothes, her hair, her bag on her shoulder
Blend her into the mass around her known as society.
But she is not a human.
She is nothing but a statue- unmovable, unwavering, stoic.
Her eyes are but mirrors, reflecting.
They reflect the faces and the emotions of those who pass by her.
They agree and they sympathize,
And sometimes they make people forget that by themselves,
They are emotionless.
They are only mirrors, after all.
And like all mirrors, they go blank when the image leaves.
Mirrors are deceiving sometimes, but they never lie.
Only the rest of her does.
Beneath her armoured skin lives chaos.
It spits and burns like bile,
Trapped inside its stone dungeon.
It churns around her insides like a venomous snake
And she fights it.
She lashes back at it, suppresses it.
Sometimes she manages to squeeze it so tightly,
It oozes out a substance that, only in the vaguest of senses,
Resembles happiness.
And only because it has nothing left to give.
This is the viscous substance that slides unwillingly out of her skin,
Into the outside world.
It too, is deceptive.
It is poison, but it makes her seem ever so slightly mirthful.
Thankfully, it is all the world needs to be convinced that she is an ordinary human being.
Ordinary. Human. Two things she will never be.

Untitled

Lights up

She spIns, round and round, her body a whirlwind of colourful fabric. In her mind an awestruck audience gazes at her gloWing form onstage. She smiles a brilliant smile and perfects another pIrouette. Then she sees him. He stands there, lurking in the shadows, haLf-hidden behind a bLood red curtain, watching her. His arms are crossed tightly agaiNst his chest and although his face rEflects the warm glow of the stage lights, his eyes are cold. "Chin up!" His voice booms across the theater. She stumbles and nearly falls, but catches herself just in time. She angles her face up towards the blinding lights. Even with her eyes closed she could see his disapproVal. "Keep your back straight! Lift your arms highEr! No! Don't lock your knees!" The commands fly at her, fast as shRapnel and just as sharp. She winces upon every word, feeling them like the swift taps of his metre stick whipping her body into position. "Faster!" She grits her teeth and spins faster. "Faster!" The world becomes a blur before her eyes. "FASTER!" Her limBs threaten to fall off, but she continues to wind hersElf tighter and tighter. Her crowd of admirers have lonG since disappeared, undoubtedly hOrrified by the uncontrollable hurricane that was once a girl, but they dOn't matter anymore. A thousand images flooD her mind, countless picturEs of her younger self biting back tears as he forced her to perfect stretches and splits, leaps and turNs, mercilessly mOlding her into a creatUre of grace and beauty. Hysteria invades her body. She screams. "Are you proud of me now!? Are you happy?" She explodes across the staGe in a series of indescribably fast movements, sHrieking. "Look at me! Are you watching? Are you proud of me yet!? Are you proud of me...."

A girl collapses on an empty stage. Her makeup is streaked with tears. Her hair, having long since escaped its once-neat bun, falls in ragged locks over her shoulders. Her clothing is ripped nearly to shreds. Her desperate cries echo from the stage, haunting the theater, but there is no one there to hear her.


Blackout

Of Frost and Frozen Tears

Anna spent hours getting ready for that night, standing in front of her little dresser mirror and poring over her shabby selection of powders and lipsticks. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had, so it would have to do. She carefully extracted a simple black hair pin from the top left drawer of her dresser. It had suffered a little throughout her younger adolescent days, but she was proud that she had kept it somewhat intact for the four years since it was placed in her hands on her twelfth birthday. Delicately, she pulled back a lock of her wavy brown hair and secured it just above her ear, revealing a sparkling teardrop earring that she had ‘borrowed’ from her mother. The little frozen tear twinkled happily in the light, but a pang of guilt tugged at her heart. She shook it away. I will return them to Mama’s room as soon as I come home, She reassured herself, Mama will never know. Turning back to her tabletop, Anna selected a subtle brown powder for her eyelids and some nice red lipstick. She looked at her little mirror and at the girl smiling back at her. The girl looked older than Anna, and more mature. She wore those crystal earrings comfortably, casually even, as if they were part of her everyday outfit, just one of the hundreds of pairs she owned. She was the kind of girl that Dmitri would take out to dinner.

