o b l i v i o n
Locked in a room, she heard a pitter patter of footsteps. They echoed long and far, all the way through the long, winding steps of where she was. Or wasn't.
She was supposed to be in a box, but all it was was bleached white walls in a castle that shouldn't be called a castle because it only consisted of a room. So who was to say that it didn't exist in her own mind?
But there was more to the place than just her room; there were stairs and other boxes and maybe even a mirror. There were even people, but they shouldn't exist either. They were nobodies.
Yet they had her bound with invisible strings on a hard, wooden stool in a filthy, white dress with no heartbeat. So it made her a nobody—just like them. If she thought this way, would she be telling herself she shouldn't exist either?
Then the footsteps came again—echoing and graceful, closer and closer. But there was a distinct sound with every frantic step, beating exactly in time, just like a dance. It was a gorgeous dance, a wet dance. Slippery, faint, something that didn't belong here, in a place of puppetry: loveless, cold, and blinding.
It was life with a heart to match, right in the sleeve of his shirt. He was something unimaginable to her. He existed and it made him beautiful.
--
She started dreaming. He was so close now, and she saw sandy banks with crashing ocean waves. She saw a sky with a shiny medallion in the center. She smelled sweet summer sweat mixed with pretty, pretty boys and a girl in the middle of it all.
And she wanted it. She wanted the laughs with the smiles that complimented blushes on soft, soft cheeks. She wanted violet eyes with silky red hair that tangled with the wind and flirted with testosterone.
She wanted what she never had, and it caused her fingers to ache.
She noticed a blank spot on the wall, begging to be filled. What would another painting hurt? They aren't the only ones that want her to do this.
--
Before she knew it, her skin tasted of salt and she glowed like the medallion in the sky. For a few blissful moments, she was the girl being fought over.
Maybe this is what victory felt like.
--
She knew this was coming—she knew, she knew—because she made it happen. She wanted to tell him that she was sorry.
Nobodies were twisted and heartless and they didn't have the dance that he had. But he stepped out of rhythm, out of beat, out of timing.
And she thought, maybe this wasn't ever victory in the first place.
--
He became sealed, just like they had sealed her heart long ago. It didn't beat anymore, and the only thing she had was the calluses on her fingertips. They would never ever go away, and she liked this constant reminder that she had something that wouldn't leave her. Just like everybody else did.
She touched the capsule with her calluses—her life—wishing that she wasn't living like this, here, a place that was forgotten. She wished he saw her, and she wished that he knew her.
And she wished that he knew she would give her calluses to him.
Maybe it would make him smile, make her fingertips throb with something close to the tempo of his dance of life.
But now, she would never know. It was the only thing she knew for certain in this uncertain place.
Her fingers slid away from him, and the black hoods whispered in her ear.
They were going to lead her away, into another box.
It was a place called Twilight Town.
a/n: Inspiration: Hotel California The Eagles
I know the idea is probably overused, but ehh. It wouldn't leave me alone.
Please review. :)