Death Row

Your nails are bleeding again.

Funny, the things you notice. Little specks of dried blood around cuticles, for one. The rattling of the overhead vent. The stains on the linoleum floor. And of course, your pounding heart. Throbbing in your throat, beating against your chest, spiraling down into your wrists and head. Nearly drowning the world out.

Six months is a long time to wait for death. You suppose cancer patients or whatever have to do it, but for them it's never certain. For you, it was written in stone from the day you stepped into that courthouse. You never really stood a chance.

There are four guards, two in front and two behind. All built off the same assembly line, looks like. Same short hair, same stocky builds. Same pitiless eyes. Your priest is there too, of course, and you think about his job. Must suck, forcing confessions from criminals day after day. Being there to reassure them -of what?- as they draw their last breaths.

You slow as you near the room. The priest is talking again, but you can't hear him, can't hear anything but your own goddamned heart. Behind that door... a doctor, and a bench, and a tiny vial of poison. You think how unfair all of this is, how much more you should have done, could have done-- but then the door is opening and you step inside.

The Dancer

I still remember.

I wasn't sure I would, to be honest. It's been over a year now.

But I still remember. My feet ghost silently across the floor, tracing the same familiar patterns. I stumble, nearly fall, catch myself. Slip back into the rhythm of the nonexistent music.

I remember the first dance, and the last one. Most everything else in between is a blur of sweat and sprained ankles and too-tight costumes. That And perfection. Or at least, the attempts at perfection.

But now, alone in the dark room, there's no one to watch and no one to be perfect for. At last I can dance again.

I still feel every wrong move, every time my feet slip out of position or my upper body contorts out of shape. And it tears at me, the drive to be better still burns within me, but I allow the mistakes. The mistakes I was never allowed to allow.

It's almost funny. Dancing was my life. When I stopped I thought I would be nothing. But when I stopped, I found a different person that could eat pizza or laugh with friends or go out on a friday night, and as it turned out, I liked that person. I liked them a lot.

Still, to dance again. Arms flowing, legs bending, toes arched up; each piece in its place, everything perfect.

I trip and fall this time, crashing down to earth with bang and a cloud of dust. But I don't move, tilting my head back against the wood, hearing the music in my head. The ceiling reaches up to the sky miles above me, lost in shadows.

And then without any conscious effort I'm up again, skidding across the floor wildly now, angrily, skirt catching air and lifting up as I twirl, leaving the floor and returning far too quickly, but at least it was correct and I'm off again, faster and faster, blood pounding through me.

When I finally slow to a stop, applause roars in my ears, in perfect time with my breath. The ache is familiar, stronger than it used to be. Tired muscles, tired limbs, tired mind. But the happiness is familiar, too, familiar and strange at once.

I bow for the empty room, one at last time.