The first time she sees him, her heart stops.
She has just finished brushing the last of Rosalind out of her hair when there is a knock and Mr. Isaacs pokes his head into her dressing room. He tells her to go to the greenroom, for there is a boy wishing to see her. She agrees, of course. There is a delicate thump of brush against table, of little feet making soft sounds against the wooden floor.
He looks up as she enters, and as the air escapes her lungs she has to blink a few times because this boy has somehow stolen the summer sky in his eyes and woven golden rays of sun in his hair. There is the aristocrat in the slope of his nose and in the curve of his jaw, but they seem softer somehow, gentler. He holds himself with an ineffable grace, poise in every line of his body; his beauty has misted her eyes with tears. In that moment, she understands; she understands why humans used to believe that gods walked among us, why wars were fought over love, because he is nothing short of divine and when did she stop breathing?
The reminder sets her lungs in motion once more. She gives him a shy smile, eyes demure and downcast and he offers one in return, his rosy lips curving ever so slightly to the right. Her breath quickens at his smile, for it is the sort of smile that one cannot help but mirror, the sort of smile that is so genuine and pure it seems to warm the very room.
Her heart is beating rapidly against her chest (can he hear?), her cheeks are turning pink (can he see?), and she wonders if she has finally met her Romeo, her Paris, her Prince Charming (does he know?).
The second time she sees him, less than a day has passed. There is an exchange of smiles, swift glances, and this time, words. His voice is melodious and pleasing, with touches of the harp, a glittering sound that weaves itself about the room. Delicate, somehow, and she wonders at the new rhythm in her heart (her soul?) and what it means.
She walks home that evening and finds his likeness in the flickering of the lanterns, the smooth curves of the cobblestone, the subtle movement of leaves. There is a feeling in her chest that she can't quite describe. She dwells on it for a moment, thoughtful. It is unfamiliar, of that she is sure, but it makes her feel happier. So perhaps she smiles a little more that day, perhaps there is a bit more song in her voice, but if there is her mother and brother don't notice.
That night, she can't sleep. Her mind is filled with the image of those beautiful eyes, trying to pinpoint their exact shade. It is a worthy, important task, she believes, and dwells on this as the moonlight creeps across her room. Were they cerulean or sapphire? Azure or robin's egg? She isn't sure, and this bothers her.
She resolves to find out next time (because of course there will be a next time). Her Prince Charming, she thinks again, particularly pleased with her clever choice of name (because Romeo died and so did Paris but Prince Charming carried Snow White away on his horse and they lived happily ever after).
She thinks she would like a happily ever of her own, too (a happily ever after with hair of gold and eyes of the sea).
The second last time she sees him, she finds a bird on the windowsill of her dressing room. She doesn't know if it's a robin, sparrow, or bluebird (she's never seen him) but she hears his song and he makes her smile. It is lovely; bright and cheerful, melodious and golden, beautiful, refined – and suddenly, she wasn't thinking about the bird anymore.
She was Imogen today, but Imogen is hurriedly shed just in time for her Prince Charming. The same smiles, the same flowers, but this time there is a whispered I love you and marry me. This time, there is a gleam to those beautiful eyes, a flush of excitement darkening those ivory cheeks. She knows now that what she feels is love (because what else could it be?). He kisses her (her, Sibyl Vane) and it is like nothing she has ever felt before.
When she returns to her dressing room, she listens to the soft flutter of the bird's wings as he returns to his nest – but perhaps her little bird is a she because four creamy white eggs lie sweetly in the nest on the windowsill.
The last time she sees him, her heart stops once more.
He meets her in the greenroom, as he always does, but something is different. He looks the same – the same hair, the same eyes – but the smile, the flowers are gone and for a moment confusion flutters its little wings (has something happened?), but the moment passes and she welcomes him with open arms, beaming, because of course nothing has happened, that's ridiculous.
But disgust twists his expression for the first time as their eyes meet and as he declares that he no longer loves her, her smile wavers. She thinks he is joking at first (how could he not be?), but the expression remains (he is... he is serious?).
