The Dancer

**This is my first post. It is something I wrote in late '09. I believe, on Dec. 18. I haven't fully finished editing, so I would love critiques. I hope someone enjoys my first post, a short story taking a look at the idea of a folie a deux. Or maybe not, you be the judge.









The Dancer



It may now, after such a long, draining institution that I may finally piece together a codex- a memory of which events had taken place over my short life. Again, like the various people before me and the countless thereafter, say there be any left on this plane, the events of my life have allowed me to grow into the man I am today-however peevish-scurrilous-my demeanor may seem. It goes without saying, that I have never had a close relation to my fellow man. Though now, it seems that human companionship is all that I desire. Long ago forgotten, I now hope my humanity may once again return to me, albeit lesser than the average man, but merely enough to walk amongst you.

The rift between me and my human compatriots, had not always been my most prevalent feature. In fact, though the memory is vague and dull, I was once a bright eyed, naive child, whose very innocent nature could beguile the most experienced general. And beguile I did. In the course of my early years, my cunning nature was always noted to be of high quality. It was highly speculated, that I would become a rather famous attorney. 'Twas only natural, that my mother, would want the best for my livelihood, and my father, to inherit his legacy.

A craftsman was he, and an expert at that. A folly of an argument would surface had one doubted his ingenious artistic flavor. He sculpted, from wood, various creations-most of which hinged on the mystic variety. Each figure was meticulously hand crafted, hand painted-elves, dragons, dwarfs, knights, and many other in their like made up his vast repertoire. Of course, my dear friend, you would take note of the fondness at which I speak of his work, and most likely inquire as to which piece was my favorite. Which small, ornate statue would be my most beloved? Now, in my present state, I have nothing but the time that can-that should be spent spinning the tales of my previous love of these toys.


But why had I such a keen love of various children's play things? I hope not to infringe upon your precious time too greatly, my dearest friend, but as I said, rotting in this drab abode, I have only one thing I can do to stave away idleness. And that, is to pen my story to you. And naturally, you would ask me of my favorite sculpture? But now, you will wonder as to why I moved onward to a tangent, and the reason is this, my friend: I have nothing left to ameliorate this stagnant boredom, save this. And instead of allowing myself to grow drab and repetitious like this place, I will now explain my love of toys, and their degenerative effect upon my health.

My father, was an explosive, vile tempered man. I recall now, fondly, my dear friend, of the many dinner ware broken, glasses shattered, and skin broken from his violent outbursts, had only his supper been slightly frigid. It seems, that he had been catered since birth, and born into a man who's virulent temperament knew bounds limitless, even to the Gods themselves. My mother, rest her soul, died when I was a mere lad of eight-it was fever, I believe. Even now, after so many a year passed, I still cannot explain accurately, nor scientifically, the events that proceeded her everlasting rest. My mother, who seemed, to be the only chain binding my father to any form of human civility, was now broken. And I did previously state my father's virulence. I also, my dear friend, had explained that he was a craftsman-artisan. However, his works, seemed to be as twisted and volatile as his rage infused soul. Honestly, I never meant, to elicit his over whelming wrath. I was nothing more than a boy. It became my most prized hypothesis, that his golden whiskey, was the catalyst at which his hatred of me was birthed.

Ah, each night, my dearest sympathizer, he would drink himself into a stupor. In this stupor, his already combustible nature, would amplify itself indefinitely. In his unforgiving rant, he would vent by locking me away-of all places, his work shed. And he would hide me away in his bizarre world, his wonderland-his secret utopia in which he could concoct his horrendous abominations in clandestine darkness. He always faced these "toys" in one, single direction. And that direction, that position, mass me! And each night, I would sit, frozen in the deepest fear, at these horrid machinations. Now, my dear friend, you will be confused by me. Previously, I had stated that the trinkets were of dwarfs and elves, knights and dragons, and the ilk that would follow in the path of a child's fairy tale. Then why is it, my dear friend, that each night, I would be frozen in place, terrified by theses things of a toddler's fantasy?

Well, my dear friend, that too, will require my deepest attention. You probably, by now, think me daft, out of my mind, but I tell you, with the utmost certainty-with the most finite implication my brain could ever comprehend-these crafts were kin to the demons of yore! In fact, had my accursed father's lore been off, these may have very well been the depictions of devils, tricksters, and witches. But, my dear, beloved friend, among these twisted creations of children's stories, the most frightful of all, was the centerfold-the one sculpted sight of beauty in the hideousness.

Yes, among the deformed, misplaced eyes, and the twisted, malformed heads of dwarfs, and the black, oozing wings of angels born to flight-and amongst the elves, whose bodies were contorted and bent into abominable positions, as if their ribs, broken and protruding through their chest cavity-was the one, single strand of perfection. A dancer was she. Beautifully crafted, her skin painted in such an enthralling manner, even now, I fancy this artifice reality. The face, of the softest cream, and the rosy blush, forming her already perfect face, with an immaculate glow of crimson.

