Muses and Monsters

Prologue, Pt. 2

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Prologue, Pt. 2

Seth Balor

I eye the closest thing to family I have in the world, wondering whether or not it'd be appropriate to throw him out of our box and into the auditorium below to demonstrate how serious I am when I call dibs on the dancer that had the entire auditorium enthralled for the first act. I've been friends with Carson for years and we've gotten up to some shit together, but he should know better than to challenge me once I've set my mind to something. Perhaps a ER stay would do him some good; remind him why we stay on good terms with each other, because if we were on bad terms, one of us would already be dead.

Before I can turn my thoughts into actions, the theatre is plunged into darkness. When the stage lights up again, the dancer playing princess Aurora is back on stage—wearing the same, sinful white dress as earlier—except this time, she's unmasked, and my heart starts to race at the sight.

Everything about her is perfectly proportioned and symmetrical. Her face is a delicate oval shape, with a slightly upturned button nose in the center, and wide crystalline eyes that are a mixture of arctic blue and wispy grey, the color clearly visible even all the way across the auditorium. Her lips are heart shaped and full, her cheekbones are high in a distinct way that hints to Eastern European heritage, and her brilliant white smile reveals dimples on either side of her mouth. She looks like a walking, living, breathing masterpiece, created with the upmost attention to detail.

What calls to me most, though, isn't the angelic beauty she emanates from without, serving as a beacon to a creature as dark and twisted as myself. It's her eyes. They're bright, shining, and exulted as she performs, but there's a weight behind them that catch my interest. As blonde and bright as she might appear, everything within me knows that I'm staring at a fellow tortured soul.

For the briefest moment, her eyes flick over mine. There's no way she could possibly see me through the stage lights blinding her, but the jolt that goes through my entire system at that one look is enough to tell me that I'm not just observing a fascinating being; I've found my Muse.

Following the thought, a chilling calm flows through me, one that startles me intensely because I'm never calm. As much as I try to release the ball of tension that lives, ever-expanding within me, I can never fully succeed—I'm always restless unless I'm exhausting myself with work. Now, though, it momentarily feels like I've found a sliver of nirvana in the world. The ball of tension in me subsides as I watch her dance, and I release a soft breath of laughter, because as hesitant as I was to come here tonight—Carson had to call in a favor for me to agree, and I had every intention of making him miserable regardless—the evening is turning out more fortuitous than I imagined.

I take my phone out of the pocket of my pants, pulling up the camera and starting a video as I zoom the frame closer to the stage. I know any images I pull from the video will probably end up blurry and unsatisfactory, but I intend to convince my muse—whoever she is—to pose for me in real-time, so that won't be a problem. The only reason I take a video is out of curiosity as to whether or not I'll feel the same pull I do now later tonight, when my muse is no longer directly in front of me. And, of course, because her dancing is like nothing I've ever seen—something everyone else in attendance seems to be in agreement with. It'll be interesting to slow the footage down and watch her technique frame by frame. Pocketing my phone after I have a thirty second clip, I return my full attention to the show.

Ballet is a beautiful art; graceful, lithe, precise, and requiring endless amounts of self-discipline. Contemporary dancing, on the other hand, is more often than not a ridiculous spectacle of limbs and flesh—that's why I'm in no way a fan of Greywood University's dance program; it strays from tradition and classic, devolving into chaos and unruliness.