Page 8 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

It is not that the place lacks a caring hand, because the fresh flowers in the vases do not go unnoticed, nor the weeds that seem to have been plucked out since the first time I was here. The grounds are clean, but there is a prehistoric brush in the air that saunters on this land.

Everything is the way it is for a reason. It’s almost like a pattern of sorts, but instead of dwelling on it, my body and mind fall in sync. While the rain is my tempo, I start to singLes Champs.

The stage beneath my feet is the only applause I crave.Oh so I thought.My body runs on fumes, but still I twirl and leap over stones and tombs, moving in a dance of rebellion. My steps are illicit, graceless, and exactly how I want them. Mygrand jetéis to a broken tune, mypliétoo shallow and mypirouettefar from poised.

Aux Champs-Élysées

It is frowned upon, mixing the rigid grace of classical with the raw freedom of modern ballet, yet I find an undeniable beauty in it. How the old traditions, with their poised elegance, can be woven into something new and untouchable. How the ribbon of these two worlds gives birth to a creation that transcends, becoming something unearthly, a dance of contradiction, fragile yet fierce.

I cannot say how long I’ve been caught in this fever, but I never wish for it to cease. Even as the blisters rise on my feet and my legs burn with each movement. The inferno coursing through me is too intoxicating, too consuming to halt. It feels like poison, bitter and dangerous, yet there is something in its viridian hue that stirs a jealousy, a hunger for more.

Aux Champs-Élysées

My chest heaves with each breath, droplets of rain clinging to my skin, sweat beading on my forehead. The rain, though it fades, leaves behind a sky of muted pearl silver and somber hues, an almost mournful canvas. And yet, the celestial orb above, glowing with fragile brilliance, is the only source of light in these haunting grounds, casting its shimmer upon me like a watching witness.

I stand in the center of the cemetery when my steps come to a halt, and that inferno turns glacial. An applause leeches itself into the air. I spin riotously, trying to follow the sound that dribbles from somewhere behind the statues. An umbra melds behind one of the ceramic stones and I have a feeling it’s the same person that watched me dance that other night. I can notseethem, but I canfeelthem.

“I believe it’s quite admirable to see the face behind the admiration,” I voice.

“Are you adjuring to see me,darling?” His voice, deep and gravelly, carries a trace of anItalianaccent—like dark silk wrapped in mystery.How rude.

It’s a man

“If I werebegging, as you say, perhaps I’d be on my knees,” I have resorted to speaking with strangers, as if my life were not already teetering on the brink of ruin. Time lingers between us, stretching in silence, and I am nearly convinced that he will remain mute forever, until, of course, his voice slices through the air once more.

“That may be arranged.” I can practically feel the disdain in his tone.

“Doubtful.”

“Certain,” he challenges, and a feeling of sorts washes over me.

“Please, enlighten me.”

The rain softens to delicate droplets, but my clothescling painfully to my skin, the cold biting into me like an insistent force. It’s unbearable, especially under his unrelenting, watchful gaze. I can feel those eyes tracing every inch of me, a searing, torrid path that leaves my skin tingling with discomfort.Heavens, Odessa,I think to myself,not only are you speaking to him, but entertaining him too.

I hear the faint shuffle of movement, as though he’s stepping closer, inching out from the shadows and into the open.

“Do you wallow in being places you are not invited?”

His statement could have very well slapped me on the face. I was awareIwas trespassing, but I assumed in the back of my mind thathewas too. I mean, there was not a sign that saiddo not enter, but then again there was not one that saiddo enter.

“Have words fallen off your tongue?” He mocks.

Bastard.

“You would find glory in that, wouldn’t you?”

“Your admission to trespassing wouldn’t gladden me, however a sight of you beseeching,on your kneesjust might,” he sounds lethargic, like my presence stultifies him.

“A carnal bid you are making, is it?” I would not be interested in entwining our limbs, even if a bounty was put on my head. I did not like how he could see me, but I could not see him.

“It is schadenfreude.”

It is chess and I suck at chess. Papa always told me life was like agame. Those at the top were the masters. They controlled those at the bottom like wooden puppets. I just happen to be a piece he has been studying, weaving, andstalking,and that gives him the golden hand, whereas I have no hand in this game of bane.

“Your game is becoming rather fruitless, don’t you think?”

“And what game might that be?” Like I said,weavingme, like Pinocchio.

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