Okay, so, I am alive. I’ve taken what I can only call an accidental hiatus; being caught up with work and a sea of personal shit that I shouldn’t talk about on the internet. All I can say is that life, in all meanings of the word, is very fragile. But who am I to talk about life? I’m just a shitty writer, doing my thing and rewriting these little journal entries from the early 80s. Hell, I’ve dedicated nearly all of this account to it.
And today’s entry is a tad bit special. It’s the only excerpt not revolving around the ludicrous misadventures of Ophelia Hollow Prison. In the last entry, the journal’s initial writer, Myles Monroe, sat down and practically forced himself to write about the grim incident that led to his incarceration; a masquerade ball. As you can tell by the flair, this is a part of a series, but this segment doesn’t need too much context from previous posts. So, with another awkward transition out of the way, let’s get on with the following entry:
….
“There’s a blue DeLorean outside the estate.”
The words fell onto my ears like a feather on cool metal. I scrambled to hide what I had just been doing, and analyzed those lucid words with a fogged mind. Blue DeLorean…that was important. Why was that important? Ms. Edevane looked me up and down.
“You seem dressed up. More than usual that is.” She craned her neck, “are you going somewhere?”
Wait, I was dressed up?
I looked down.
“Oh yeah…” my eyes widened, “oh shit!”
I grabbed for my feathered mask in a hurry. I knew I had it out for a reason! He invited me during lunch that same day. I had literally gotten ready to go minutes prior. How could I forget? How could I be so stupid? I swiftly glanced in the mirror and wiped any residue off my nose. That was the source of my idiocy, I suppose. Truth be told, I popped a couple of pills about half an hour prior. And right before Edevane barged through the door, I had just finished up some lines of coke. Really classy.
I got up towards the door.
“Please be careful. I’ve been worried about you, Myles. Very, very worried. It pains me to see the boy I raised go down such a dark path.”
“…It isn’t your fault.”
“It doesn’t matter who’s at fault. Just promise me you’ll try to do better. Please. Don’t get into trouble while you’re out.” She sighed, “I know your mother might seem uncaring, but she truly is concerned for you right now.”
No, she’s concerned about her reputation. “Look, I promise I won’t do anything stupid.” Get off my ass already, lady. “I’ll be back around 10. Just forget about me for a moment and enjoy your night, kay?”
I said a brief goodbye to Ms. Edevane and ignored her perturbed face. That was the type of (frankly dick-ish) mood I was in. There wasn’t any room for fretful old women in my heart; just as always, I only sought out to feel slightly less numb.
And slightly less numb I was. Seeing my friend shimmying out of his car brought a dopey grin to my face.
Carl Sanchez.
The man had recently broken his arm in some sort of…bowling accident? And by all means, he was my only friend. Well, the only friend I hadn’t fucked (or fucked over), anyway. And his presence guaranteed some lighthearted amusement ahead of me. This, ironically enough, strengthened as he scowled.
“Good lord.” He shook his head, “Myles, I told you to wear something formal.”
“I’m wearing a tie, aren’t I?”
“It’s around your neck like you’re a male stripper!” He sighed, “why do you dress like that? None of the other Monroes do.”
“Well, none of the other Monroes get mistaken for the help when they dress in a modest or casual manner.”
“Oh…” that shut him up for a second. Then he gulped. “Still…” an awkward laugh escaped his lips, lifting the mood in a contrastingly blithe tone, “do your outfits have to be so tacky?”
“‘Tacky?’ Dude, I am a fashion god!”
“Maybe to a group of flamers and cougars.”
“Oh, like you have any room to be talking about clothes!” I bent down on his level, talking to him in one of those patronizing tones, “does your mommy pick out all your ‘widdle polos?” I pinched his cheek, “I’m sure the grannies at the local retirement home think you’re such a handsome young man, don’t they?”
“Shut up.” He pushed my hand away with a snort, “get in the car before I change my mind about this.”
“Alright, alright. Don’t get your panties all in a twist.”
He insisted I sat in the back. I tried to protest, though it all proved futile. He may have had a broken arm, but he didn’t want my pity. I wasn’t even sure if it was legal to let him drive, but he persevered that it was. Probably more legal than letting me drive, anyway. I couldn’t argue with that, so I gave up and sat in the back.
Innocence.
It was like an embodiment of innocence.
…Where did it all go wrong?
