The Last Dance

A dark blue, feathered, masquerade mask was abruptly shoved into the tan hands of a girl. If it weren't for the sliver of light which passed between a crack in the ceilings paneling, it would have been nearly impossible for the girl to even see what this item she now possessed was. Along with not having a single clue as to where exactly she was, she did not know why she was brought in through this back entrance, rather than the front. Then-she was walking.

There were another set of footsteps, heels clicking on the floor beside her, adding to the sound of her own. The girl was also wearing heels herself, she realized, and as she was moved along hurriedly, she felt the swish of fabric part and fold against the length of her frame. A gown, one that, glancing down at, seemed so dark that anyone could assume it was black, or that it matched the dark blue color of the mask. Clasping the mask tightly, her legs moved on the accord of the individual guiding her. She didn't speak, but neither did her company. Her nerves told her not to; the darkness silenced her.

She took notice of the hand on her lower back, when it began ushering her even quicker forward. Why was it so silent? Light began to shed on them, enough for her to quickly glance over with a breath, in hopes of catching sight of the one with her. The woman was her friend; a friend whose chocolate skin was complimented by her red gown, who's face remained partly a mystery behind her mask.

Finally, she felt her mouth part, felt her tongue drag along her lips, prepared to try for words. Yet all she managed to let escape was a breath before she was turned, her back forced to face the tall woman. The mask in her hands was taken from her, and placed over her face, over her eyes. She flinched, and her friend hushed her.

"Walk. Keep walking until the music gets louder. Keep walking until you can't hear yourself over the music," the woman tongued, the whisper breathed softly against her ear.

With a sudden push of encouragement, she was off, stumbling forward, without a choice. Gliding hesitantly, she moved down the narrow hallway, focusing on her own labored breaths. Music seemed to filter in from somewhere in the path ahead of her, and her fingers lifted, palms pressing against the walls on either side of her. Maybe if she stopped she could turn around, figure out how to get out of here, change her mind, and just go home. The possibility was enough to slow her steps, yet something compelled her, something kept her moving forward.

The music was close enough at this point, that she no longer heard her breaths. The narrow hallway ended with a dark curtain, parted in the middle, hue lights streamed through. Once she got to the curtain, she paused, peaking through the gap, watching the mass of moving bodies take part in, what seemed to be, a ballroom dance. Blinking, her eyes dropped, before her fingers lifted and pushed past the curtain, stepping into the array of colors that became the dance floor. How she was supposed to just "keep walking" through a crowded ballroom, did not make sense to her. Without glancing around too much, too often, she surveyed her surroundings.

Every person seemed to have a partner; every pair seemed to be dancing. Except for her-except for him. As she continued walking straight, a man began walking in the path towards her. Unlike everyone, a mask was absent from his face, yet a sort of dull expression gleamed in his eyes. A suit fitted to his frame, and his dark hair fell in unruly curls-he seemed to be out of place, he seemed too dark. Yet again, so did she, she realized.

Among the twirling purples and yellows of fabric, the solo man and woman were alone in their dark attire. She began averting her steps, ridding herself as an obstacle from the man's intended path, though it seemed that his only intention was to reach her. The moment that he did, the music had reached a volume loud enough, that she couldn't hear her heels clicking against the wooden floor anymore, she couldn't hear her breaths-She stopped, and so did he.