Beneath the Chandelier

She dances alone beneath the chandelier, and that's where she belongs.

She wears a blue silk gown and a pretty little smile. She is alone beneath the chandelier, surrounded by one mass of bodies twirling under the pseudo-sunset. They spin together, but she sways back and forth in solitude. She is illuminated in the orange glow, moving like a cornstalk in the wind, her rosy lips turned upward and her eyes heavy with bliss. She is a paradox�"an extraordinary work of art hanging alone in a museum, perfectly happy in her loneliness.

I hold my breath when a catty girl with red cheeks brushes her talons over Blue’s bare shoulder. Disturbed from her reverie, Blue opens her eyes. She looks down at her butter-smooth shoulder blade, but it’s traced with three ruby lines, burning under the harsh glare of the chandelier. Catty laughs in a drunken stupor, “So sorry, darling.” So sorry, baby, because you’re tainted, you’re flawed. So sorry, angel, you’re just a demon like the rest of us now.

Blue accepts the apology like it’s a birthday gift. She is the epitome of compassion and forgiveness, reveling in the feeling of Catty’s repentance. She continues her reclusive sway, but she doesn’t close her eyes. She looks at the twirling bodies around her. They laugh boisterously as smoke escapes their cracked lips and sweat drips down their rouge-covered faces. Blue watches, uncertain, as her beautiful sway slows to a halt.

Her eyes lock on my own, and she approaches hesitantly, clumsily tripping over her long dress. I want to shout for her to turn back, for her to stay within the grasp of the warm flames, for her to stay beneath the chandelier. She asks me to dance. A bead of sweat drips down her flaky face, past her contorted smile, by her wounded shoulder, and then it dies under the cheap fabric of her blue dress.

And I know now that we’re all demons in this inferno-ballroom.