That’s a question every lowlife asks when they slip up, and things go terribly south. They close their eyes and recall every half-forgotten detail, attempting to pinpoint the exact moment they slipped. But I don’t have to do that. I know why everything is shit—why I’m currently in this hellishly inattentive prison, planning to take down an insanity-obsessed clown. I know the stone that made me tumble.
But the rock that makes you fall into an inky abyss is never just a rock. It’s always the result of something bigger, the slow build-up of erosion, controlled by the toll of time itself.
I can look at multiple aspects of my life and say they played a part in my downfall. I never had anything resembling a father. My mother has always been a bitch. Her sadness inspired everyone else’s downward spiral in the first place. Plus, I’ve always been chasing something; validation or a quick high. Just something to make me feel better. Something I can grab onto as I drown in wealth and luxurious falsehoods. But again, these facets of my life only helped form the rock. The fully-fledged stone, the one to send me plummeting by all means, was the masquerade. I can point at the event with utter confidence and say that.
What day did it happen on, again?
Oh, of course.
3/6/1981.
The same day I got into Carl’s car. I grasped at a few questions before he started the engine.
“How exactly is this masquerade gonna go down?”
“Well, I’ve never been before, but I can imagine what it’ll be like. We’ll dance, talk, maybe have some fancy drinks, and then the ballet will start up, and after it’s done, we’ll go home.”
“Sounds a bit bland, don’t you think?”
“I mean, not any less bland than the average masquerade. In fact, I don’t think ballerina shows are normal.”
“Whatever. All I’m saying is that it seems like there should be more.”
I couldn’t help but notice something vibrant under the passenger seat, contrasting the black interior like a neon sign in the midnight sky. “What’s this?” I picked it up.
A porn mag.
“Oh my God, this is hilarious!”
Carl turned his head as he started the car, “what is it?”
His face went bright red.
“Don’t look at that!” I looked at it. “It’s not mine! Ricky must’ve left it!”
“Ricky? Shroomhead Ricky?” I flipped through the pages. “Nah, no way. This is too vanilla to be his.”
“How do you even know that?”
“I dunno, I probably know everything, ‘cause now I know Carl Sanchez keeps his spank bank material in his car!”
“Just kill me now….”
“Dude, relax. This is the most boring porn I’ve ever seen; I’m not judging.” I smiled, “I’m having fun. Granted, I always have fun with you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, totally. You’re like, the funnest nerd I know!” Oh, he liked that—it was time to keep the compliments rolling. “I mean, I’m already having a good time, and we’re not even onto the main event. That’s pretty awesome. For a nerd, you sure are awesome.”
He blushed. “‘Awesome?’”
“Yessir. So awesome that I think we should hang out after this whole masked ball thing. I mean, if you’re down, we could watch The Importance of Being Earnest.”
“…Why that in particular?”
“I was interrupted halfway through watching the movie version and haven’t gotten time to finish it. But like, Oscar Wilde wrote it, so I’m basically required to get through it.”
This drew a slight chuckle from my friend.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, it’s just that if any other guy at our school were like you, he’d probably be a hate crime victim.”
“…I know.”
“How come you’re some sort of exception?”
“A few reasons, I think.” I shrugged, “for one, I’m super rich, and I throw some bitchin’ parties, so people don’t like to burn bridges with me. Also, I don’t know if you know this, but I’m not some defenseless little dork. It just happens that kicking ass is one of my many wasted talents.”
“Why do I feel like you’re making up that ass-kicking part?”
I smiled. “Hey, maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m only exaggerating to boost my fragile ego.” I shrugged, “wouldn’t you like to know, angel cakes.”
After that, we talked about nothing in particular—girls, cars, football. Normal shit that hasn’t crossed my mind since that night. After around twenty minutes, Carl stopped at a red light, surrounding himself with an intimidating amount of cars. This was no issue, however. He precisely weaved through traffic, taking a few turns and parking the car near a bustling downtown street. Carl quickly equipped his silver mask shortly after.
We walked the rest of the way. At first, the silence was only interfered with the noises of my heels. But then Carl groaned amid the clacking.
“Your stupid shoes are always so loud.”
I rushed to come back with something. “Not as loud as your ass cheeks clapping when you walk.”
A few fellow pedestrians glared at me upon hearing that phrase. I felt indifferent to all the eyes on me. I began clapping my hands, syncing them to the speed of Carl’s footsteps.
