Murder at the Masquerade

Before

Music played at a deadly beat, threatening all dancers to dance with its rhythm. Its melody beat in my heart, a slow serenade bound to end. My dress flowed with each spin. Each pair in perfect synchronization. A corset the colour of blood wrapped around my torso, with a skirt the colour of water in the black of night. My columbina mask laced with black lace and maroon diamantes, that shone in the dimly lit ballroom. Dancing with the love of my life at a ball concealed by secrets of identities and music that bewitched all that heard it. In the corner of my eye, like a flash of lightning on a stormy night, I saw a tall slim man escape the room and flee to the balcony.

"I'll be back," I said to Alastair, my partner for everything, my partner in dance, in crime and in life.

I danced towards the towering glass doors, lined with golden filigree that crawled to the ceiling, with murals displaying angels and man at peace through stories made of exquisite artistry. Through the glass doors was a balcony large enough to fit a house. As soon as the monstrous doors closed behind me, all noise from inside was silenced. I stepped further out onto the balcony and a breeze, colder than rain on a snowy night moved through me, chilling me from head to toe, skin to bone. The balcony was fenced with short stone columns, broken down from age and growing darker with each day exposed in the sun, laying under the shadows cast by the trees dancing with the light of the moon. The man was nowhere to be seen. I edged closer to the railing and looked around in case of a dramatic exit made by the mysterious man. Nothing. Silence drowned me in the coldest of nights with nothing but a translucent shawl to keep me warm. Ghostly winds blew and my only source of warmth was blown into the darkness. I reached to grab for it, but it was out of my grasp. Then, a hand emerged from the darkness holding a familiar piece of fabric wrapped thrice around a large, gloved hand.

"You dropped this." Said a low, raspy voice in a tone I hear too often. A tone I hear when I did an act against women morality, like show my ankles. Heaven forbids it!

"Thank you, monsieur." My accent thick with my past, the language of my people, the language of love, of romance and passion. The people of England had strange accents to the French accents I was used to, but I suppose, for the sake of my family, I would have to get used to it. After all, I did fall in love with an English man, much to my parent's dismay. Just as a said my thanks to the man, and went to reach for my shawl, the tall man stepped out from the shadows with a devilish grin plastered across his face. I stepped back, unintentionally stepping closer and closer to my doom. I stood up straight and demanded my shawl back as confidently as I could, but my voice betrayed me and showed the fear hidden inside of me from endless years of torment. He had a sharp jawline and brown scruffy hair. The night betrayed one more time, hiding his main features from view. He had one small, somewhat fresh cut on his cheek, shaped like a cross, but I doubt he was religious. Other than that, he was normal. Of all the times I would imagine being in danger, I never imagined it being because of someone who looked normal. Of all the nightmares I had as a child, of monsters under my bed and in my closest, I imagined a man with a disfigured face but now I realise those aren't the real monsters. The real monsters are the ones that are unexpected. The ones that helped a young lady climb the steps to her house, the one who opened a door for a man quite a sum older than he, or even just a man who catches the only source of warmth a young woman has on a chilling night. A person with nothing wrong on the outside but everything wrong on the inside. I saw a lot of things different at a young age, I often saw people as colours and textures, and those colours came from their hearts. This man has a heart of coal. Burnt coal. Coal fresh from the fires of despair, left crumbling and sensitive, coal still hot from the heat of pain. Coal that burns all who try to touch it. Another breeze passed, chilling me to the bone, but it wasn't all caused by the chill of the night. I imagined the strong winds blowing him away, like ash in the wind, his crumbling emotions, his charred personality, and his burnt compassion. As the trees swayed in their own rhythm, the moonlight shone through the individual leaves. The light from the moon reflected off a bright surface in the man's hand. A dagger. With the moonlight illuminating each scratch on the surface of the finely crafted dagger, it almost looked like a gift, but I knew better. With each beat of my heart, my fear increased, as did the wrinkles stacked at his commissure, a very common consequence of smiling too often or simply growing old. His smile was far from friendly, or old. His smile was the smile of a predator hunting its prey, and I knew, I knew that I didn't have much longer to live, I knew that those were my final minutes.

He had an almost charming demeanour about him, you could easily swoon if he weren't holding a blade and your shawl, and didn't plan disastrous things, which I was not aware of at that moment. Each step that I took getting closer to the railing urged him to step even closer towards me. Two can play this game. I took a step forward. He stepped back. He stepped forward. I stepped back. We were dancing a twisted dance of dominance, intimidation, and survival. Either one of us could strike. Eventually, the mystery man had won the wicked game and I was pressed against the stone railing. My hand grazed against stone, it crumbled and fell to the cold, dark ground, which from this distance, seemed as if it were coming to life. The dagger raised to my throat; its blade cold against my bare skin. The only thing I care about is not seeing my love again. The glass doors opened, and you stood, panting with your back against the glass, condensation appearing around you. The man turned, his eyes turning from a sapphire blue to a ruby red, and finally landing on you. Time moved like the dagger heading for your heart. You scared the predator, and you became his prey. With one flick of the wrist, your life had ended and mine had just begun.