Page 41 of A Dance With Devils
Gingerly, I do, desperate to find something to cling to in this jumble of thoughts.
Fingers latch into mine and then his face comes into view. Beautiful face. Like a dark angel. Strong and yet soft under those harsh lines, hair that gently falls over his face. And then it’s not him anymore – not my Malachi. Eyes. Swirls of black holes – evil and corrupt.
I panic and waver, limbs struggling, but I’m weak now. And tired. I’m getting so tired of running. Must, though. Must keep running until I don’t have to anymore.
Run, run, run.
His arm pulls me closer until his hands wrapped around my neck, and then I feel something in my mouth. Acrid taste. Another pill. I fight against it, beat my fists on his frame to let me go. I can’t do that – won’t. I don’t know what they are, why. But the pressure just keeps going. Harder and harder, a hand over my mouth until I’ve got no choice but to swallow again and try to break for air. He won’t let me, though. He’s so strong on me – so severe. And I’m limp now. Like a dying bird gasping for its last breath, as he moves me and turns me. It’s all spinning, changing.
And I’m no closer to flying.
The sudden crash against something hard takes what little breath I’ve got away. I fold and whimper, legs pulling up, as I realise I’m on the floor. What happened?
I don’t know.
“Where are you?” stutters out of me. Nothing. Only silence, but for the distant sound of the wolves still hunting. “Malachi?”
“Stay put, Alice. Breathe,” someone says. A man? Him. Not my Malachi.
My head shakes, eyes searching the murky area for inspiration as to what the hell is happening. No red mist. No dark tunnels anymore. I’m alone. No one other than me and this long, dark, empty corridor full of old things that are blurred and messy. Aged paintings. Furniture. Long swathes of gold and red fabric covering doorways and hanging from windows that hold nothing but more darkness behind them. And my lightning is going, fading to nothing but dim light and air. It’s blurry, obscure. Like a fog over my eyes and in my mind. I was there, not here.
And now I’m – where am I?
Time must pass as I sit here, cold, shivering, and – I run my hands over my legs - near fucking naked. I crawl them in further, hunching my frame over them for protection against the empty, desolate space. Nothing makes any sense. Where is my dress? I was … running. What from? And dancing. I was dancing and spinning. With him. Malachi. We were close. And he kissed me – I remember that now. I can feel it still, regardless of there being nothing and no one here with me.
Shouts sound out somewhere, a shrill yelp following it, as if frightened. That girl was being chased, hunted down like prey for them to play with. Free fodder, she said. I’m not free anything, and my body getting up and beginning to hunt for something to put on proves it. Halls and rooms pass me by in a blur, none of them offering anything to cover myself with until I turn into the room with the piano in it. Several blankets lie discarded on the couch, and it isn’t until I close the door gently that I realise there’s a robe hanging on the back of the door.
Slipping into it, I walk to the window to look out at the pitch black view. What now? Run again, or wait? My eyes land on the grand piano sitting perfectly in its corner, quiet and yet dominating. That’s what he is here – dominating. And strange. And that wouldn’t be so bad if I could trust it. I can’t. I can’t even remember what’s happened in the last however long let alone trust someone like him. But what I do know, what I can feel in the pit of my stomach regardless of this oddity and obscurity, is that he is inside me somehow now, or has been. I can sense him, feel something that wasn’t there when we arrived.
Eyes – such dark and torrid eyes.
I look down at myself and gently trace the contours of my thighs. Marks litter my skin, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve had sex. No, that’s not how it feels at all. It feels like my mind isn’t mine anymore – like it’s elsewhere in a blur of nonsense. Head fucked maybe.
A weak smile pulls at my lips, as my fingers twine my hair between them and meander down to my mouth. There were pills and dark corners, eyes and thoughts that didn’t belong to me. I should be angry, furious about that. I’m not. I’m erratic. Muddled. And strangely fascinated with what is happening around me in this strange place.
“Alice?”
My head turns back to look at the new voice in the room and I find a woman stood there, a long ball gown of reds and scarlets covering some of her small body.
She rolls her shoulders and walks to me with a smile in place.
“What do you want?” she asks. Strange question. I frown and watch as she spins in the space, her arms wide. “You have to know what you want here,” she continues. Dark hair frames her face, loose curls gliding around as she does. “It hurts, but it’s worth it. It helps. Gray helps. Malachi, too. He’ll be alright now. Don’t worry.”
Another freak.
Sidling around the edge of the room, I bypass her revolving form and head for the door again. Away, that’s what I should want. It’s what I wanted when I arrived here, and it definitely should be now I’m witnessing this behaviour. I need to go home and check in, make sure the boys are okay. A break? A low chuckle idles in my throat, gaze still trained on the freak still spinning. This isn’t a break – this is bizarre and peculiar. Yes home, home to sanity. If I could find a damn phone in this place it would be useful. At least then I’d feel safe in the knowledge that they’re okay while I try to get back to them.
I halt at the thought and look back at the woman. “I want a phone.”
“Oh,” she says, coming to an abrupt halt. “This way.”
She launches out of the room, her dress in her hands as she runs and takes corners as if she’s known them all her life. Right, left, up some stairs, with me chasing to keep up with her, and then down another set that wind and turn on themselves in a spiral.
A door pushes open in front of her eventually and we’re suddenly in what seems to be a room stuck in time. Old time. Maybe the twenties, or forties. I don’t know, but dust lingers on every surface, coats on chairs and hats perched on tables.
“There,” she says, pointing.
I look at the desk she’s aiming for and notice the old phone sat there, as much dust on it as there is on everything else. I’ve never used one of those before, wouldn’t even know how it works. I lift the top of it, wondering what, if anything, the cord does that dangles from the end of it. No sound. No swiping. No anything to help me understand what to do.
