The music doesn't start to play, it just drifts into existence, like it's always been there and like it always will be. You look around, taking in the dark, gothic architecture, the heavy curtains made from red velvet closed over big windows. You turn around, looking now at the guests. There's only a few but still too many to count, possibly 25, possibly 250. Nothing seems real and yet you hear the music, you see your surroundings like there's nothing else. You cling to it. You feel a hand on your shoulder, soft through layers of clothing. A mask, a hand offering the next dance. You take it. A waltz. Dresses wide, many layers, colours red, gold, black. Black. Like the raven outside that the curtains shield from you, that you can't see but feel. A presence. Black. Like the frame of the mirror on the wall, hanging without a purpose, showing an empty ballroom and floating glasses. Red. Like the drink in those glasses, too liquid to be blood, too thick to be wine. Red. You look up. Like the eyes fixed on yours, fond but alarming, saying both "I adore you." and "Watch out." Like the eyes of everyone, you realise, everyone but you. Gold. Like the pupils of every pair of eyes, small, glowing and shimmering, adding to the warning effect.Gold. You sit down on a red velvet couch, the dance now over. Like the legs of the table before you, like the candlesticks. Like the shine of the candles, lighting up the ballroom, thousands of candles, the colours red, gold, black. And like it faded in, the music fades out, an echo of it still lingering in the air, you can almost taste it. Then, even that is gone. You're not sure it's ever been there.
{Flora Hansen}