And, my so patient of a listener, I can accurately convey to you. that I was soundly enthralled by this sculpture. For years, I would watch her, and she me, with the utmost scrutiny. And alas, as if hypnotized, I had grown increasingly fond of these abominations of my father's creation!-safe to say that he had no longer any genuine interest in his "children" any longer. Oh woe! My coveted medium, had it not been about my sixteenth year of life, when, I had begun to see these horrors breathe life before my very eyes! Each and every misaligned figure, had now taken the place of the humans of which I should have been a part.

Now, my dear friend, it goes without saying, that my father had since halted the trinkets. His last, being the beautiful dancer, whom I shall return to shortly. My father, who had halted his tinkering and sculpting, had since, continually drank himself dizzy. On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, he collapsed rather suddenly. Why? Of course there was a reason behind it, and my dearest, you are probably curious of that fact to no end! But as I had stated beforehand, I have all the time at which I need to communicate my narrative. Therefore, I ask again. for your patience.

By the time of my teenage years, I had become rather engaged to the playthings within my father's previous work shed. And soon, my petulance toward others, and exaltation of my "toys" lead me to completely forsake education, in order to spend complete days, and nights within my parent's shed, speaking fondly with my only true friends-the lovely art. They were foul and ill tempered, as their creator, as my father, and their father, but they carried with them a distinct bearable intoxication, that captured my sense and never let them be. Even today, I completely remember many a conversation with the wooden statues. But of all things, my most beloved, the dancer, would never speak, nor part her lips.

Though being my most beloved piece, she never shared a conversation with me. My dear friend, her silence was...Maddening! She had a distinct, so familiar, and warm, protective air about her. And to further examine, I would try to reach for her on many occasion, but my father-the blowhard, drunkard, must have placed her too high upon a shelf for no matter what I did, she would never be within my reach. But she was always with me, watching me always from above, there, but never intervening. It was sickening! How dare she be apart from me! To guile me into love, then set herself eternally apart from me! Was it my persona? My visage? Or was it, that I was the only flesh creation of my father. Or, my sculptor, rather.

It was then, my dearest friend, that my father had entered the shed in one of his stupors. My curse upon the dancer, had brought about the true adversary to all that was of good intent! He sputtered and spewed his drivel, all the while chugging down his drink in large, unquenchable draughts-and at once, with alacrity, I stood to face him. Alas! My dear friend, I had forgotten to speak of the conversations I had had on frequent basis with my "brothers" and "sisters"! My father, was the subject. Our father. Our creator had never shown any real interest in us. He sculpted us, scorned us, then left us to rot like over ripened fruit. But I could so easily change that factor, and we spoke vivaciously on how to remedy that situation. And now, before me, a man whom I loathed with ever fiber of my existence, stood before me-stumbling, limping, hobbling, but standing all the same. It was then, my dear friend, that I had resolved-we had resolved to eliminate that lowly filth.

How fitting was it, that the instrument of his downfall be the very knife at which he shaved the wood. I must say, implicitly, and with the highest clarity of all, I enjoyed my sin. Like his contorted children, I would pluck his eyes from their sinewy sockets. I would then mantle them onto the same pedestal at which he harbored his creations. But of course, my dear friend, had I been afraid of losing your acquaintance, I would not have disclosed the methodology at which my crime of hatred was committed. But a friend to abandon a friend after such a time as this, is no friend, correct? But no sooner had I extradited the eyes to their resting place upon the mantle, had I discovered something of much disdain.

Following my moribund deed, I had found that, through some smoke and mirror-like trickery, my cherished dancer, had vanished. As if she were mere air, my most prized treasure has disappeared, stolen by some transcendent, gaseous encroachment. Her ephemeral visage, had melted into the tapestry as if some mirage.

And then, my dear friend, I found myself destined to despair. The vile dancing figurine had left me in solitude! She abandoned me amongst the twisted, transfigured abominations - the contorted, volatile, vindictive sculptures! And even today, my most venerable friend, it does not possess me to forgive her! Those ghasts would never allow me to find solace, or sanctity. Not with my atrocities toward the one who created me. I had forged my own nightmare. Like my father, who had forged the tiny horrors, I had sculpted the decay of my own sense of sanity-of morality-of purity. No papal writ, nor divine intervention, would allow me redemption.

So, my dear friend, I left my memories to fire. Each and every sculpture, doll, figurine, would be purged from this world in flame. Though my worldly memories lay before me in and inferno, I could still hear their infernal voices crying out to me. The repulsive screams and cries, that left me a sense of dread and revulsion in my gullet, sounded for what seemed a millennium. And so, the distorted voices, and phantasms, still manage to follow me wherever I may roam. With a whole civilization of chaos in my head. Why would I ever need you? My dear, venerable, patient, most exalted friend, I see the valiant knights, flooding black pestilence. I see the elves twisting their bodies in agony at will! Oh, my father and the dancer. Arm in arm. Like all times before, he hit her-again, and again, and again. Oh my dear friend! I don't need you any longer. My attempts at contact, are so obsolete to me now! I am going with them-the devils! I guess, in reading-I am going with them! I guess in reading, it now just seems like a grand waste of.....