Dance of the Damned

It's a dance and we both know the steps by heart. Forward and back. Back then forward.
Repeat.

You grab my cold, dead hands and pull me to my feet. In your eyes I see that familar flickering light, and I wrench my hands from yours and use them to push you out onto the dance floor. You plead and beg, hand outstrech. You know the dance, but can't manage it on your own. Find another partner, I say. But even as I look around the room I see that there are none.

Better judgement ignored I take my place in your hands. You're grip is tight, almost too tight. I ignore the fleeting pain as the music begins. It's slow at first, almost happy. It sounds of reunion, of forgivness.

It doesn't last.

Before I can pull away again, the music has us both captive with it's forceful rythm. Our feet move togather in the only way they know how. It's no longer happy, but a sad mournful tune. You knew it was coming, but you panic anyway. I can feel your heartbeat quicken through my own skin. You try to slip from the embrace, but I sink my fingers into your shoulder and clasp them around your own fingers.

You're not going anywhere. The dance must be finished and it demands nothing less than blood.

My face is rigid and your eyes are tightly shut. I think you might sink into my embrace at long last, but instead you step on my feet and cause me to lose my balence. But the same arms that shove me away are there to pull me back up again. A deal is a deal.

Back and forth we go. Two steps here, and one there. Around the room we circle, and unending. We twirl faster and faster till the world outside the windows is nothing but a blur. Your hair falls into your eyes and you don't even notice. The floor beneath my my bare feet feels like ice. Cold, inforgiving, dangerous. We might fall.

But we've had too much pratice to fall, and so we continue on without flaw.

For days we continue, weak and tired the both of us. At long last song begins to draw to a close, the cycle begins to break. You stand in place, gasping for breath. I walk backward, slowly, on unsteady legs. I take one last look, then turn to leave. I swear that I am done. My feet are raw and bleeding, my back aches from holding you up. You don't look at me.

As I reach the door, I hear you let out a sob. I turn back.

There you lay on the floor, having collapsed under the weight of your own heart. The floor beneath you is smeared in blood, and I can't tell who's it is.

Help me, you whisper.

My blisters and bruises cry out as I begin to walk back toward you. A faint music plays softly in the background. I feel my own hot tears start to prick at the corner of my eyes. I blink them away.

You're a mess, I whisper, extending my shaking hand. You reach for it, but fall short. I want to tell you to stay there, to look at at my own scars, my own wounds. But I won't. I won't leave you there. I will not leave you like you would leave me.

I lower myself to the ground next you. I take your face in my hands and wipe away the tears. With all my strength I pull you to your feet. Your weight sags against me and my knees almost buckle, but I refuse to heed them.

The music has begun again, calling us both to our places.