Fair Grounds - Short Stories

The Flight

I pause upon the doorstep of the old broken building at the end of the alley. It is dark and small, and the heavy wooden door with the rusty iron hinges ominously dares me to open it. And I do. Because I must.

I tell myself I'll skip this stop tomorrow. Of course I know I won't. I say this every day. And sometimes I almost believe it.  Today the beast is calling me and the crawling of the pins upon my skin a small price to pay for my bitter regret.

I have spent my lifetime bending bones and stretching muscles beyond their natural ability to soak the glory of the spotlight as lead dancer. Tonight we have our biggest show to date, "The Nightingale" and I will be dressed in the wings waiting and ready just in case the young and perfect Celine is injured or ill. And I will stop the praying that she is. For I am not too ignorant to know these crooked abused bones wouldn't make it through flawlessly. 

Last month Omar told me I was just a bit "too old" for the role I felt angry. But the truth is, I also felt relieved. The fight of pushing to prevent this day is over. His words confirm the steady screaming of my back and constantly bleeding feet, my time in the spotlight has ended.

As I enter my now familiar haven I feel the smoky dense haze wrap around me like a lover. Ghostly smoke fingers stroke my tired sagging skin and lift  me with the promise of rest from the pain that comes with the death of a lifetime of dreams. It is the only place that forgives my bitterness and wraps me in acceptance without sacrifice. My lover, my friend, a release from myself.

The opium pipe calls to me, beckoning with wanton fingers. It needs me as much as I need it. Scents intoxicate me, a mixture of sweat, oriental spices, and tobacco. Clouds of smoke hover overhead. I watch in mild interest as some ghost-like creature nestles up close and whispers a thousand little lies.

Each one sits upon my neck like a caress. Magalina, the hostess, brings me a tray and pipe. The long wooden match with the bright red head shakes in my trembling fingers as I strike it upon the stone. It's sweet sulfur smell mixes with the air as its wisps of grey smoke dance above my head.

I inhale deeply, although never deep enough. Only after I have thickened the smoke on the ceiling do my senses finally begin to dull chasing away memories and worry. My muscles uncurl and relax and the blood running through my veins slows, as if its just remembered its purpose is to create and not just sustain. My vision blurs and the thick white vapors swirl to form a symphony of shadow and light.

Finally, I feel it, the burn and crackle, as the force of heated air is absorbed and pushing the white haze through pathways until it sits
upon my brain. Tendrils of fingers with thousands of needles poke and prod. Awakening my dream state, feeding the beast that always demands more. My skin begins to itch and buzz from the inside out.

The rough heaviness of this foreign skin I wear weighs upon me and in my stupor I gouge my fingers to burrow beneath it for release from its constriction. It raises itself into vision and twirls above me in the smoke. My true form begins stretching and elongating. My painful frame cracks and straightens and I hear the string sound of my taut muscles stretching. My calloused worn feet straighten and without my burdened soul I am weightless and take the form of a young fresh dancer. Twirling and bending effortlessly and without pain as I only can in these opium dreams.

I feel a searing burning from inside my barren chest and daggers begin to protrude through my skin. Feathers grow from the chutes in slow motion and I watch my form contort to become the nightingale. My arms stretch and crack birthing wings that stretch to fill the room.