time is melting away [thaddea]

She tugged at the waistband of her dress, staring at herself nervously. She’d slipped out of her room when Thomas’ back was turned, seeking refuge in their home’s only restroom. She stood in front of the mirror now, unable to stop staring – picking – prodding. She tugged again, brushing off non-existent dust from the sumptuous silk of her gown. She stared at her feet, somewhat unwilling to raise her eyes and really look at herself, at what she had done. But raise her eyes she finally did, though it took an army of internal persuasion. She fidgeted, clasping and unclasping her fingers. She knew Thomas was waiting, but too polite to tell her to hurry up. They would be late, which was entirely unacceptable. But she couldn’t quite do it, couldn’t pull herself from the bathroom, reveal herself to the public. A part of her wanted to rip the dress from her shoulders, ball it up and throw it away forever. She had begun to forget why she’d even purchased the foolish thing. She could have refused, could have done anything else. But for some reason, some reason she could no longer recollect, no longer even reason out, she’d bought it. She’d caved.

Her lips twitched as she forced herself to look, to really look at herself. She wore a cascading dress of deep black. It was layered, but light and seemed to swirl around her. It fell all the way to the floor, pooling around her feet. It was tight, cinched around her waist. It emphasized her narrow figure. It was a beautiful material, truly worth the money she had paid for it. The fabric billowed around her when she moved, giving the appearance of gliding – which was exactly what she had wanted. She wore her hair down, falling around her shoulders. She had curled it slightly, loose and framing her face. Her dark hair contrasted with her light skin and the stark black of the dress. Over her face she had secured an intricate, but quiet, mask. It swirled, appearing almost transparent, as if the designs had been tattooed onto her very skin. She smiled, a soft little smile. Despite her misgivings, she was pleased with her costume. It had been years since she had celebrated such a thing, dressed in such apparel. She wondered whether anyone would know, would understand what she had chosen. But at the same time, she wondered if that even mattered.

She’d chosen the Black Swan. It was corrupt, and broken, but strong. It was secretive, alluring, all of what she sometimes felt could describe herself. Plus she’d always been a fan of Natalie Portman. Her performance in Black Swan had been unimaginable, impossible to compete with. Her obsession had been perfection, had been the performance of a lifetime even at the cost of her last breaths. That was what Thaddea admired most, that strength. It was that understanding – that nothing was more important than perfection, that nothing could interfere with such an achievement. Though she’d been playing a fictional character, Nataline Portman had achieved some kind of perfection – at least created an image of what perfection would look like, the triumph that would accompany it. Thaddea watched that movie, again and again and again. She liked to imagine herself, like that Black Swan, amid the adoration of perfection and triumph, giving her last. Sure, some said it was morbid, but that was why she kept it to herself, locked far away in the recesses of her fantasy. She took a final look at herself, holding herself high. Her shoulders were back, rigid as always.

She turned towards the door before she could stop herself. She grasped the knob, turning it and gliding through the door. She glided past Thomas, before he could make a comment, before she could search his face for his response to her attire. She’d gone right out the door, without a pause, without a word. And he’d joined her. They’d progressed without a word, largely without a word until arriving at the actual venue. She’d been shocked to enter the room, to see so many people. She wasn’t a particularly social person. She stepped a bit closer to Thomas. She wasn’t exactly comfortable, but didn’t want everyone to see it. She’d received the invitation. It was only because of her overwhelming respect for Joshua that she’d RSVP’d. Now, standing amidst crowds of laughing, dancing, chattering people – she was beginning to question the wisdom of her decision. She nodded mutely in reply to Thomas, following him towards the food. Most people were dressed far more casually then herself, an obvious sign that she’d once again misread the social cues of such an event. Finally she found her voice. “Both Mr. and Mrs. Dale are in my history course. I must say, Joshua is far more prolific than his wife.”

She followed his gaze towards the maze. She hadn’t done a maze in years. The last time had been at a carnival, when she’d taken Alisander through one. But she pushed this away. Alisander was far away, safe and sound. She smiled at him, a slightly unsure smile. “I would love to.” Well she wouldn’t exactly love to. But that was the proper response wasn’t it? She was still rigid, straight, her Black Swan gown swirling around her legs. She found herself wondering, for just a moment, where the man and wife of the night were, but also found she preferred it just her and Thomas. Just his grins and easy-going reassurance.