“See? They sound like this.”
Carl hung his head low. Low enough to where his neck was nearly unnoticeable. “You are so embarrassing.”
He walked faster, and I clapped accordingly so. “Picking up the pace, are we?”
A multitude of bystanders looked away with critical expressions. I laughed. Carl crossed his arms. His face wasn’t visible to me, though I could tell he was smiling. “You are an enigma to me, Myles Monroe.”
He laughed. “How can somebody so cultivated, well bred, and wealthy act like such a ghetto whore?”
“That’s just the way God made me, baby.”
I liked saying that. Even if religion was my personal conundrum, it felt nice to blame my shortcomings on God.
“Well, I guess I’m glad he made you that way.” Carl looked at me with a genuine grin, oozing with a strange sense of compassion. “Despite it all, I love you.”
My face went cold, and my throat tightened. I pulled back, eyes staring at anything but the man in front of me. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” I could imagine his face turning bright red, yet I couldn’t see it. “Dude, you know I didn’t mean it like that! I-I’m not-”
“I know.”
“So then, what’s the issue?”
I’ve never said “I love you” to someone I truly cared about. Those words were cold and empty. Some say the phrase to family members. I’ve never done that. None of my siblings have, either. “I love you” was reserved only for short-lived, romantic affairs. It didn’t mean anything. The words came out of my mouth with icy breaths, and aloof lips reciprocated the hollow phrase. Carl wasn’t just another nameless face with aloof lips. He was a friend, and he meant something. To hear that phrase from him was like seeing the Devil. Of course, I would never tell him. I stayed silent. Carl uncomfortably cleared his throat, desperate to change the topic. I could tell he wanted to say more -there was something in his mind begging to be vocalized- yet he refrained. Instead, he created a distraction. Carl gazed ahead with wider eyes and a wry smile.
“Heh. Check that out.”
I looked to see the entrance, extravagant and radiant, with a large, embellished sign front and center.
“Reminder for tonight’s ball: we strictly prohibit audience members from harming the ballerina dancers. Any guest who fails to abide by this will be taken to court over the matter.”
“Well, that’s weird. Kinda funny, though.” I shook my head, “I mean, I’d get if they were some uncivilized bodybuilders, but ballerina dancers? Man, I’d feel like a monster if I made one of those little things sad! Who in their right mind would try to hurt one of them?”
“You seem riled up about this.”
“I mean, yeah! It’s easy not to punch skinny little women; there shouldn’t be a sign for it!”
“Oh yeah.” Carl snickered, “I guess you’d know a lot about being easy, wouldn’t you?”
I wish I didn’t. “Fuck yeah, and don’t you ever forget it!”
We laughed, and I attempted to be authentic. My friend gestured towards the entrance. “Shall we?”
I adjusted the mask onto my face. “Let’s.”
Interestingly enough, two men at the door had us sign a waiver before we entered. A sea of small, borderline illegible print greeted my eyes, and despite the encouragement to read over the text, I simply wrote my signature and moved on. There were so many words; God himself couldn’t make me read all that! Hell, even Carl (the saintly student he is) didn’t read a single letter. But the men let us go on ahead anyway. So, with our signatures printed and hearts set for a fun night, we stepped into the ballroom.
Woah.
I’ve seen a lot of opulent architecture in my day, but that place might’ve taken the cake. Pillars with elaborately carved patterns held up every aureate arch, and divinely woven curtains graced every golden glass frame. Alluring, angelic statues marked the ornate walls, and the tall ceiling displayed artwork that rivaled some of the most distinguished renaissance paintings. The stage area practically shimmered, and the orchestra atop it poured audible ambrosia into my ears. But was there some sort of dress code I wasn’t informed of? Most male guests wore eerily identical black suits, right down to the same pocket squares. A lot of the men even had the same masks too. But that didn’t matter. This building was the stuff dreams were made of; the blood and soul of an ardent sculptor. How breathtakingly beautiful.
