Music crystallized the room, classic and soulful, with its own heart that beat life in to the event. Belonging was a struggle in a class of elites, who understood wealth in a way unlike her simple mind could comprehend. She walked in with nothing in her arms except the outlandish grace of beauty that never seemed to disappoint everyone except her. She floated between their eyes, vibrant in white with a dove feather finishing, a familiar in a strange world.
She saw him on a painting, but of course she did. He was art was he not? A perfectly aligned patternless ornate that dimmed the flair of everything else in the room. She saw him through the peephole, too small for real sight to be formed but the heart sees what the eyes could not. She felt him in a way the distance would not allow and nothing ever seemed to be as important as the art on the painting that contained him.
Was it strange that he gained life when he felt her eyes on him? His fingers slipped out of the boundary of the four walls that contained his quintessence for it was not needed. He saw what he was protecting, the most important part of him, meant nothing compared to what he saw in the fire gaze that was her eyes. He walked out and at the same time pulled her in to a world unbeknown by the powerful simpletons surrounding them, for in their eyes everything felt as if it had less to no importance.
The music played in the background “dance….dance….dance…..” with a beat that rocked the mansion. It felt as if it had a soul of its own and it caressed the very hearts of the crowed except him. Him. Him. The god of the room. He watched with devouring attention. He looked with a sight that seared the walls and cracked the ceiling. He had never before wanted anything as much as he did now as he watched them lose themselves in each other. It was not of love, no, not at all or of devotion, or anything that was of this world for he was beyond the simplest of human like feelings. Yet he felt jealousy and it burned the core that ignited the life in him. It was never about love, love for her or for him, his perfect painting but of having his creations under his bounds. Everything was made to worship him, just him for what else could disserve it.
He came with a roar, with a dagger, with wrong intentions, with power to destroy; and it moved past her, past the boundary, past the four walls he made himself and found a home in his paintings heart. The dagger never left and the feet never held as they both crumbled to the floor. The room fell silent as if it was at a loss to cry out its pain because that was all there was, pain. She screamed, a scream that could not be explained except one packed with agony. She screamed like it was not him who had been stabbed but her, and not her flesh but whatever it was that roamed her shell, sparking life inside her. She screamed not for her but for him and wailed and she wept and fell apart under his feet.
For he had murdered the very thing in him she ever loved.
Inspired by #indila_derniere_dance and #tourner_dans_le_vide