Dance

Its like watching someone kill me slowly in the mirror, some of these days. Its deliciously disturbing watching yourself die piece by piece, bit by bit and knowing its all the the product of something that you can't control. Something, you can't combat. Not like this. Its like being stuck in the dream from one of my favorite movies, old enough to be on VHS.

A hellish two story ballroom, where the director only screams. "DANCE."

And you dance, damn him. You dance harder and with more passion than anyone will ever know, and for a time you feel strong and beautiful in your ability to continue to comply with the command.

"DANCE." Its like he doesn't even see you. He just keeps repeating that one terrible word, pounding his cane against the hardwood floor. You dance, en pointe. Soon, your shoes are worn bare, your feet bleed and you cry for relief but he ignores you. And ignores you.

And ignores you.

You know he sees your pain. They all do.

For his face is always changing, its the face of all your loved ones, all your friends, all the people that care or in some cases claim to care about you. Nonetheless, they all condemn you for not wanting to continue.

"DANCE." Sometimes the word is said lovingly other times full of hate. Most of the time it doesn't matter because you feel you can't dance anymore. The strength is leaving your already broken shell of a body.

You sob, cry, bawl, scream.
To no avail.

"DANCE."

You fall. Unmoving to the floor, spent. You no longer care to dance, you no longer care to live this way. Regardless of what any others may say. It doesn't matter if they call you selfish or weak, not anymore. It doesn't matter if they grow tired of your moods and your inability.

You laugh at him. An empty, hollow, terrifying sound.

"DANCE!" He cries, enraged.

The blackest fear takes you and you die.
That is how your story ends.

The End

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