While I was marveling at the architecture, the coke really started to kick in. Oh wow. I had a buzz before, but right then, there was this great big burst of energy, burst of confidence, burst of pure and utter euphoria, all at once, mercilessly assaulting my senses. Or was assault the right word? How could it be an assault if it was so phenomenal? Whatever. I didn’t give a shit. I was high, I was “happy,” and the grandiosity rammed right into me. I fucking loved it. I might’ve not valued much in the grand scheme of things, but I always cherished a sensational, heart-throbbing high—my little slice of heaven, perfectly preserved on Earth to keep me prisoner. I was hooked. Even if I wanted to move on, I was destined to return. Relapse was always around the corner. Even now, that’ll stick with me for a very, very long time. Longer than a high could ever last. But at the moment, that was irrelevant. I was “fixed,” I felt better, and that was all that mattered.
I took my pointer finger, tracing a particular surname along my palm. It was the name of the guy who had given me the snow. I wanted nothing more than to remember him. His shit was good.
But I found an opportunity to make it even better.
What seemed like all the liquor in the entire universe laid upon a long table, covered in a gorgeously embroidered crimson cloth.
I obviously couldn’t see my face, but I imagine my reaction was akin to a crippling glutton gazing upon a stupendous candy shop—a junky gazing upon his next quick fix.
“That table isn’t very fancy, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, I’d have to agree.” Carl scoffed, “sure, the presentation is nice, but in spirit, it’s more like something you’d find at a frat party.”
“Hey,” I nudged his shoulder, attempting to hold back any ounce of excitement, “um…do you think since we’ve got masks, they won’t try to ID us?”
“Hopefully not. I mean, we don’t look like high schoolers. Especially not you. You could probably be a model or something.”
“Well, if we’re not gonna get ID’d, what are we standing around for? Come on, let’s drink!”
A smaller table was dedicated to holding stacks and stacks of fancy cups. Carl and I both took one.
Then he came real close to my ear.
“I’m not an idiot. I know how you are, Myles.”
“Hm?”
“Your pupils are wider than saucers, man.” Ah. Of course he’d notice that. “You’re on something again, aren’t you?”
My silence said it all.
“Wow…” he sounded too disappointed for my liking. I tried to defend myself.
“Look, I’m a goddamn druggie; what else do you expect?”
“That is a disgustingly degrading way to look at yourself. You’re more than your addictions. Being an addict isn’t some sort of crutch to excuse your poor decisions!”
“Omigod, who the hell cares? Just let me have some fuckin’ drinks!”
“No!”
A tense silence blossomed before Carl drew out a deep sigh.
“Don’t get wasted. You know, if you keep putting all these substances in your body, you won’t look like such a model anymore. Sooner or later, all these drugs will take their toll if you don’t quit. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m just being real; learn some self-control before it messes you up.”
I hated fighting with Carl, so I nipped that argument in the bud before bitterness could fester.
“…Alright. Fine. I’ll just have one drink.”
The one drink was Bacardi. We drank near the table, and in the midst of trying to pace myself, Carl nudged me on the shoulder.
“Look.” A large bottle of wine rested comfortably in his able hand. “This is your family’s claim to fame, right?”
I wanted to die upon looking at the label. “Right on the money.”
He laughed. “Wow! You should be proud. If it’s here, that means it’s really good stuff.” He squinted in an attempt to read the cursive letters. “…How do you say this out loud?”
“I never cared to pronounce it.”
“Is it French? I didn’t know your family was French.”
“We’ve been a lot of things.” I rolled my eyes, “Greek, Italian, French, then some dipshit settled here, and the Monroe surname came not long afterward.”
“Was this like, your old surname?”
“Maybe. It doesn’t matter, though.” None of it matters. “I’m a Monroe, not a…whatever the hell that is.”
That’s a fact that will never die. My blood relations are something I can never change, and something I don’t think I would change, despite all my troubles. Sure, I’m pretty confident my mother hates me, and familial love is a foreign concept, but at least I’ve got money. Who cares if my family is dysfunctional? I’m rich! For the most part, I can just keep this information in the back of my brain and call myself blessed.
…But something about that bottle provoked more profound thoughts regarding my family.
I’m always going to be shunned by them, aren’t I?
It’s too late to apologize for the shindigs or the meltdowns, or all the times I’ve shown up to dinner high out of my mind. The damage has already been done. I’ve made too much of an ass out of myself, and I can never go back. Even if I were to get my shit together and go clean, acceptance would still be out of my reach. In the eyes of my kin, I’ll always be a hopeless hedonist—a lost cause that you shouldn’t get too close to. But that just isn’t fair. They had a chance to make things right. Long before I was tainted, there were opportunities to fix this path I’ve gone down! Maybe just a few words of encouragement. Some positivity, some support, something to show that someone actually goddamn cares! But that’s the problem. Nobody cares. Nobody in my household over thirteen cares about anyone but themselves, and I can’t even exclude myself from that list.
