A Dead Song

Prologue: Spinning

The lights were blindingly bright. The stage, a home unlike any other welcomed her as an old friend. She knew her place, off to the side, behind the one who really mattered. Her chest heaved with anticipation as she took a step to the left, following the lead of the music.

Once, some time ago, she knew this dance like a bird knew how to fly. Now her wings were clipped, and moving in a way that used to be second nature felt like she was being strangled. Her dress felt too tight, her pumps far too high. She knew she would fall, and everything would end.

Instead, she held her breath, working harder to recall every detail, every sway that seemed to light the audience on fire with laughter and lust. Her arms moved as well, away from her waist and out to her sides, resting behind her head. She cringed as she felt the pins in her hair slip.

A wardrobe malfunction would have been a formidable excuse to run offstage and hide in her dressing room for the night, but she knew she would be caught. It happened before, the laces of her dress came loose a bit too early, ruining the finale. She didn't get paid that night. So she lifted her head higher, and focused on a man not lucky enough to attract the attention of the lead dancer.

But everything was so bright. All of the faces in the crowd, whether they were young, old, drunk or sober, blended into one. The unification was hardly a good thing. It threw her for a loop, breaking her concentration enough that she stepped wrong. The woman turned a bit too sharply, catching the hem of her dress under a spiky heel.

The world seemed to stop as the wood floor of the creaky stage came closer. It was like a frightening dream, the one where you're falling so slowly that you forget to scream. Her breath caught in her throat, she didn't make a sound.

Her eyes closed of their own accord, blocking out the coming embarrassment, the coming humiliation. Everyone would laugh as she crawled back into the shadows. It's not like it truly made a difference. They laughed anyway. No matter what, they always laughed.

She could still hear it when she closed her eyes, the sound of breaking glass and him. If the world was in on a joke at her expense, he found it the funniest. She remembered a time when she would rather laugh than breathe, and she lived to make others do so. There was a time when she danced because she didn't like the feeling of her feet being on the ground.

Her thoughts shattered like her dressing room mirror as someone grabbed her arm. The audience would still laugh, but maybe not as loud tonight. Whoever had hold of her was growing impatient with hiding her mistake, and in a moment, she was back on her feet.

"Do that again, Vera," A voice in her ear warned as she spun again, her feet feeling just as light as her head, "And there will be stumps where your feet should be." She turned to see unfamiliar eyes glaring at her back. Vera just nodded, putting on a smile and closing her eyes.

The music was closer now, less like an unpleasant memory. It rung in her ears like a church bell, and flapped about like a fish. Vera didn't have to pretend anymore. She could dance to this song six feet under.

She opened her eyes and was met with a handsome face out in the crowd. She flashed him a grin and spun around again, her once heavy dress now settling at her ankles like an embrace. Her head turned with her body, meeting the black gaze of her savior again.

Yes, Vera could dance to this song dead, and if the threat held, she soon would.


The world was a beautiful place after a couple of drinks, Vera found. Manhattan's were a poor girl's best friend, and after that train wreck of a performance, she was in dire need of some company. It came in the form of a cocktail glass, the liquid held within as red as the fading stage curtains. She didn't care, she swallowed it all in one sip.

The burning sensation ripped down her throat like she had drunk a bucket of nails. She recoiled, gagging slightly and placing the glass on her dressing room table. The bar just outside was a ghost town, and the tender of it could probably use the cash.

She looked back down at the empty glass and then back to her door. Already, a buzzing sensation was filling her ears. It felt wonderful. Sighing, Vera stood up from her table and grabbed her wallet. she pulled out fifty cents. There wouldn't be much left if she went on a drinking binge that night, but she was lonely.

"Tom, a Manhattan. Heavy on the whiskey." She ordered as she slid onto a bar stool. The fabric of her dress was arguably the most uncomfortable texture in history, and Vera grimaced as it rubbed her upper thigh.

