She Danced under the Stars ✔

9

The moonlight blinds me. I groan with pain. A torrent of sounds rattles my eardrums: a baby is crying in an apartment; a dog is barking; a motorbike starts with a roar; an owl is hooting.

I drag myself to the path. 'Lily! Where are you?' My own voice sounds like it's disembodied. 'Lily, answer me! Are you all right?'

I make as if to shade my eyes with my hand, wincing under the blaze of the moon, but I freeze. The brightness of my hand reflects the brightness of the sky. It feels as if I was seeing it for the first time: a snow-white, slender hand with pointed nails, so smooth that you can hardly see any pore in it. I move my fingers to make sure it is real indeed. Yes, this hand does belong to me. How could it have changed that much?

I take in the surroundings. It feels like I'm able to analyze the entire area in a flash: every single blade of grass, every single berry in the hedges, every bit of gravel on the path looks as clear as in broad daylight to me. I spot my knife by a bench. Then my cardigan rolled up in a ball a few yards away. Where has my assailant gone?

I walk up the tulip-lined passage with a steady step, though the remnants of my stupor weigh it down. Would I have become . . . like him? I can't feel my chest heaving anymore. I can't feel the rate of my breath. No matter how much I grope for my heartbeat, my hand flat between my breasts, I can't detect it.