Grace Renae

United States of America

I am a firm believer that some things have no meaning, but I over-analyze them anyway.

Message from Writer

I love writing and always have, but I know that there are plenty of people superior in this field. Therefore, I welcome any and all constructive criticism.

The Dance #darkness

October 1, 2018

FREE WRITING

3
If it were up to him, he would let her remember this moment.
            She spins across the dance floor, his hand in hers, a soft hum on her lips. He does not think he will ever hear music again without picturing her here, in this white silken gown, with her hair in ringlets down her back. That is, if he hears music at all. How could any other form of sound hold a candle to this, the purest variation? The spirals she wears weave their way into his head in mandalas, galaxies, and seashells on a warm summer day. He is dizzy, but he does not care. She is here beside him.
            He does not care.
            The more that they dance, the more of the world goes dark in his mind. One minute, he can see the fairy lights draped above them in artful slopes and curves, and the next she is the only thing in the entire universe worth observing. Each step she takes enthralls and enchants him. The diamonds on her bodice reflect light into his eyes, and he is mesmerized. When she moves, even the call of nearby death cannot pull him from his reverie. Their companions deteriorating around them cannot extract him from this moment.
            Everything is her, everything has been her, everything will always be her, or some extension of the sort. She is everything to him. He will hold her here for as long as he possibly can.
            The music ceases, but they spin onwards, to a soundtrack of tears and fears. She does not scream, but keeps her eyes locked to his. He finds peace within their blue, the tranquility of a thousand lazy afternoons saved for this era. Life imitates art, they say. He will imitate her in the same connotation.
            Sounds surround them. He hears only her lowered voice. She is here with him, and that is what matters, and this moment will be theirs alone. He will not let anyone steal her away from him. Not even the specter looming in the doorway.
            Red pools at her feet, covers her heels, splashes upwards onto her dress. Blood mingles between the shimmer and the sparkle and the silver stones along the hem. She says his name, like a secret. She tells him they should run away. He has never wanted anything more than to run away with her, she and him together forever, but he cannot find the words to tell her so. As long as her hand stays on his shoulder, he thinks of nothing but her face.
            She says his name, she says, “Dominic,” and somewhere above herald angels sing.
            It is not afraid, it is urgent, it is nothing and everything at the same time. He knows when she releases him, the world will burst forth in haunting color. This is a gentle warning. He thinks he knows what he will see, for he observes it splattered up and down her figure and taste its scent along the air, but he does not want her to let him go.
            Please don’t let him go.
            “Dominic,” she says, and he cannot bear the thought of her absence for even a second.
            “Annalise,” he feels himself respond.
            “I love you.”
            He does not deserve to love her. She is so much more than he will ever be. His love will never be enough to warrant hers in return, and to tell her that it will is a bold-faced lie. No, he will tell her of the world that cannot compare to the beauty of her face and the light in her eyes. May it never leave. He will tell her that he will never abandon her, that the grave can never part them, for he will follow her wherever she may wander.
            “I—,” he begins, and far too late. In an instant, the death that greets his companions will greet him also. It does not matter. Maybe she already knows.
            She spins around a final time, and on top of the shouting, sobbing, screaming, shooting, he is dizzy.
            He does not care.
            He uses a smear of blood from her dress to draw a heart on their interlocked hands.

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1 Comment
  • No More Than Sam

    @-@

    Amazing. That's all I can say. The descriptive writing is better than anything I've ever read. Absolutely phenomenal. Sort of confused at parts, but other than that, the whole story is awesome, and in the end, wow. The descriptive writing only makes the story even more dark.


    about 1 year ago