One week from
now, someone might find her body. She would lie caught in the undergrowth, a
discarded doll once a cherished companion. Her dress would be mud-stained and
shredded, much like her arms and legs, a result of the brambles that snagged on
her skin as she spun through the woods. She would be cold to the touch, her
muscles pulled taut with over-exertion. And if anyone managed to remove her
shoes, they would blanch at the sight of her chaffed feet. No one would
understand how she could have danced to death.
Six days from
now, she might finally tumble to the ground, her legs limp from the ceaseless motion.
The chilly night air would gnaw at her, but she would feel nothing but the fire
in her body, hear nothing but the blood rushing in her ears, and see the world
through the fog of tears in her eyes.
Five days from
now, she might stop hearing the music, the melody that spun in her head ever
since she laid eyes on the shoes. Instead, she would hear in its place a
discordant symphony, scraping and clashing and jarring. She would come to hate
the sound of her shoes tap-tap-tapping against the ground, the sound of her
voice raspy and broken from her cries for help.
Four days from
now, she might think of chopping off her feet. Anything to make herself stop
dancing.
Three days from
now, someone – possibly her sister – might realise she was missing. Emily would
peer into her room and frown at its emptiness, trying to recall the last time
she saw her. Possibly she wouldn’t remember; possibly she would tell their
mother. But they could comb the city and still not be able to find her. By then
the sky would be different where she was, with stars strewn liberally across
it, unhindered by the shadowy skeletons of skyscrapers.
Two days from
now, she would wonder why she had stolen those shoes, despite the Not for Sale
sign attached to it. She would glance down and recognise them for what they
were: cursed and sinister, with a mind of their own. She would call out for
help, but no one would hear her. All they would see was a pair of gleaming
scarlet shoes skipping down the street. Some would run after it, but it would
duck out of sight, out of grasp, before they could lunge for it. Her legs would
continue on in their merry skip-hop for miles and miles to come.
Tomorrow, she
might stop dancing. But that was unlikely.
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