…I never realized how much of a burning disdain I harbor for my bloodline. What’s so great about my family, anyway? The only valuable lesson the Monroe lineage has taught me is that alcohol is an acceptable way to solve problems. Why was Carl so pressed about a measly drink? Handling booze is in my frigging DNA! And with how much I’ve already consumed, I probably have the tolerance of a god by now. What’re a few more drinks really gonna do?
One drink metamorphosed into five. It was easy to hide that from a distracted Carl Sanchez. He was as bright as a supernova yet overly trusting to an adorable extent. Carl Sanchez…
I don’t even know why he wasted his time with trash like me. Nobody did. But when asked, he always explained it’s because I made him laugh. My presence had a certain thrill to it. I was the only dash of scandal in his otherwise flawless, focused life. But once, under the influence of wine, he confessed that he saw me as his “patient zero.” He refused to elaborate past that, but I think his message was clear. He kept me around because he liked the challenge of “fixing” me; it was like a precursor to his dream job. So that was just great. My only real friend saw me as an unseemly jester or a fuck-up meant to be fixed with no in between.
Five drinks turned into ten.
I thought back on Carl’s words. “Don’t get wasted.” “If you keep putting all these substances in your body, you won’t look like such a model anymore.” Oh, whatever. Y’know, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from…well, life, it’s that I needed to get wasted. Hell, my imprisonment has spelled it out to me in fluorescent letters; going clean was miserable. My sober self practically fell apart at the seams. I became sloppy and uninspired in an abstinent state. A sloppy lover, a sloppy pianist, a sloppy student. Just a sloppy, sad, sober fuck. Plus, my skin breaks out when I try to go clean, and I put on a few pounds, which is the last thing I need. And that’s not even mentioning how screwed up my detoxed mind is. Everything just manages to plummet into a state of self-deprecation and depraved logic without drugs. I had gotten to the point where I couldn’t function without my vices. I arguably still can’t. A couple of drinks were better than such a sorrowful, sober life.
Ten turned into fifteen.
Despite it all, I was proud of myself. Give the average teenager that amount of alcohol, and they’ll get a trip to the ER. But me? All I got was a vacay to drunksville, no big deal. At the time, it was awesome! But it took its toll.
Seriously, copious amounts of Bacardi is no joke! I probably could’ve died. It took me around an hour to burn through the alcohol while Carl was chatting it up with some swish strangers. There was such a pitiful contrast between us; Carl looked so blended with the crowd. He looked happy. He looked right.
Meanwhile, I was by the booze table, looking like a mess. My posture was slumped, my steps were wobbly, and everything was hazed by a fuzzy cloud of mist over my mind. But that was fine—enjoyable, even. What wasn’t enjoyable was that Carl finally noticed my intoxication and further disassociated from me as a result.
“You know what?” I stumbled towards him, and he looked back with confused eyes. “I don’t understand politics all that much.”
“I’d be happy to explain.” He produced a nervous laugh, “though maybe at a different time?”
“Nah, nah…” Ironically enough, I nodded my head, “it’s just…I mean, an elephant I sorta get, but a donkey?” There was this sugary sweet concoction of emotions boiling in my brain, a clash of two highs, and when I hiccuped, it was strangely painful. “Why would you wanna represent your political values with an ass?”
Carl looked away from me the moment I said that word. “Ass.” As if it was some sort of absurd taboo. I couldn’t care less.
“I mean, if an ass is the competition, maybe I should get into politics or something.” I chuckled, imagining a future that would never come to fruition, “and…I would make my own political side, and it would be represented with a dragon…smokin’ a doobie…with a hot, busty hooker on his back!”
“Oh my God…” he turned his back to me, and he didn’t bother to face me again. He was giving me the cold shoulder. I got upset.
“What?” I hiccuped, “was it something I said?”
No response.
“Carl!”
….
“Hey, stop…stop ignoring me!”
He only muttered two sentences in response.
“You told me you wouldn’t get wasted. You lied to me, and now you’re just embarrassing me…”
“Oh, so this is how it’s gonna be, huh? I break one little micro rule, tell the tiniest white lie, and suddenly you don’t want to be seen in public with me?”
