Page 3 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

Ouch

Her wording might be different every time, but thesentiment remains the same. And you would think that the knife she continuously lodges into my bleeding heart would hurt less over time. What troubles me most is her interest—why does she care so much?

She is right, though. Iam oddand perhaps disturbing to some. And what they lack in understanding, they fill in the blanks with their own soiled perception. One that simply fails to define the diseases I have no cure for. Mama used to say a touch of gold can make wilted and mottled pomegranate shrubs come to life, and the very same finger can be a malignant that feasters and tarnishes.

I was not always like this, hurt with dark and ugly wounds. Yet somehow I am the malign in my story.

Eyes brimming with judgment and detest leer at me, challenging me, daring me to pick a match and flame it. But then again, there is only so much I can take. Right here might have been it, because I have no control nor regret over what I say next.

“Animals,” My voice comes out rather tauntingly sweet. It was not a statement she expected me to answer, other than her way of goading me.

“Excuse me!” She looks appalled as she reaches to clutch her wraith pearls. If melodrama could be embodied, she would take its throne and crown. She looks at me as if I have said something so ludicrous and horrendous.

“Did I stutter?” A few gasps sound around the mirror-walled room. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut and sealed tight. As I’m now skirting on a glacier, I can not afford to sink in.Regret.

“This is utterly unacceptable,utterly!” Her eyes are wide with either dubiety or ire, maybe both. And oddly, it tightens the skin around her eyes, making her sockets bulge out. It is almost an eyesore to look at.

She turns to the class. “All of you do a piqué tournés,” she ushers with her hands, “And do not stop until I tell you.”

Everyone in the room remains glued to their feet for a second longer before trotting to her orders. She walks over to me, her steps slow and irksome. Once close, she clasps my arm with a grip that digs into my flesh. It is sure to leave a bruise.

She is taller than me, so her height forces me to look up at her.

“Little girl,” she snarls with each word heavily accented, “tread lightly. Monsieur Oscar might have a penchant for your skills, but your dearth of manners will surely get you kicked out, so let this serve as my last warning.” She pushes my arm away from her grasp like it kindles her.

Connasse

She pulls a madras from her skirt pocket and wipes her hand as the scowl on her face mushrooms.

“Be careful,my beggary might rub off on you.” I smile at her, masking the tears and anguish that threaten to break free, before walking over to the rest of the group and getting in pose. Some girls do no better than to offer me their own scowls, eye rolls, and taunts.

“You are not made for here,stray—you look like a sore thumb, so out of place, sowrong,” Elspeth snickers and her entourage of puppets follow. I roll my own eyes, disregarding her words and turning my back to her.

“Come up with a better insult, thenmaybe,I can offer you a speck of the attention you are thirsting for.” I can not see the displeasure streaking on her face, but feeling it is just as good.

I just need to get through the day.I take a deep breath—patience being my saving grace at the moment.

“Heed her no mind,” Naseria offers me one of her fuzzy smiles. The only friend I have in this savagery place. Well, her, and Miro.

“And who may that be?” I return her smile with a lopsided grin.

“Exactly, they are not worth a second thought.” I know an array of questions are about to flow out of her mouth. Concern rather. I see it in the way her friskiness melts away and her shoulders slump.

“I woke up late,” I rush out, in hopes of dulling her worry.I lied, but she does not have to know the truth.

But before she can say anything, Anoushka begins uttering instructions. Naseria’s disquiet does not go unnoticed. I do not think she believes me, but she takes my response with a hum, regardless, and turns her attention to ourballet mistress.

Her voice, dripping with cunning, falls on deaf ears as my mind spirals into the abyss of what awaits me at home. The choking dread clings to me like a second skin, while the scars—both old and new—gnaw relentlessly at my soul, each one a silent testament to the turmoil and suffering that have long since taken root in my life. It is a quiet torment, insidious in its persistence, wreaking havoc in ways both seen and unseen, shaping my every step with its’ burden.

Chapter 2

Wild Rose

The Ballet of Broken Wings

I once had a dream—no, perhaps it was more of a nightmare, a creepingephialtesthat began with such crystalline clarity. It was a vision as pure as glass, as perfect as a poem chiseled in stone. It stood before me, gleaming and unblemished, a thing of beauty that I could almost hold in my hands. But as glass shatters, so too did my dream. It fractured, splintered into silver, its once sharp edges dulling, its clarity fading like a distant memory. The light bled away, and with it came the murk—the shadows, the terror. The horrors seeped into the cracks like ink onto paper, staining everything it touched.

But even that—this unraveling—was not my deepest despair. No, the true torment came later, when my dreams became a foe, relentless and cruel.

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