Chapter 11: Round and Round

They laughed at us behind their masks; whispering – incessant whispering – swallowed the air around us and into their haughty lungs. Nobody could breathe, and yet they all took their precious gulps of air.

There was none left for me.

And yet still, we danced, hands together, except when they were not, drinking in the sights and smells that I tried desperately to forget. And still they whispered around us, still laughed at me, at me.

But even as they laughed, still I danced, felt his warm hands in mine, but now they were bitterly cold, shocking goosebumps across my hands, my neck.

I couldn't breathe. He told me to relax, but I couldn't breathe. All of the expectations, all of the eyes, all of the laughter, the judgments, the disappointment. I would fail; I was bound to fail. The room was dark and slanted, their laughter like ghosts, whispers like screams.

I would lose my balance. Who could dance in a room like this?

I was twirled, and I was dipped, and I was pirouetted. God, there was so much air, and none of it was mine. My throat was closed off – a prison, but not a prison; even those have bars – a locked and cold elevator, my hands prying at my neck just to open up its clutched passageways to breathe. But still I danced.

A smile tickled his lips and he asked, "What are you doing, silly?" Like it was a silly thing at all. And he was behind me now, whispering it into my ear, "What are you doing, silly?" And his whisper screamed.

But I wasn't afraid; I trusted him. His scream was not startling, his whisper was something to hold dear. It was intimate, meant only for me. His smile, his gaze, mine, all mine, but I couldn't gulp it down. I couldn't satisfy him; I would never be able to satisfy him.

And he dipped me again, his smile sly, his smile sincere. My eyes gazed around to the masked faces, hands over their lips, laughing, laughing a fit. They looked at me and quickly turned their heads to whisper to one another, their gazes darting to me and to the other faces once again, just to judge me.

He drank in my scent from behind, his nose pressed against my neck as he gave a long whiff. My hands were held out to the side by his, holding them in a tight vice-grip. I tried to tug against them, to claw open the steel doors of this elevator I held in my throat, but I couldn't. He wouldn't let me. Instead, he chuckled, his breath cold where it was once ghosting hot. "Don't struggle so much; it'll be okay. It'll be just fine." He took a tentative lick across my neck, tongue darting out over his lips thereafter. Then a prick, and a puncture. My skin crawled around the two wounds – wounds inflicted by him, deep and sharp, but I could not cry out. And as the blood dribbled down, the world froze. The screaming silence dissipated, the gazes disappeared. And through these puncture wounds, I was free.

I could breathe again.

Except… that I couldn't.

I woke with a start, gasping for air, and for a moment, I couldn't tell where I was, or even who I was – though this later confusion was only very briefly. I saw only the darkness surrounding me, and the incandescent bubbles of lava pooling. The bed was not my own, nor was my ceiling ever that high, and my dressers never faced to the left. I was in Hell, I realized far later than acceptable, in Tom's castle. I clutched my undershirt over where my heart lay underneath, recoiling against each painful pump it thrust out like a jackhammer, shattering the concrete in my veins and created all sorts of painful fragments to lacerate and tear.

I was already beginning to break.

I was a machine falling into disrepair, a building crumbling down. I clenched back my teeth of glass as my jaw tightened, and my jaw began to crack into diamonds. My body already solidifying till it was my joints would crackle and snap when I moved. I rolled out of bed, shattered onto the floor like a fine china. It took every ounce of my will to move against my failing body – my body which only wanted to fold up, rock in a corner in this catatonic state, for the world to melt away in a haze of vice-gripped hair and preserve what little fragments of me I could scoop together. The world was so unfamiliar, so unreal. The room was paper now, being torn around the edges like the first steps of paper mâché.

God, I just wanted to go home…! I wanted to go back to comfort, to my mom, to her arms, hushing me while I shook myself from flesh and bone. I wanted papa to be there to put me back together after I was just a mess of faulty parts, like he always would with his oil-stained hands from my disrepair. I wanted him to sing to me, strum the chords of his notes humming his gentle tunes until my tremors became waves along a puddle. I wanted mom to tell me everything was gonna be alright, even if her voice was underwater, I would still make out her gentle tone, her gentler strokes against my back and through my hair.

I wanted Alfonzo and Ferguson. I wanted to be back against my locker with them at each side. I wanted to be against Ferguson's chest, clinging to him while my fingers were falling down. I wanted their awkward frowns when they didn't know what to do, and all they wanted to do was help me, goddamn it.

I wanted help! I wanted help! I wanted somebody's arms, someone's soothing voice. Someone to hold my disheveled self, my fragments. I wanted someone, anyone. I wanted Tom. I wanted Tom. I needed Tom.

Pieces of me were already left on the bed, parts shattered when I hit the floor. I was dragging shards across the ground as I managed to open the doors as my fingers fell apart. I was breaking. The edges of my eyes were failing. My heart was destroying me.

I emptied myself out onto the hallway, looked around through cracked eyes, and I saw nothing. I saw an unfamiliar nothing. I saw no Tom, nor servants. I saw nothing. I clutched my shirt, my chest crunching my skin to dust. I sunk, squatted on the floor, my hand gripping the windowsill until it would break away. Tears fell down my face like glass.

Nothing could save me. I was going to die. My heart would crumble away to nothing, nothing.

It's nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing to worry about. Nothing. It's all just nothing. It's all in your head, Marco. Nothing. Nothing. It's nothing; you're over-exaggerating, Marco. It's nothing. Nothing nothing nothing not -