The urge to ignore me called to Carl once more (in hindsight, I can’t blame him). Unfortunately for him, I had no issue playing dirty to break his silent treatment.
I grabbed his shoulder. “You look real pretty from behind.”
A coterie of judgmental eyes met me. I couldn’t help but laugh. Carl, on the contrary, scoffed as he shooed me off of him.
“Myles!” He hissed, “what the hell?!”
“Ooooh! Mister Sanchez said a dirty word!” I turned to the woman sporting a glimmering gown next to me with a drunken chuckle, “write that down in the history books!”
Carl grabbed me by the tie, huddling to the corner with his eyes glued to the floor. “Stop acting like a fucking hooligan!” That was the best he could come up with? Wait, that didn’t matter. He was pissed, and that made me feel terrible.
Damnit, Myles! Sober up! You’re being shitty and pushing away your only real friend. Sober! Up! “C’mon, I didn’t mean anything by it! It was just a joke! I’m sorry!” I was slurring my words, and I hated myself for it.
“Yeah, very funny! Look, I’m not mad; what’s done has been done, just…can you try to act normal in public? People will think we’re a duo of sick deviants or something!”
“Hey, what’s wrong with deviants? They make me feel A-OK~.”
“Jesus Christ.” He groaned, “honestly, what is wrong with you?”
…
For a second, I just stood there, twiddling with a lock of my hair in a drunken daze. “I’m ‘acquainted with’ a lot of suburban white girls. I’m like a white girl magnet, partially ‘cause I’m rich, but also because they like taboos, I guess? And the white girls-they always look at me and find me ‘tragically beautiful.’ I think.”
Carl calmed down, throwing a glance of pity my way.
“I thought you were the same.” I looked at him, but I didn’t really look at him, “I thought you peered up at me and saw your ‘tragically beautiful’, tragically hopeless patient zero.”
He held his hand out. I pulled away from him. “But you don’t. You’re scared of me.” I sincerely looked at him. He seemed sad. “Scared of becoming me.”
I laughed. Genuinely. There was this strange moment where the buzz died, leaving me with only dour thoughts. “I’m the serpent in your little garden of Eden, the sin in your otherwise faultless utopia. But I’m not a threat to you. You’re just fearfully fascinated by my existence. Why?”
I answered my own question with shaky hands. “Because Myles Monroe isn’t evil. He’s not looking to destroy your perfect paradise, either. Myles Monroe is just a stupid slut who thrust himself into a world of vices suited for someone far older. He’s just an example of what not to do in life. He’s just ruined. I’m just ruined.”
“Myles, we talked about this.” He shook his head, “you’re not ruined. Not at all.”
Oh, he was trying to be consulting, wasn’t he? I wasn’t having that.
“Y’know, it’s so easy for you to say that because you’re fine. You’re an observant god, temporarily watching over Eden before it goes to shit. You’re good if you don’t succumb to the same sin I have. You’re Carl Sanchez.” I batted my lashes, “Caaarl Saaanchez. With his virgin eyes that have only gazed upon the most vanilla of all porn, and his big boy pants he can just slip on and off whenever he feels like it. He’s such a quirky little guy! He broke his arm in an innocent bowling accident, and that’s the worst thing to ever happen to him because he’s Carl Sanchez. All the trash heaps of the world wish they could be like him, with his perfect family, and his perfect polos, and his perfect grades, and his perfect future. Caaaarl. FUCKING. Sanchez!”
“Oh my God, Myles, buddy,” he sighed, shaking his head, “you’re really drunk right now. I know you don’t mean any of that.”
I meant all of it.
Carl wrapped an arm around my shoulder, “you shouldn’t be like this in public. It isn’t good for you. You need to sit somewhere quiet and have a cold glass of water. Let’s just get out of here and go back to my place. We can sit down and talk—maybe watch that Earnest thing?”
“No!” I pushed myself away from him, slightly stumbling in the process. “I…wanna see the goddamn dancers. That’s the whole reason we came, right?”
He frowned. “I guess.”
“C’mon, lighten up, angel cakes.” As if on cue, the lights dimmed, leaving only a dazzling spotlight on the polished stage. “The show’s about to start. Forget about me. You know I always bounce back. I’m peachy keen. Let’s have a good time and enjoy the show, kay?”