Quietly, Anna slipped out of her room, down the narrow hallway, and out the front door. She locked it behind her and slipped the key deep into her jacket pocket. The night was chilly. Although there was no dusting of frost on the grass that morning, the icy air that swirled around in the late evening carried the grave warning of winter’s first merciless frost. Anna’s footsteps fell softly on the cold sidewalk. She loved the Sunday shoes she was wearing, loved the faithful and humble way they made her walk in God’s presence. They were, in theory, supposed to be reserved for church, but she simply couldn’t resist wearing them on her special night. Despite her momentary happiness, Anna shivered. Her jacket didn’t offer much protection from the cold anymore, but she knew her family couldn’t afford to replace it until next winter. Reaching into her pockets, she realized she had forgotten her gloves. Her fingertips began to ache, but she didn’t have time to go back. She was already running late, and Dmitri would not be happy if she kept him waiting.

Finally, Anna arrived at the cosy restaurant, “The French Kiss”, where she was supposed to meet Dmitri. She glanced around. He was nowhere to be seen. She cautiously pushed open the glass door, thinking he might be waiting inside. Instead of seeing his handsome face, she was greeted by a tall waiter, who looked at her expectedly.

“Um... hi,” she stammered, “I’m supposed to meet someone here at eight o’clock.” The large clock at the back of the restaurant glared at her with its minute hand pointing to a giant number one, as if mocking her lateness. The waiter nodded, then went to consult a fancy-looking book.

“Name?”

“Dmitri. Dmitri Stalinov.”

The waiter looked confused. “No one by that name has made any reservation here.”

“Are you sure?” The waiter nodded again. “Alright then... thank you,” murmured Anna. She turned around slowly, confused and a little hurt, made her out the door, stepping into the cold night once again. A chilly wind had picked up since she had last been outside, and it nipped viciously at her fingertips. She pulled her coat tighter around her thin torso, but shivered nonetheless.

She waited. Through the restaurant’s large front window, Anna could see the hands on that giant clock on the wall. It was ten minutes past eight. She stared at the clock until the minute hand glided down one notch: eleven past eight. There was a couple in the restaurant whom Anna hadn’t noticed earlier; they were talking over elegant champagne flutes, and the sparkling, bubbly liquid seemed to reflect their expressions as they looked into each other’s eyes. Anna couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. With a sigh, she peeled her gaze back to the lonely sidewalk. A mother walked by her on the street, holding hands with her two young children. Twenty past eight. A group of students, perhaps a little older than Anna, sauntered by, chatting and laughing merrily. Eight thirty. The young couple exited the restaurant with their arms linked, content after their romantic night. Quarter to nine. Anna couldn’t feel her toes anymore; no amount of shivering seemed enough to produce any more warmth in her body. Dmitri still had not come. She noticed a telephone booth across the street from where she stood. It looked almost as desolate as she did, but at least it would shield her from the wind.

As soon as Anna shut the door of the telephone booth, she felt better. The draft didn’t howl as loudly inside, nor did it bite so harshly. As she gazed forlornly at the telephone, she groped inside her threadbare pockets for some spare change. Of course, there was none. She reached half-heartedly into the coin disposal hole near the bottom of the phone box. To her surprise, she pulled out a coppery disc. She smiled, and fed the coin to the telephone. Her fingers, even in their numbness, still managed to punch in the number code she took such care to memorize. She waited as the dial tone sounded... once... twice... on the third ring, a gruff voice answered. “Stalinov house, how can I help you?” He must be the butler.

“Hi, my name is Anna. Is Dmitri there, please?”

“One moment.”

Anna heard the muffled sound of the receiver being set down, then footsteps walking away across a marble floor. There was silence for a moment, then whispers not far away. Anna could tell it was two men conversing by the depth of their voices, but she couldn’t make out the words. One of them sounded vaguely like Dmitri, but she couldn’t quite tell. The whispering stopped, and footsteps made their way back to the phone. Her heart skipped a little as she expected the sound of his voice to flow through the receiver. He would speak to her in the charming way that always made her heart melt; he would apologize to her and promise to make up for it. And she would forgive him, because she loved him. But instead of Dmitri’s voice that spoke to her, it was the butler’s again. “He is not here right now.”

