prompt 01 / nix.
cw: emotional abuse, child neglect, vomitting (mention)
Darkness. The faint tinkling of a music box. A metronome tick, tick, ticking away. Plié, développé, dégagés, arabesque, pirouette—
Pirouette, pirouette, pirouette, pirouette, pirouette.
The music grows more frantic, and the boy spins and spins and spins. He wants to stop, but his body is no longer his — was it ever? He is a marionette on strings and he cannot stop dancing, because if he stops then he will break, and if he breaks then everyone will see the truth, will see him for the empty shell that he is.
Mama, he calls, Mama, please, my feet hurt.
He startles at the sound of his own voice, shrill with youth. A single spotlight cuts through the darkness, illuminating the mirror before him. There is a boy in the reflection, one that wears his face, who stares back at him with cold, empty eyes.
You have to keep turning, the boy says, this is the only time she loves us.
The scene changes. He is in his bedroom now, soft moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the woman who sits at the end of his bed. She scoops up a fistful of balm, the sharp scent of menthol filling the air as she rubs it onto his feet. This is how she loves him. Her touch is gentle, almost reverent, as her fingers map every grove, every callous.
You did well today, she tells him.
I can do better, he replies.
She nods. He passes the test. Tonight, he is allowed to rest.
The small tub of balm slowly empties. She hands him a pair of thick, white socks. He pulls them over his feet, and this is the end of their little ritual. Except—
Mama, he calls, his hand reaching for her, bony fingers barely grasping at her wrist. Mama, do you love me?
She goes still, her back to him. Her fingers twitch, and for a moment, he thinks maybe she will reach back for him, but the movement only pulls her wrist free.
Love is a useless thing, she tells him. I have given you life — what more do you want from me?
She leaves. The world starts spinning once more.
I want you to love me, he thinks.
Love me, love me, love me, l̵o̶v̸e̸ ̵m̶e̵, l̵̠̒̉o̸̻͈̓̓v̵̧̑ę̸͇̍ ̸͔̙̿́m̷̖̫̓ẽ̵̱,, l̵̡͓͔̼̞̘̟̙̟̺̃͑̂̓̈́̚̚͜o̶͚̰̲̠̤̖͎̗̎̆́̑̃̊̉̈́̐̕͜v̴̢̡̙̻̗͈̪̪̼̏̇̀́ë̸̛͎͉̩̬́̎͗̋͘ͅ ̵̨͖̭̱͚̫̭̩̐̅̅͑͌̂̑̍͜m̷̢̤̻̞̜̞̖͕͎͋̄é̸̼̤̭͑̋̈́͌͗̑̋̋̕͝͠͝.
Phoenix startles awake. The moonlight falls directly on his face through the half-shut curtains, and for a moment he cannot tell if he is awake or still dreaming. But there is no one else in his room, even if for the briefest of seconds he could have sworn he’d seen a figure at the end of his bed.
The room spins, and he stumbles out of bed, just barely making it to the bathroom before he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet. He flushes, dragging his body over to the sink. He pauses for a split second before looking into the mirror, afraid of seeing the boy again, but his reflection is older, broad-shouldered, and he almost cries in relief.
“This is real,” he says, pressing his fingertips against the mirror and letting the cool glass ground him. “I’m real.”
It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of his mother, but something about the nightmare leaves him feeling unsettled, the hairs on the back of his neck standing. He feels like he’s been stripped raw, the deepest, darkest desire that he’d thought he’d buried rising to the surface once more, like a long-dead specter clawing out of its grave.
“It was just a dream,” he says to his reflection.
His reflection stares back at him, and then nods. “Just a dream.”