She doesn't understand.
She doesn't understand the words flowing out of his mouth, that voice that once made her so happy telling her the things she never wanted to hear. She doesn't understand why it hurts so much.
How could he not love her? Love was eternal, everyone said so. Prince Charming had loved Snow White forever, Paris had fought a war for Helen, Romeo and Juliet had loved each other so much they killed themselves to be together, and she and her Prince Charming were so much more in love than Romeo and Juliet so why had they failed when those teenagers had not?
She tries for another smile, resolutely ignoring the odd pain in her chest, the way her voice begins to tremble, the weakness in her knees. She tries to convince him (she will beg him if she must) that she will change, that her acting will be as wondrous as it was before (please let him believe her) but he keeps on shaking his head and now he is backing away, he is leaving and the tears drip freely down her face (no).
He can't leave (please don't) for if he leaves then he will never come back, never, and she doesn't know what she would do if he doesn't.
"I hate you," he cries, and the words hit her with the force of an anvil. She falls to the floor and her limbs begin to tremble. She tries to stop the shaking but that only makes it worse, so she brushes it aside and gazes up at him, pleading. Her dignity is gone now, but she is past caring. Her gaze is blurred with tears, as a sob tears from her throat.
"Don't leave me," she whispers, her voice broken even as he says (again) that he doesn't love her, and the hurt is as sharp as the first time he said them. Her words echo in her mind.
(Please don't leave)
He leaves.
The walk back is different. Her mind is empty. Her consciousness floats along as her body moves without her command. One foot in front of the other. Left, right, left, right until the room with the cracked maple door.
She makes her way inside and sits blankly at her table. Her fingers fold themselves into a neat fist at her sides. Dimly, she realizes that her little sparrowbluebirdrobin is gone. The tiny eggs had disappeared alongside their mother. They are gone; those tiny lives snuffed out before they could begin, never to feel or think or laugh or love or dance – and she envies them. It is as if they never existed – and things that do not exist do not feel.
Her knees are bruised from the unforgiving floor, ugly blotches of red and purple. She glimpses herself in the mirror and it is horrific. Eyes red, nose wrinkled, hair in disarray. Shameful. His rejection hangs heavy upon her, a darkness seeping through her skin and wrapping around her heart. She feels tainted. Unwanted. Unworthy.
The pain has dulled but in doing so it spread. Now, it touches the tips of her fingers. Her arms ache. Her throat is sore.
There is a feeling in her chest that she can't quite describe. Not pain. She knows pain. This is deeper. It has laid its darkened fingers upon her sight, grasped at her ears, curling around her lips. She dwells on it for a moment. It is unfamiliar, of that she is sure, but it has made the world look different. The lanterns have gone out. The leaves have fallen wretchedly to the floor. Yet all she can think about is the look in his eyes when he said he no longer loved her.
How could a god be so cruel? How could an angel be so hateful? How could a man be so mean?
She still doesn't understand.
She wonders if she ever will.
It was a beautiful night. The sky was starry and cloudless, the moon smiling gently as London began to sleep. The trees moved ever so slightly as a breeze swept through the city, fallen leaves fluttering along the sidewalk.
Alone in her dressing room, a girl sits, gazing at herself in the mirror. She was quite a pretty girl – would have been more so were it not for the strange look in her eyes, the odd smile twisting her lips. There is something in her hand – a bottle of clear liquid. The slight tremble of her slender fingers would have gone unseen, were it not for the subtle movement of the liquid.
She ought to have applied it to her eyes. It would've taken away their bloodshot quality, made them brighter, more brilliant (happy?). Instead, it goes down her throat.
Twenty-five minutes later, the girl's mother bursts into the room, calling her name. But the girl's heart had stopped for the last time, the warmth escaping her ivory skin and trickling into the cold wooden floors, the rose of her cheeks withering and growing ashen.
Dorian Gray had been hers in love. Now, Sibyl Vane would be his in death.
A/N: just a little something I submitted as an English project last year ~