“…Y’know, you’re really starting to scare me. You’re my friend, and I know you don’t like hearing these words, but I love you. I really do…but honestly, I’m not sure I can say the same about this version of you.”
Get in line, pal.
We said nothing as the orchestra played a gentler tune. It was almost surreal; what had previously been a sea of talkative, dancing fat cats turned into a masked crowd of genuinely excited, unmoving souls. I suppose this moment was why most came. It’s not often you hear about an event like this.
A beautiful bunch of ballerinas emerged from the curtains, high on their toes and gracefully getting into place. They all looked like dolls on that stage, the men and women, with flawless faces and awe-inspiring outfits. Though there was something strange.
As they began to dance, it became clear that this wasn’t an ordinary ballet—well, that I knew of, anyway. There was no plot, no narrative to follow along, no rhyme or reason why the ballerinas were dancing. There was no lead role, no villain, and nobody who stood out amongst the group. The handful of men were carbon copies, handsome in their old-timey attire. And all the women were identical, pale-armed and pretty, dawned with the same bedazzled tutus.
But their outfits, as ravishing as they were, struck me as odd.
The jewels that adorned their clothing…didn’t sparkle the right way under that waxen spotlight. They weren’t shaped the right way. The ornaments didn’t shine like gemstones; they shined like metal.
They were metal.
…Razor blades.
Golden razor blades.
Yeah, if I squinted, I could tell all the dancers’ clothes were accessorized with gold-hued razor blades. Some were in fragments, others stayed whole, but regardless, all of them jangled and shimmied as the ballet moved along.
There was one moment when all the women twirled in unison, bringing attention to the peacock feathers that coated the back of their tutus. That seemed impractical.
I never cared for peacocks, anyway. I don’t even know why. Maybe it’s because Dandy liked to ramble about them all the time, maybe it’s just my personal taste, but there was this little button in my brain telling me to dislike them instinctively. But wait, where were those feathers attached? I looked at the skirts; none of the feathers bloomed from the cloth. They were laced to the lower backs of the dancers.
The bare lower backs of the dancers.
Ouch.
I stood there for a moment and pondered the logistics of it. Were the feathers sewn into their skin? Did they pierce the dancers’ muscles? I felt a wave of pity rush to my veins. It didn’t matter how the feathers stayed in. They must’ve hurt like all hell. I imagined that with every step, every spin, every leap, their backs stung with startling intensity. Agony made them ache, it made them suffer, it might’ve even made them bleed, yet they remained blank-faced and silent through it all. And I worried. I worried so dearly for those dedicated dancers.
…But then the orchestra hastened. The smaller stringed instruments played with such intense passion, and musical pleasantries seeped through every chord. It was a vigorous melody produced by the utmost focused musicians, yet despite it all, the tune made me feel mellow. It was like a sweet siren song, carrying me to an island of tranquility and capturing my calmness.
My eyes focused on the stage as the music threatened to take my breath away. The spotlight seemed to deepen, concentrating solely and sensationally on those ballerina dancers. They practically glowed beneath the light, and with a flawlessly timed Grand Jete, my troubles were melted away.
I don’t know how else to describe it. The dancers’ passion burned with the intensity of a thousand suns, and I rediscovered one of the true saviors of humanity.
Art.
Their dance was art.
And when I gazed upon this art, nothing else mattered. My drug issues, my straining relationship with Carl, my domestic troubles, everything and anything you could think of causing me an inch of discomfort dissolved into nothingness in front of my observant eyes. It was as if I had discovered the meaning of life; pure and utter joy was in my reach. I was happy. Truly happy. This was why I came to the masquerade—to get my heart soaring in beautiful bliss.
…But then one of the ballerina’s fists slammed into another’s face. I, alongside half of the audience, winced with a sunken heart. It seemed like an accident at first. Neither dancer showed a dash of malice nor a hint of shock. They just kept going.
But then it happened again.
And again.
And before I knew it, I was witnessing a bloodbath.
What started as vacuous, white-knuckled punches escalated into far more deliberate and gruesome acts. When a dancer would leap into the air, another would desperately grasp at their hair and tug with brutal force. You could see the strands torn out, straight down to their gnarled roots. And if the dancers couldn’t reach for a woman’s head, they would opt for the peacock feathers sewn into their backs. If I strained my ears, I swore I could audibly hear the feathers tearing from their muscles, coated in chunky blood. What had previously been blank faces transformed into crazed expressions. A lot of the dancers looked like wolfish predators fighting for prey. But they preyed on each other. When they got close, they would insert fingers in each other’s mouths and viciously yank. That would typically rip the flesh. And they didn’t stop there. With bulging eyes and snarling lips, they would pull at the razor blades that littered their outfits. And high on their toes with a twirl, they would use the metal to pierce their peers’ flesh, occasionally even slitting wrists.