Her heart plummeted. “Do you know where he is? Did he tell you where he was going tonight?” Her eyes began to fill with tears, “Whether he was going to dinner with a girl named Anna Novakovsky?”

“No, he gave me no information, and the name means nothing to me.”

And with that, the phone clicked off.  Before she could stop them, Anna’s tears spilled over her eyelashes, onto her powdered cheek. The butler’s words played over and over in her head. The name means nothing to me. Your name means nothing. Nothing. Her tears had unleashed a flood, and it rushed down her face in rivulets with every heartbroken sob. It smeared her lipstick into an unrecognizable splotch, but she didn’t care. Her heart felt the same way, after all. For the first time in her life, she felt truly and hopelessly alone.

Outside, frost began to settle on the small city. Tiny drops of moisture solidified and settled on the ground, on the sides of buildings, and on an insignificant telephone booth. There they glittered, like frozen tears glittered on the cheeks of a particular young girl; the first ice of winter and the first ice of human hurt.

The Game

It was just an innocent game. Or so I thought. I swept my gaze around the table at the seven other pairs sitting around us. Each pair consisted of one girl and one boy. A pile of game pieces lay on the table in front of us. The girl to my right began. She extracted a piece and placed it on the pile. Safe. It was my turn. I could feel the fifteen pairs of eyes on me as I tried to concentraTe on the arrangement in front of me. The rules of the game played through my head once again. We go around the circle. One member from each pair had to take a piece and rearrange it. You must move the first piece you touch. The contraption must not fall. If it did, the boy from the pair must take a punisHment. It seemed fairly simple. Don’t let it fall, a girl’s voice echoed in my mind. I was sure she meant it as a friendly reminder, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was an edge to her voice... a sharp one. I inhaled, realizing I had been holding my brEath for at least a few minutes, and turned my attention to a single piece. My fingers moved forward, almost in slow motion. A chorus of ooh’s erupted from the crowd as I touched the piece. Luckily, it yielded easily to my grasp. I lowered the piece on top of the pile and sighed with relief as I slumped back into my seat. I was safe. The boY to my left nonchalantly flicked his piece out of the mess, as did the boy to his left. Each one showed off a unique and well-practiceD technique accompanied by the same self-assured smirk. Our turn came back around far too quickly. I looked to my partner. Unlike the male counterparts to all the other girls, he was more than my partner for this game. He was my partner for everything. PeriOd. End of conversation. He gave me a reassuring nod. Just as I had for my previous turn, I selected a piece. My fingers tugged on it, but this time, the piece was stubborN. I twisTed it this way and that, trying to free it from the other parts. The voices of the chorus rose in anticipation. It was deafening. The apparatus wobbled dangerously. There was nothing more I could do. With a final pull, the piece came free. Unfortunately, so did the entire building. It crashed onto the tabletop, much to the excitement of the other pairs. Although not vocalized, everyone Knew what was going to happen. They cheered; there was a menacing glint the boys’ eyes, and the girls leaned back in their chairs, evidently preparing for a good show; but nothing could have prepared us for what came next. Nothing could have described the horror I felt as I saw one of the lead boys pull out a whip from a small cabinet. I couldn't see him, but the look on his face must have mirrored mine, for everyone burst into laughter; the cold, heartless, threatening kiNd. They turned him around. All the boys stood behind him. I could see his jaw tightening as he braced himself for the blOw. Then, suddenly, a cracking sound pierced the air. He stumbled forward. I could feel his silent cringe. He didn’t cry out, which seemed to not satisfy the others. But I knew that his silence was worse than any cry. His shock and pain coursed through me, almost causing me to flinch as well. I dug my nails into the flesh of my palm. I could feel the long welt forming across my back. It was red, angry, and pulsing. He refused to look at me. Before I even got a chance to say anything, another crack tore through my thoughts. This welt was loWer, and slightly less painful. But once again his pain shot up my spine. I grit my teeth as hard as I could and waited for the third and final blow. It came. My muscles contracted so quickly that my nails tore through the skin of my hand, leaving eight bloody half-moons in my palms. But it was over. Finally, he raised his gaze to meet mine. I instantly wished he hadn’t, for the look in his eyes broke my heart into a thousand pieces. This was all my fault.