For those who fear the light

Lacrimosa

Lynn was told NOT to leave her chamber. She was told NOT to go down the steely, dimly lit hall. The point that she mustn't open the door to the outside had been belabored in frantic huffs. As if carved into some forsaken wood, her thoughts etched pleas into her undeveloped brain; desperate scratches to halt her footsteps through the gothic, sightless archway. Her hands, slaves to their master, pushed open the heavy, oak door of the space palace. The shrill voice of its hinges bounced off the stone walls like a servant running to warn her master; and in the sea-like shadow of the archway, a deeper darkness tumbled soundlessly from its interior like thoughtlessly stuffed clothes from a closet----inconsiderate to whoever was to open it. Her calves tensed in rebellion as she crossed the threshold into the unknown. 

For several steps her own breath was overtured by the silence until a light reverberation met her pale, small ears. Ravenous for knowledge, that which was withheld from her all her life, she cautiously tapped forwards; her feet gaining new life in the echoes of the hall.  

That fertile, blurry sound then separated itself into a voice and strings. The strong control and volume of the performance widened her swollen blue eyes and sparked goosebumps on her skin.  An organ blared until its eventual swell and curl following that climactic introduction. 

Then, a light!

The yellow of the light colored a square section of grey [flax] stones and, drowning in the overwhelming ebbs and flows of song, along with its loud, enveloping reverberations, Lynn bounded and waved in time with the sounds. 

Her body stretched and breathed---abandoning its sense of impending danger for the euphoria of dance which carried her thoughtlessly to the light's source. Pivoting on her sock-hidden toes, Lynn waltzed into the ballroom, tripped through puddles (probably wine, beer, or whiskey) and leaped over sticks (canes, umbrellas, or chicken bones, most likely). The instruments and vocals were directional now; the voice at the wall opposite the doorway, the strings on her right and the organ on her left. 

In exhaustion, Lynn opened her eyes and rested her hands on her hips. Her little, bruised dots were struck with a blur of reds and browns in what she now realized was white light---the yellow tint a product their reflection. 

She turned from the organ player, who was gant and wide eyed, and fell at the sight of a gargantuan woman, ostensibly the source of the vocals as she was at the very least mouthing the words with her crooked, spear-like teeth. Unholy enamel which struggled and occasionally punctured her sickly pale lips as she twisted a pink and shockingly bright red meat between her knobby, long thumb and forefinger. Golden curls, like a twisted halo or a lion's mane, framed her high cheekbones, long chin, and unfittingly masculine, crooked nose. Her knees were bent against her chest, which was draped in what looked to be a white, yet freshly crimson spotted, sheet. 

Thankfully, the monster's gaze was transfixed by that little morsel (although to Lynn it was about thigh size). Lynn watched the rise and fall of her mother's throat  hit almost unfeasible notes---her body no more than a cheap statue in a hellish garden, waiting to be smashed.