Page 54 of Dance with Death

Digging through the make-up bag, I find a palette of eye shadow and decide upon subtlety. I brush on soft brown and shimmery gold eye shadow. I add a bronzing blush over my foundation to highlight my cheeks, and I choose a deep burgundy lipstick.

As I finish up my make-up, Vigo opens the bathroom door without warning and it startles me. He barges in, though I stand nude in front of the sink.

He looks me up and down. “This is a good look for you.”

I swipe on another unnecessary layer of lipstick as I ignore him. I look the worst I have ever looked. I’ve lost weight since I’ve been in his care, weight I didn’t need to lose. My body feels week. I haven’t truly danced in months and my muscles have lost their strength such that every movement requires a great deal of effort. I used to move with such ease and now, I’m just a fragile little doll.

Vigo smacks my ass as he moves toward the toilet and undoes his zipper, standing just behind me as he relieves himself. I take my dress from the hook on the door and carry it into the bedroom, just to get away from him.

I put it on and move to the standing, full-length mirror in the corner of the room to look at my reflection. I can’t help but see myself as a sickly, thin shell of the girl I used to be. The dress should cling nicely to my curves, but it hangs off me in places it shouldn’t. The spaghetti straps keep slipping from my shoulders and I know I’ll be fussing with them all night. At least my face looks like my own, though I’m starting to see the lines where my cheeks will hollow out if I lose any more weight.

If I broke this mirror, could I slice my throat open with one of the shards of glass before Vigo stops me?

The thought bursts into my mind with force. My breath catches in my throat and tears fill up my eyes because now I’m thinking about it.

I’m really thinking about it.

If there’s no hope for change, for freedom, I wonder how much longer I can survive in this life.

“Tell me what you think,” Vigo asks with his hand on the small of my back.

He leads me around the Leblancs’ estate ballroom that’s been setup as an art exhibit. Four oversized windows line the long outside wall, letting the pink and red hues of the sunset filter the space in an eerie glow.

Two ornate crystalline chandeliers hang overhead, giving the room an austere mood. The golden hue of the light complements the golds and reds and tans in the floral-patterned carpet that spans the space.

At first glance, the event looks normal. A group of wealthy socialites gathering in a grand ballroom to view an artist’s work.

The Leblancs’ talent slave—a tall, slim brunette who looks utterly exhausted—stands near one of her many paintings decorating the walls of the ballroom.

Vigo slips his hand upward to grasp the ends of my hair and gives them a tug, awaiting my response.

“I think…I think these paintings are sad.”

Vigo chuckles softly. “They are rather boring to look at, hmm? I would prefer to watch you dance over looking at these stupid paintings. Perhaps without your clothes on, around a pole. Maybe I’ll have one put in your cage so you can practice for me.”

“You disgust me,” I tell him boldly, stupidly.

His hand slips down my backside, coming to rest over one cheek, as he bends to whisper in my ear, “Mind your manners with me or you’ll regret it.”

I swallow, backing down, because I believe him.

We move around the outer wall, observing the painting slave’s works of art. The paintings are rather beautiful in a tragic sort of way. If I could paint my slavery and everything I’ve felt over the years, I imagine it would look similar.

Dark colors.

Abstract with menacing strokes.

A mixture of intention and improvisation—just the way Ezra and I had danced.

My intention mixed with his improvisation.

I would give my life just to see him again.

I might give it anyway.

I observe the social niceties and expectations Vigo has for me, keeping the essence of myself firmly inside my mind. I’m lost in my head, staring blankly at one of the paintings as Vigo speaks to someone behind me. They talk about business and other inane things as I drift.

But then a sudden spark, like static electricity, prickles across my skin. I think nothing of it at first, but then there’s a gradual awareness, a tingle of response to a familiar aura. It forces me from the dark corner of my mind and drags me back to reality.

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