"Anything for the Back-Alley Queen." Her fist slammed against the table when he replied. In her hand was the money she brought and it hit the flat surface with a clink. Tom turned his back to Vera, smiling like the slimy bastard she thought he was.

Maybe loneliness was better than being treated like dirt, but Vera was still sober. On a Friday night, that wouldn't do.

"You want my money, you shut up and get me a drink." And just like that, her fifty cents was gone, and in its place was what she ordered. She grabbed the glass and drank its contents like water, welcoming the sparks that danced in front of her eyes with wide arms.

When she'd run out, she motioned for another, and Tom complied.

"Slow down, Vera." He said in a bored tone at around her fourth drink. Tom sounded like he really didn't care whether or not she did. Funny, Vera didn't either.

"You really care?" She asked him anyway and he shook his head. She just shrugged, leaning across the bar and placing her elbows firmly on it.

"Getting drunk on the job is not a good idea." The bartender commented to the intoxicated woman. She just shrugged again.

"Still, I don't think anybody noticed tonight." She replied, gesturing to the crowd of horny men. A striptease was in full swing on stage. Nobody gave a damn that the backup dancer was getting drunk off her ass.

"Nobody in the audience." Tom corrected her. "Watch your back, or you'll be out on it like that." He snapped his fingers, making the woman jump a little bit.

"You always know how to keep me on my toes." She told him, picking up her glass. Vera was out of money, and this would be her last drink for the night.

"Are you gonna stay after closing tonight?" Her shoulders went rigid when he asked. She sighed.

"Yes. The boss pays me extra when I help clean up." She rolled her eyes. "I ain't a damn waitress. I think he just wants to see me bent over a table." Tom chuckled at that.

"Don't flatter yourself, Weiss." He advised. "Nobody cares about you." It seemed like that was the final straw for the dancer. She stood on slightly shaking legs and turned her back on the bartender, stalking towards her dressing room.

She let the door slam behind her, but doubted anybody heard it over the loud, fast drums. The strip was almost over now. All she had to do was wait until everyone went home.

Her reflection in the mirror was frightful. Red lipstick smeared on pale skin, eyeliner caked under her eyes. Vera looked a mess. She set about righting herself, wiping away the remnants of the cheapest makeup money could buy and replacing it with a new coat.

When she was finished, she didn't think she looked any better than when she started. Vera realized that doing her makeup while drunk was not the best idea.

Instead of a disheveled-looking little woman staring back at her, now it was a mask with her face painted on it. But whoever painted it made a mistake. The mask was smiling, and she could barely do that anymore.

The stage lights blinded her again and she put her hands over her eyes, dragging her mascara around until she looked like a raccoon. She felt better.

Her newly-blackened eyes scanned over her mirror, looking to the edges like she was searching for a friend. She found it in a crack along the left side. Her lips softened as she reached a red-painted nail up to scratch at it lightly.

Just two years ago, Vera wouldn't have sat in front of a mirror with even the slightest imperfection. Then again, two years ago she wasn't doing three shows a day in the most run-down club in all of New York.

She sighed, ignoring the burning in her eyes as she touched the little crack, tapping at the glass. Vera watched with a hint of curiosity as the crack got bigger. She felt herself frown as she pushed a little harder, twisting her nail this way and that.

In less that a second, the tiny crack split, and sent a shock wave running through her as the glass shattered. Vera drew her hand away quickly, but not before a shard imbedded itself in her finger.

She hissed in pain and looked away from the crumbling, reflective mess that now showed over a thousand tiny, sad Vera's. It was so much harder to look at them all instead of just one.

Sighing with discomfort, Vera tugged the shard out of her index finger, wiping the blood on her black dress.

She didn't look back at her mirror for the rest of the evening, but eventually she had to. When Vera did, the entire club could hear her crying. Her life was a mirror, and she was a crack just waiting for someone to hurt and make the whole thing come down on her.