Naturally, a lot of the audience screamed. They screeched, they wept, they made my blood curdle. Many people tried to escape the ballroom, yet menacing guards blocked anything that resembled an exit. It turned out the men in identical suits weren’t guests. They were patrollers, and they were in on it. You could see their sick, thin-lipped smiles as drool dangled below their chins. This bloodsport was what those men lived for, and they did everything in their power to enhance the experience.
A lot of them restrained particularly hysterical guests. A myriad of people huddled towards the main entrance with boiling tears in their eyes. You could sense the desperation. You could physically feel the disgust they regarded as the dancers mutilated each other like feral beasts. The guests wanted to leave. Some tried to save themselves the image of bruised skin, bloodied wrists, lacerated throats, and knocked-out teeth. But the guards simply wouldn’t let them go. If an audience member got too physical, one of the patrol men would knock them out.
These patrol men paid attention to every individual out of line—every hair out of place. You see, I knew I couldn’t run away unless I wanted to end up unconscious. Besides, the blood flowing through my veins was iced. I went from bathing in utter peace to gazing upon a grotesque display of pure sin. The overwhelming whiplash of emotions held me in place; I was frozen in fear. But I couldn’t witness more of this gore fest! I didn’t want to witness more. The gruesome images had already branded themselves into my brain. To see more was to torture myself! So I turned my head.
But a guard crept up from behind and forced me to face the stage once more.
He made me watch.
From the corner of my eye, I discovered Carl shared a similar predicament, though he was bawling and squirming all the while. I couldn’t blame him. I probably would’ve done the same if I wasn’t so intoxicated.
The sight in front of us all was simply sick. There’s no nobler way to put it. Looking back on it, I want to say that if the music stopped or the melody was more sinister, things would’ve been overshadowed with even more atrocity, but that’s a lie. The orchestra continued as usual; with twisted Cheshire grins and focused stares, as though they weren’t inches away from such a savage frenzy, which made things far more petrifying. Because there was a part of me that discovered something that day.
The grungiest gutters of a human mind can find pleasure in the vilest of acts.
There are cold-blooded, cruel fucks out there that get off on the bloodshed and suffering of others. They desensitize themselves and degrade their own morality until they can milk pleasure from misery. It happens worldwide; people who defile, murder, violate and traffic the weak for their precious cheap thrills—people who put zero value on human life. And I was in a ballroom full of those people.
And I was about to meet yet another person just like this.
He emerged from a trapped door on stage, and the spotlight shined like a distressed star in his presence.
His getup was absurd. Simply absurd. He was in one of those powdered wigs that would sit atop Marie Antoinette’s head, and a crudely painted eyeball was plastered on his forehead. His outfit was Shakespearean, and the cloth bore the same coloration as a peacock.
His presence was akin to a god’s from those dancers’ perspective. They paused when he met their swollen, bloodshot eyes as though a remote controlled them. Yet their poses were elegant and symmetrical, making me believe that even while they were mangling each other up, every movement was planned. It took all the willpower in the world not to vomit as the man pulled a microphone out of thin air. The rancid, sharp smell of blood and metal was thick in my nostrils, and the weeping was loud enough to make my ears ring. It was wrong. Everything about this event was wrong!
My anguish was so overbearing that it was barely recognizable as the man cleared his throat into the microphone.
“Are you folks enjoying the show?” He chuckled. The agonized screams below him spelled out his answer. Yet, despite that, the man didn’t care, and he carried on in such a casual manner. “Seriously though, we have some lovely talents here tonight! I’m proud to present these dancers as my own. So, may we get a round of applause for our stars?”
To my revulsion, a handful of guards and sadistic guests actually clapped. The man thanked them before putting a finger on his chin.
“…But something’s missing, don’t you think?” He thought it over for a second before perking up with a soul-killing smile. “I know…”
He peered over the manic audience with reptilian-like eyes.
“How about we make this more of an interactive experience for our audience?”