She would have liked to be a ballerina. She’d always found them graceful, beautiful. But their beauty was of an entirely different kind than the classical image. It wasn’t that a dancer had the ideal body, nor the most luscious of lips. It wasn’t found in tumbling hair, nor in glittering eyes. In Thaddea’s opinion, a woman could be disgusting by all the parameters of social rules and conformity, yet be beautiful as a dancer. It was all in the way they moved, that utter fluidity. And despite whatever joy the dance might embody, Thaddea always imagined them crying. There was passion in pain, and true it was in love too. But Thaddea had always thought the truest, most abject passion, was found in sorrow – in grief or guilt or anger. It was unbridled, mournful, yet alive. Love could be a deceiving sort of thing. One could force themselves to believe they were in love, without truly deeply caring for the object of their affections. Betrayal was an easy thing. Love, the passionate romantic kind, was a thing of make-believe. If one just kept their eyes closed, they could fool themselves into believing they had all they desire. But more often than not, when they opened their eyes, they had nothing at all.

In a small corner of her heart, dressed as she was, Thaddea could make-believe she was a dancer. Indeed, she’d always wanted to be a dancer, to twirl and bend and be lifted high in the air. She smiled, a soft thing, at the mere thought. She secreted the image in the back of her mind, to be revisited in more private moments. A part of that little flash of a dream, the part where her arms stretched upwards and her feet lifted off the ground, included Thomas holding her high. It was just a flash of an image, a little thing. But a part of it scared her. She wasn’t quite sure when he’d become a part of those deep fantasies. She locked it away, convincing herself it was a thing better forgotten. Even so, she found herself glancing at him, just a quick dart of her eyes. He wasn’t a monster of a man, but she could see the outline of his build underneath the foolish shirt. She had to admit. He had that look about him – of the kind of man who could grip her by the waist and raise her up towards the sky.

She looked back to Thomas, who had raised his glass to his lips. He chugged down the punch. Her lips folded into an amused smile, she even let out a short little laugh. In many ways, despite the degrees assuring strangers of his intellect, he could be a great fool at times. Why would he chug the rest of his punch, when he could have simply brought it with him? But men were oblivious creatures, who tended to act before truly thinking through their thoughts. He tossed the cup, offering his arm. Somewhat delighted, Thaddea took it. She wasn’t sure if it was the atmosphere, the anonymity of being lost in a crowd, but she felt adventurous. Of course adventurous for anyone else might have meant drinking to excess or skydiving or confessing hidden love. But to Thaddea, it meant smiling, it meant taking the arm of her house-mate with pride, and sailing through a ballroom towards a surely unpleasant maze. All things considered, it was an entirely uncharacteristic action. She felt light as they made their way towards the maze. Though seeing the thing in person, she felt a lurch of apprehension. Inside, within the robotic armor she wore, she was a very jumpy individual. But then again, she’d spent three years cowering at the feet of an abusive husband.

She smiled at Thomas’ comment, though hoped not to have to live up to such a thing. She liked to think of herself as brave, or at least pretend she was. She kept her arm loosely in Thomas’. The entire situation reminded her of old English literature. She felt as if she was being courted, taking an innocent stroll. Any moment a chaperone would arrive, would glare disapprovingly at their entwined arms. She smiled at the thought. She’d always been a hopeless traditionalistic romantic at heart. Though it was a thing she liked to keep to herself. She turned to him, the beginnings of something clever on her tongue. “I should think-“ It was cut off by the sound of a revving chainsaw. Thomas squealed, but Thaddea didn’t hear it, not really. Her lips parted and she screamed, not an amused fun thing – a piercing thing full of petrified fear. Her mind was racing, fear overtaking her. She knew, in some recess of her mind, that none of it was real. But the arm that a moment ago had been comforting in hers was now a threat. She didn’t see Thomas, she saw a man – any man – Zachary perhaps, who had come to drag her away, to punish her. She tore her arm from his, reacting instinctively, fear heavy in her eyes. She through out her hands, sending the largest gust of wind she could manage straight into Thomas.

