Category : Stories

Sub Category : Romance

“All of what my eyes have discovered, is loathing in the expressions of the public.” Thus, Aleah spoke, bellowing a slight cough to this London smog. “I am here to please, as is my wont.” She speaks to the usher, who carefully removes her long coat, though it is in the warmth of April. She asks the usher a question, “what is the reason for people to observe? Why do people observe?”
To which, he answers, “the same could be questioned of the mosquito, and how it knows to fly. There is no need to question the unknowable.” His words end with a smile.
But, a mosquito! “What makes you use such a horrid insect for a metaphor?” Her eyes widen, brightening the beauty of her ivory skin.
He does not reply. Rather, he gestures with his head to the ballroom, to which Aleah has entered. She follows this gesture, assuming a position of womanly pride. The feather-like vanity which soaks through the garments of the female is as primal in form, as it is obvious in glances.
She looks on. Aleah watches and listens to the surrounding public. They, who are hurling endless compliments to her woeful self. She smiles a false smile. Her face is empty, though such could only be perceived to the learned observer. Those who surround her, are simply the swine that beg for the trough. They offer wine to her lips, which she refuses, adamantly. Her eyes strike a gaze away from the greenish textures of the irises. These two eyes hope from gentleman to gentleman, observing the wash of shameless expressions in their faces. They have offered themselves to beauty on bended knee. Every one of them drinks in this pleasurable evening.
They wish to drink it in. They wish to be the gluttons of farms, having the beauty as a feast for pleasure. Of the learned observer, should there be one, they’d notice the falsehood imprinted on Aleah’s countenance. Besides irritation, there is also longing. We see this in the constant twitches of her mouth. A sexual longing, desirous for something maddened.
She speaks to a nearby observer. “Who is willing to dance? Is anyone here willing to dance? Could any man be willing to dance with me? I will not take anything of low value.”
She smiles a mischievous smile. It was sinister, as well, for the creases made by the smile raised the folds near her eyes to the gleefulness of a ghoul. In direct relation to this unholy creature, Aleah permeates the scent of death, for one observer point out, although charmingly, “Aleah! What perfume have you put onto your neck? It wreaks of blood!” No one had heard this, but Aleah.
With the amassing talkative network of observers, a trail of death had indeed been treading behind this poor girl. A scent that only those who are godly can ever despise. Death is both our enemy and our friend, but it is our enemy when the death is committed through cruelty.
She coughs once more. It has been onto her small, trembling hand, and a drop of blood has appeared on the surface of the skin. To the sight, Aleah shudders. She stares upon the stain of crimson for just a moment, before a hand grasps her other hand. Aleah is startled. She looks up to this man, who introduces himself as, “Monsieur Hayworth.” He smiles. He is the same.
He says, “I will dance with you.” Next, to the ballroom, they go.
Once the music begins, Aleah’s feet are guided by Hayworth’s feet. Her hands are pulled by Hayworth’s hands. An outpouring of notes from the instruments envelopes the pair in a flood of symphony. It is composed of colors like yellow and orange, as though honey had been the nature to this sound. Sweetness in its undying tranquility. None shield themselves from this ongoing sight of cherished love between male and female, in their playful way in dancing.
Aleah begins to laugh, but the pain also begins to rise. It is unnoticeable, for any sickened, though stable patient of Tuberculosis will begin to shed an ignorant attitude on the slightest, and most common of symptoms. However, seriousness always is the creeper to these ailments.
The pain rises steadily, though slowly, in direct contrast and relation to the candle, which shortens as the wick continually burns. Aleah’s eyes begin to water, and through a hoarse tone, she begins to blurt out words at random, “oh! What fun! What delight it is to dance in the ballroom! This is so wonderful. I am experiencing this, yet again. It is still the same as before! I am amused but lacking in newness!” Her words leave a tinge of sadness in Hayworth’s eyes.
He replies, “newness is all too free. Sometimes, tradition must be mastered, before experimentation is made.” Aleah frowns. To relieve this discomfort, Hayworth spins her, and catches her so the fright extinguishes. “Newness is far too free. Newness creates distortion.”
“Why would newness create distortion?” says Aleah.
“It is because newness does not exist. What does exist, is unwanted, and wasted potential. There are many who are unrefined in their talents and lack the courage to cultivate these talents.” He smiles, boldly. He grasps her waist, lifting her freely. This seems as a dance befitting the figure skaters of the Olympics. A ripeness in Aleah’s slender waist. A sadness in her brooding nature.
She is miserable. She has listened to these words, as the pain has risen ever-so higher.
Now, Aleah disguises this misery for gladness, through the sheer willpower that any human being possesses. Grief is her blackened token to this fallen evening. Shame and defeat are her mesmerizers. An unjust attitude is her mercy. Always will Aleah capture the audience.
Yet, in sickness, Aleah collapses. She falters in the dance. She empties her loathsome expressions to the floor. Aleah stumbles backwards, away from Hayworth’s grasp, appearing pale.
He does not question the fright on her face. He merely speaks to the crowd, who stand around, appearing as pigs away from their pens. “The Almighty has not shown Aleah mercy. We are her mercy! We are her salvation! Unveil yourself, Aleah. The night knows no limits.” 
At once, blood begins to drip from her mouth. An endless stream of crimson pools on the floor, wreaking of iron, by the scent which blood harbors. She coughs. An endless series of coughs. 
The blood begins to trickle. It begins to stream, over her chin, and to her dress.
The dress which is red, is now even redder.
Her hair which is rosy, is now even rosier.
Her skin, which resembles a canvas, adopts the deep shades of vermillion which to the boldest inquirers of artistry, wouldn’t deign themselves to seep their bodies into its denseness.
Aleah merely leaves the ballroom.
She never mingles among the guests for their faces are even paler than the fullest moon.