It took her a long moment, minutes long in fact, to regain her senses. Breath had been whistling through her nostrils, through her parted lips. Her chest had heaved, tears of an assembly of emotions pricked in the corners of her eyes. The image had been too vivid, the response utterly disproportional in relationship to the stimulus. This shamed her, deeply. Thaddea stepped back, once then twice – putting space between herself and Thomas. He had shifted her blow, quite easily in fact. She wasn’t surprised. Her attack had been sudden and strong, but clumsy and ineloquent. But she had reacted with pure emotion, with a spasm of fear, rather than her usual analytical intellect. But the fear, the fear was the center of it all. In that moment, Thomas’ fingers on her wrist, her buried fears had risen to the surface. She’d been unable to escape that feeling, the idea that someone had finally come to drag her home. And she’d reacted. But that didn’t justify it, not nearly. She didn’t think she could justify it, as much as she wished she could. She couldn’t escape her own stupidity, couldn’t escape her foolish impulsiveness. It would follow her to the ends of the earth.

She brought her hands towards her chest, sort of clutching them there. Her face was stricken, a combination of grief, guilt, shame and fear. It was an ugly combination, one that made her appear weak – fragile. And this was never something she would allow herself to be, not again at least. She clenched her teeth, continuing to back away from Thomas. Her immediate impulse was to return to their home, to sweep her belongings into a bag and vanish before he could return home to find her leaving. She could run, again. She could flee and search for a new place. She had credentials, mostly fabricated of course, but perhaps they would be reaffirmed by the Academy. She would write a letter of resignation, claim some immediate family trouble or some such sympathetic issue. They would pity her, and perhaps none but Thomas would question her flight. But by the time he questioned her, she would be gone. And he’d never struck her as the vengeful type, the prying type. He’d wonder, for years perhaps, but she doubted he’d ever tried to find her. After all, what did she mean to him? They were nothing more than roommates, platonic associates living in juxtaposition for convenience.

Her features slowly folded, all those mingled emotions fading away. In a moment they were gone, nothing but a memory. And even the memory of them seemed doubtful. She was rigid now, more rigid then she had been with Thomas in weeks. Her head was high, her neck stiff. Her features were a perfect mask of efficient cold calculation. The only strength there was to be found was found in perfection. This she knew. She had let herself stray from the only thing that had kept her safe. And this was what had come from it. The Thaddea who had learned to protect herself, who had done the only possible thing to ensure her escape, would never have attended such a frivolous event. She would have sent a card, perhaps, with polite congratulations. Perhaps even a gift. But she would not have attended, would not have commented on it unless brought up in conversation. She most certainly would not have dressed herself in such foolish attire. The dress was entirely impractical, as impractical and childish as the dream she had thought to live – as the idea of herself as some Black Swan, as a ballerina.

She tensed as Thomas laid his hand on her arm. She recognized the action as gentle, compassionate. But she was in full survival mode now. She forced herself not to jerk away from him, to turn and vanish. She nodded her head curtly, still obviously jumpy. “I’m fine. I engaged in a foolish reaction.” Her fingers lingered over her bare shoulders. She had the urge, as she did whenever she was nervous, to tug at the fabric, to pull it down over herself. Originally, the dress had had an open back – dipping and elegant. She’d adjusted it at home, so that it came up far enough to cover the scar that marred the majority of her back. She tugged now, fearing the fabric may have become jarred, may have revealed her disfiguring mark. She pulled at it, until satisfying herself it remained covered. She nodded again. A part of her desperately wanted to return to the atmosphere of moments ago. She wanted to return to the night where she dreamed of dancing and twirling and feeling like a debutante. But such a thing had become obviously quite impossible. She shook her head once, her voice slightly quiet. “It’s fine. Finish the maze, I know it had intrigued you. I believe I shall return to the mansion, perhaps say my goodbyes.” She didn’t want to drag him away, to force him to accompany her. Perhaps she would stay a moment, watch the dancing couples turn, and let it calm her.